Some great albums creep along rooftops toward your subconscious like lithe little ninjas, and some come marching down the road to your house like let's do this. The Decemberists' Picaresque is among the latter, opening with distant rams' horns and a tight snare rumble, before limning a parade of archaic royalty: kings, concubines, princes, virgins, elephants and a baby queen. Like its booming procession, "The Infanta," it is meant to impress and overwhelm by pulling out all the stops. It succeeds, and though the songs that follow rarely reach for points so lofty, the tone is set for an atypical listening experience — even for Portland's Decemberists, the apotheosis of dramaturgical indie rock. Their world is populated with Dickensian naifs and Melvillian rogues desperate for revenge and relief, and illustrated by guitars, accordions, angelic backing vocals and klezmer rhythms. And even in the rare forays into the real world — like the modern war allegory "Sixteen Military Wives" and the athletic humiliation tale "The Sporting Life" — The Decemberists elevate their subjects with honor, understanding and wit. More to the point: Richly voiced frontbard Colin Meloy knows all the nooks and crannies into which sesquipedalian lyrics and clever musical flourishes can be spooned without drowning the whole thing with bluster and bombast. It's ambitious stuff, yes, but all the fantastic drama is weighted with reality, charm and unforgettable images. Which are the only conditions under which nine-minute epics like the polymeric "The Mariner's Revenge Song" — wherein our hero squares off with his mortal enemy inside a giant whale — could work. Meloy puts you right there in the belly of the beast with him like we're all gonna go down together, ready for the inescapable conclusion. Let's do this.

It would be unwise to dismiss Illinois as merely a concept album or a minor part in a greater work. Far from a gimmicky jumble of freely associated state trivia, these stories could take place anywhere but, through careful research, they unfold in the Prairie State. Were it not explicitly stated in the album's title, the casual listener might not even be aware of the Illinois theme that runs through the album like the Sangamon River. The landmarks and history come effortlessly (this isn't a civics lesson), and the record is easy to get swept up in, by turns haunting and joyous, but always beautiful. Stevens is notoriously tight-lipped about the personal inspirations for his songs, but the lyrics accompanying the lush orchestration convey his deep connection with his subject matter (even the serial killer), demonstrating that his admonishment, "are you writing from the heart?" on "Come On! Feel the Illinoise!" did not go unheeded.

Haven't been able to put a finger on what it is about Craig Finn's tales of lapsed Catholics, self-destructive club kids and a pharmacy full of controlled substances that struck such a chord for me this year. Aside from the lapsed Catholic bit, there's nothing about The Hold Steady's lyrics that jibes with my upbringing. And yet, for like three months straight, I listened to nothing but Separation Sunday. I was a total fanboy, dissecting lyrics (is "Hallelujah" the "little hoodrat friend"? Is getting "born again" the same as surviving an OD?), mapping relationships between characters, scouring the Web for bonus tracks. I hadn't been as excited about a record, about a band, since I discovered the Mountain Goats as a 19-year-old. And just as John Darnielle's spare acoustic guitar provides the perfect foil for his desperate characters, The Hold Steady's big arena-rock riffs and gritty piano ballads perfectly stage Finn's fucked-up diorama of Midwest kids gone wild. And then there's the whole holiness aspect; that's the part that continues to baffle and enamor me. Maybe it's because Finn knows his subject so well: kids searching long and hard for God in bottles and little plastic baggies to the point where they throw up their hands and guts and look for God where everyone says he's supposed to be anyway — in confessionals, in store-front churches. And that their redemptions seem temporary, shaky and transient makes Separation Sunday's passion play all the more realistic.

John Darnielle has built a career on writing pointed vignettes about optimists, pessimists, romantics and miscreants, but it turns out his most affecting story is his own. Turning to autobiography for the first time, Darnielle documents his terrible childhood with alarming focus. It's the immediacy that makes the record so affecting. In Darnielle's songs his stepfather's abuse and his own desperate attempts to escape from it aren't sealed off by memory but always happening in the present tense, making the wounds seem eternally fresh and open. He's dressed up the dry strum that defined his early cassette-recorded outings, but just barely — a piano plinks softly down the bridge of "Broom People" and a violin scrambles across the tense "Lion's Teeth." But mostly it's just Darnielle, his guitar and his memories, delivering equal parts hope and despair.

When did entertainment get such a bad name? "If you're here because you want to be entertained, please go away," snarls Corin Tucker, throwing out fightin' words to superficial culture in general and mindless rock acts in particular. "You come around sounding 1972/ You did nothing new/ Where's the fuck you?/ Where's the black and blue?" All this sung with the faux-Brit accent so beloved by those cute lil' Hot Topic punk bands, at once mocking and appropriate, as the accompanying sneer is authentic, not tattooed on. S-K knows precisely where the "fuck you" is, and for all the ink that's been spilled on their newfound maturity, the remarkable thing is that seven discs in, the band has managed to maintain their passionate intensity while honing their songwriting to a razor-sharp point. The Woods is aptly titled, evoking a space dense, dark and organic; the illusionistic play of shadows in thick forest conjured by that enormous buzz of distortion seems to arise from somewhere other than the music itself. Far from retro, the hard-rock crunch is fueled by thinking persons' frustration. Now that's entertainment.

