Fans of fantasy adventure comics should rejoice as Andrew MacLean’s Head Lopper has returned. The story follows Norgal, the titular ‘lopper and his mouthy trophy-head, Agatha Blue Witch.

Situated on a hillside overlooking Sunset Boulevard, Chateau Marmont has long been a preferred hideaway for Hollywood high society. It’s a hotel with a thousand tales, both sordid and scintillating, where the walls and décor breathe cinematic history.

It’s rare for any musician from the ‘80s to smoothly transfer its appeal past that era without seeming like they’re trying too hard to update themselves. The alternative is embracing their ‘80s-ness to such a degree it’s almost pastiche. Depeche Mode has avoided both these pitfalls with a musical and visual style so individual it transcends trends.

A big, beautiful book for a beautiful band who should’ve been bigger, All Those Wasted Years is the tale of how this determined gang of stylish rockers took on the world.

J.K. Simmons is able to skate through this comedy-mystery by being effortlessly intimidating.

Some ideas are repeated a million times for a good reason. Take, for instance, the line about how easy it is to take a new Spoon album for granted. When a band releases four near-perfect records in a row, from Girls Can Tell in 2001 to Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga in 2007, even an excellent record like 2010’s Transference (which is better than people gave it credit for at the time) can start to suffer due to the band’s remarkable consistency.

As he croons away with that weather-beaten voice and twinkle-eyed cynicism, it’s easy to forget Conor Oberst is only 37. A ubiquitous figure on the indie scene for decades, the man from Nebraska has released roughly an album every year since his 1993 debut.

For a bunch of barely 30-year-olds, the members of Real Estate sure know how to make some stellar soft rock. That’s not meant as an insult—their last album, Atlas, is one of the best albums of the last several years, drenched in mid-tempo melodies and lyrics about returning to a home that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

The sophomore album from New Zealand’s Nadia Reid is a hushed recording—akin to an intimate conversation over coffee on a lazy Sunday morning. The majority of the songs on Preservation are languid reflections on relationships and the self, brushed with religious imagery and steeped in sadness.