A slew of tastemaker blogs and magazines have unfurled their "Best of Decade" lists, and after checking out a dozen or so, I found that many albums of merit had fallen through the cracks, seemingly glaring omissions on hindsight.

There are plenty of other forgotten albums above and beyond the ones I mention in this post. Feel free to add your own favorite forgotten album in the comments section below because sometimes, in the forest, it’s okay to stare at a leaf.

Electrelane – No Shouts, No Calls (2007)

It’s a staggering blow every time this album finishes because the band is on “indefinite hiatus.” (That’s a nice way of saying they broke up.) Never again will such a hypnotic coo spring from the speakers, only to be overwhelmed by the occasional instrumental surge of stomp-on-the-floor backbeat and organ-heavy garage ruckus. This duality of chaos and dread are translated into two diverse styles, whereby you'll spend weeks listening to the faster punk tracks, only to suddenly switch to the others sandwiched between, which somehow, without being the least bit maudlin, ascend on a hum of organs and a choir of voices that surely rival angelic thrushes.

Lazy Magnet – He Sought For That Magic… (2008)

Listening from start to finish might obliterate your mind. It's like a graveyard-shift radio station, the songs dipping and darting and constantly fluctuating through diverse representations of musical genres: lo-fi moans, metal, punk, fun and poppy electro, drone, psychedelic sitars, country that’s crushed by feedback, the meditative sounds of the rainforest and wind and a pan flute, a London rave, a fuzzy postpunk anthem ... These styles and countless others blister with the randomness, dexterity, and inventiveness that makes an impressive record into a memorable one. But the strangely curious tracks are the occasional orchestral pieces, ominous cello- and viola-heavy interludes that create haunting landscapes similar to the soundtrack to John Carpenter’s The Thing, where, lost in the tundra, the pursuit for the monster has lasted so long, it’s impossible to distinguish if you’re chasing the beast or if the beast is chasing you.

The Wilderness – Self Titled (2005)

On their debut album, Baltimore’s The Wilderness graced the world with surprises. Drums sound more colossal, textured and jazzier than the post-punk dynamics you hear upon first listen, guitars slipping dreamy and careless, their rhythm a swaying structure, and the lyrics spouted in stutters and trembles, surging into feverish repetition, moans stirring in supernatural distress and displaying the uncertainty of meaning, paranoia and specters in every direction. In a parallel universe, they’re the most popular band in the world.

Ariel Pink – Lover Boy (2003)

The inebriated delivery of Ariel Pink might dissuade listeners from venturing further into the charm of his home-recorded album, yet the gems on Lover Boy, although unpolished, sparkle with a fluorescent creativity that overshadows his lack of musical dexterity ten-fold. But it’s an acquired taste of another stratosphere, the music filtered through a mind distracted by the harmony and vivid atmosphere of early '80s slumberparty pop hits, and capturing the corny residue left behind by Air Supply or Hall & Oates while delivered free of irony in a croon that leaves the dormant wounds of '80s kitsch unscathed.

– Highly Refined Pirates (2002)

On their first full-length, Minus The Bear solved math rock. Almost impossibly, this was accomplished, in a genre usually known for its instrumental acts, with lyrics that celebrate extroverted moments of staying out all night and hanging out with girls. Yet even with the variety of emotionally picturesque descriptions — like the beach, a cabin, or the European countryside — a detachment remains, as though the songs were pursuing the mystery of maintaining those instances, and trying to capture a foggy remembrance and those fleeting orchestrations of joy.

Elliott Smith – From A Basement On A Hill (2004)

When Elliott Smith died in 2003, his follow-up to Figure 8 was incomplete and amounted to a collection of songs unmixed and unedited and spread across hours. But with the aid of Rob Schnapf (who helped produce Either/Or, XO, and Figure 8), 15 new songs posthumously continued a songwriter's legendary career, developing another exalt-worthy album that grasped at those ambiguous sensations and haunting themes Smith explored with such brilliance. Why it lingers in a strange limbo, cast aside as a bastardized representation of “what it could have been if he was still here, man” is a baffling way to judge an album with so many memorable moments, and those who scoff are missing out on something truly amazing.

The Jazz June – The Medicine (2000)

Back when emo was still associated with Rites of Spring, the northeast exploded with dozens of decent melodic punk bands that produced a few albums and then disappeared. The Jazz June always stood out from the rest. With the appropriate marketing model and a time machine to the present, the tight riffs that stretch and always bounce circular, the Braid-like howls, and the touch of Americana would most likely blanket every medium in the world. The album still stands up to further listenings even after all these years.

The Owls – Self Titled (2001)

Five years after calling it quits, the original members of Chicago band Cap'n Jazz reunited to form The Owls. Sadly, The Owls released only one album before breaking up. But what a sterling effort, and of the multitude of projects put out by the Joan of Arc collective in the last ten years, it's quite possibly the tightest. On complete display are the most notable idiosyncrasies of their signature texture of graceful discordance. And to those who claim The Owls are simply a precursor to Make Believe (a similar Joan of Arc sideproject that released three albums from 2005 to 2008), and that Make Believe expands on the Owls prototype, thereby trumping and disqualifying the excitement of The Owls -- I say, without such beginnings, there would be no mold to break.

After releasing records with Pond in the late '90s, vocalist/guitarist Charlie Campbell decided to quit music and pursue a career. But after much persuasion from friends, he recorded a collection of demos and created an inventive and remarkable album. The majority of the songs are power pop-plus, sliding with soothing amplified guitar cascades that mysteriously become more nuanced and dazzling after multiple listens. But occasionally, some otherness – like an insane hip-hop Asian fusion percolation or an interlude of overlapping guitars played backwards for even more disorientation – appears unexpectantly, teasing the limitless range in the remaining tracks and rising to impressive heights. After all this time, Gold Card represents the perplexing idea that by purposely choosing to stop making music and withhold further wondrous sounds, he is truly sinning against present and future generations.