Was 2005 The Year Nerds Broke? Death Cab for Cutie continued their bookish ascent, with The Decemberists and The New Porn-ographers studiously nipping at their heels. Meanwhile, the almost-locals comprising Delaware's The Spinto Band made a serious bid to rule the sweater-vest set with this collection of sugar-rush melodies, jerky rhythms and gloriously awkward emotions. The monster hook, of course, is the Sears-selling "Oh Mandy," as perfect a pop song as anything else this year. But there's so much more, thanks to jumpy, catchy bits of angst like "Did I Tell You" and "So Kind, Stacy" that come off like Elvis Costello fronting The Monkees (or maybe Micky Dolenz leading The Attractions). It's all sure to soften the blow when the Die Nerd Die cover story arrives.

It's the gum-numbing rush after the cocaine nosebleed. It's geeky white girls turned Urban O-chic. It's voices you know trampling chords you don't. It's bearded dudes biking it from NoLibs to Whole Foods, then back to Johnny Brenda's. It's the belief that maybe we're all just a little bisexual. It's the one album that gets 'em to uncross their arms and dance, stoic fucker, dance. It's stirrups and fanny packs and all things '80s egregious. It's filthy toilet bowls and suede chaises. It's the Gwen Stefani of the indie set. So what if it's scripted hipster drama? You already know the words.

Young Jeezy may have wrote the verse, but it applies to Kanye West: He's your favorite rapper's favorite rapper. Late Registration felt at first like a dud, too sour-faced and epic and self-important. But like all great works it took time to reveal its virtues. West has said again and again that his model was Songs in the Key of Life, and while he may not have topped it song-for-song, he certainly matched its scope. Whether the ominous thunk of "Crack Music" or the triumphant, Otis-biting "Gone" (with a Golden Child reference! In 2005!), West spends the capital he earned last year to create an album that works harder but delivers more. More than any other figure in current pop music, West is obsessed with his own hypocrisies. It bothers him that it doesn't bother him where his diamonds are from, or what he raps about, or how he's been acting since he became a celebrity. The quick kiss-off on West is that he's showy and arrogant, but anyone who listens to even three minutes of Registration knows that pompousness brings with it endless — and often fascinating — sweating and fretting.

So what if this London pro-am wasted our time at Transit a few months back with terror-chic shit-hop karaoke and a two-hour delay? Past that, so what if her politics got wack in spots, or her big song "Galang" got snatched for a car commercial? M.I.A. kept people talking the whole year, more and different people too, and her mercurial rise in 2005 would never have happened if this album of hers was anything but aces. Simple hooks and harsh beats — at once primitive and futuristic, ghetto and cosmopolitan — served her well. Us too. So what if this is a one-off?

My Morning Jacket treads a delicate line between ethereal prog-rock and alt-country. But Z, the band's strange and beautiful collection of meandering ballads, is their ticket out of the No Depression ghetto. Even initially impenetrable tracks — like "It Beats 4 U," clouded with synthesizers and the glittering falsetto of frontman Jim James — collapse unexpectedly into impossibly haunting melodies. But the centerpiece, "Off the Record," is a microcosm of the whole affair. The first two and a half minutes are a perfect, pulsating rock anthem, but then it suddenly folds in on itself and becomes a slow-motion, after-hours dreamscape. Z is like one of those hazy, magical nights on the town, drifting aimlessly from the dive bar to the pub to the lounge and back home, buzzed and happy.

Gimme Fiction is more user-friendly than anything Spoon has previously released, and loaded with infectious melodies, from the bouncy acoustic guitar on "The Delicate Place" to the jangly pop of "Sister Jack." It also contains some big rock-and-roll moments, none bigger than Britt Daniel's vocal strutting on "I Turn My Camera On," which features a groove so deep that even the most uncoordinated arrhythmics can't help but fall in. The deft interplay between moody compositions and humorous fables of cads swordfighting with queens allows repeated listens without Gimme Fiction growing stale.

Like a band of Peter Pans, the five men in Franz Ferdinand will always be boys. Androgynous, playful and more than a little naughty, they'll never grow up. You Could Have It So Much Better proves there's nothing at all wrong with that plan. They've got enough ego to declare, "When I woke up tonight, I said, 'I'm gonna make somebody love me.'" They've got enough insolence to twist the knife in a retreating lover's back with a line like "I love the sound of you walking away." But they're also the kind of guys to write the melancholy "Eleanor Put Your Boots On," in which they instruct a girl to run through Brooklyn dirt, fly over Coney Island roller coasters and climb "the statue with the dictionary" to "take an atmospheric leap." Do all that, promises singer Alex Kapranos, and "I could be there when you land." Notice the "could."

Fiona Apple's songs have always had sucker punches lurking within; you may recall Tidal's "Sleep to Dream," which was transformed into a torchy end-of-the-affair ballad by R&B queen Bettye LaVette earlier this year. But on Extraordinary Machine, Apple's ability to get ya right in the gut leapt forward. From the percussive love-or-madness lament "Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song)" to the dissonant "Window," she succeeded at being mournful and contemplative, yet wryly sure of herself (and, natch, her own foibles). Most of the hubbub around the record focused on her drawn-out battle with her corporate overlords, which nearly resulted in her becoming Aimee Mann II. That's a shame, because whether on low-bitrate MP3 or DualDisc, the songs Apple wrote for her third full-length flex muscle that most emotional prizefighters would give their mouth guards up for.

Finally, a new British band for the rest of us. Forget those pretty boys with their Gang of Four fetishes, pointy haircuts and fancy-pants girlfriends. On their import debut, Art Brut supply some much-needed Bronx cheers to NME stalwarts, tweaking heroin-chic poseurs, Los Angeles exiles, punch-drunk louts and more. But it's singer Eddie Argos' sense of detail and comic timing that carries on U.K. rock's true great heritage, as he ping-pongs between raucous satire and wide-eyed enthusiasm. All together now: "I've seen her naked — twice!"

A woman king isn't just a queen, and the 24-minute Woman King isn't just a mini-album. Sam Beam confined Iron & Wine's 2005 output to two trim EPs; with none of the filler that bloats full-lengths, Woman King's six nearly perfect, mostly acoustic songs pay homage to mythologized and marginalized women. Beam courts a postpartum Mary ("Freedom Hangs Like Heaven"), idolizes an idol-worshipper ("Jezebel") and takes the shape of Adam's demonized first lady ("Evening on the Ground [Lilith's Song]"). Thousands of years of dogma have done much to damage their reputations and minimize their deeds, but these women — as brave, culpable and dignified as any king — find new life in the lyrical whispers of Beam and his sister Sarah.

The massed stomp of the Stripes' fourth album drove home complicated emotions. Jack White worked through his post-Renée guilt on "Forever for Her (Is Over for Me)," imagined himself as both stalked celebrity and needy fan in "Take Take Take," and coined the year's best kiss-off in "The Denial Twist." If White Blood Cells was White's Zoso, this is his Houses of the Holy, a mild expansion of sound (marimba, distressed upright piano) that pries open the floodgates of the soul.

They're produced by Isaac Brock and got their start opening for The Arcade Fire. So it's not odd Apologies sounds a bit like Funeral for People Who Love Bad News. But why is coming off like a mash-up of two of last year's most hyped albums not tired? Because Montreal's Wolf Parade took the right bits from each. You get that we'll-all-float-on vocal vibe from vocalists Dan Boeckner and Spencer Krug atop a swell of melodramatic, histrionic mood rock — which results in, among other delights, happy songs about death. But, from the opening synth squiggles of "I'll Believe in Anything" through to Krug's spiraling-toward-heaven chorus "So give me your eyes, I need sunshine," you'll feel like some passageway to the beyond has been unlocked, and all you need do is step.

How many Aussies does it take to make a sublime indie-pop album? The answer is eight, if you're Architecture in Helsinki. The brainchild of borderline genius Cameron Bird, AIH's joyous ensemble lets everyone blow a horn. While it could have been a democratic mess, In Case We Die is more cohesive and invigorated than 2003's modest Crossed Fingers. The classic hip-hop beat on "Do the Whirlwind" sits comfortably beside the title track's eerie comic book fairy tale and each Broadway bellow and recycled riff is delivered with reckless abandon. Because life's too short to play it safe. A shaky gig at the Troc might have kept these hippies secret for another year, but that's all the more reason to put "Frenchy, I'm Faking" on your next crushworthy mix tape.

Never mind that it's a good record (finally) from a Marley son; never mind that it revives the roots sound without sounding strained or reverent. Never mind the scorched fury of Marley's voice or the dank clamor of his beats. The most compelling thing about Welcome to Jamrock is how it sums up the chaos and disorder that was 2005. Aching for the poor and the hungry and railing angrily against the corrupt Babylon system that's designed to keep them that way, Marley offers both ammunition and encouragement. "I got to keep on walking to the road to Zion," he sings near the record's close. That destination may not be specific to a religion, but it's profoundly spiritual nonetheless.

Someone should've been taping an Usher music video during my first spin through The Runners Four (Kill Rock Stars). I looked like a close-up of a screaming fangirl, totally feclempt from the sheer musical amazingness I was experiencing. Deerhoof's eighth LP in almost a decade is by far their most accessible; it cuts back on noisy freak-outs and beams with super-groovy rays of sunshine. If you're not cheesin' after listening to "O'Malley, Former Underdog," then "Wrong Time Capsule" will force you to lift your arms and send praise to the rock gods.

After a subpar effort in 2003, Common bounced back with BE, an album that matches the production of Jay Dee and Kanye with a classic and consistent rhyme style. Inlaid with so many gems — the head-nodding first single "The Corner" (featuring the Last Poets), the energetic Chappelle show live track "The Food" and hometown shout-out anthem "Chi-Town" — BE resurrects and echoes the hunger that made us love Common in his younger days. Underneath the argyle sweaters and designer hats, he still has love for H.E.R.