In the far-off future, when pop-music archaeologist sift through the rubble that was 2006, they won't just find a cache of extraordinary art created by wild-haired eccentrics; they'll also encounter a pair of Internet upstarts that forever altered the way the music industry does business -- and creates stars. To borrow the year's best (and most ubiquitous) adjective: Crazy.

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>> View 2005's 40 Best
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40. Cold War Kids, Robbers & Cowards
Before the album, there was a rumor. Something about these California guys who played tent-revival shows before they had a MySpace page, who howled the white-boy blues without irony or eyeliner, whose marching-band percussion built to such a fervor they'd bang on whatever was around (tambourines, heating ducts, the nearest head in the front row), and who were gonna bring the spirit of back-to-basics rock to kids who'd normally fast-forward to the next guitar solo -- all on their very first record. Then it wasn't just a rumor anymore. MELISSA MAERZ

39. The Thermals, The Body, the Blood, the Machine
Like a young-adult Book of Job, the third record from these Portland indie-punk scrappers hurtles in a powerful panic, with guitarist and unhinged narrator Hutch Harris taking on God, righteousness, and hypocrisy with a boyish bullhorn of a voice. It all could descend into college-quad glossalalia, but Harris and bassist/ drummer Kathy Foster churn up a raw, full sound, and songs like "Here's Your Future" (in which Jesus' dad yells at him like the Great Santini) turn into chilling high drama. Harris may think we're all pitiful pillars of salt, but his music keeps a furious kind of faith. CHARLES AARON

38. M. Ward, Post-War
While Conor Oberst was penning vote-rocking anthems for '08, an old-timey guitarist from Oregon did something even more forward-thinking: He imagined an America after Iraq, just before the Democrats won back Congress on the same platform. Like the best antebellum music of the '40s and '50s, Ward's tender folk ballads and fingerpicked odes to veterans and has-been heroes, backed by the ghostly murmurs of Jim James and Neko Case, get to the heart of both tragedy and optimism: finding yourself in the twilight years of your era and still asking what's next. M. MAERZ

37. Wolfmother, Wolfmother
Wolfmother were known first for frontman Andrew Stockdale's afro and their blistering, balls-out live show. But here, using the big rock tools of the trade -- power chords, fuzzy low-ends, more cowbells -- this Aussie trio pull off a rare feat: They balance the tongue-in-cheekiness of their throwback stylings with legitimate tunes. Wolfmother pay homage to Sabbath and Zeppelin, as well as '90s stoner metal, but the measure of a truly heavy album is whether there is at least one song that sounds like the apocalypse ("Dimension") and one that sounds like sex ("Love Train"), which proves that these wolves' teeth are plenty sharp. KYLE ANDERSON

36. The Bronx, The Bronx
Remember when hardcore meant Government Issue and not Hatebreed? When, after learning how to play, bands ignored the mosh-pit peanut gallery and upped their ambitions? These L.A. bruisers do, taking the fury of their 2003 debut and adding whatchamacallem...songs. Not to mention jolting riffs, switchblade-sharp melodies, Josh Homme–inspired barroom blues, and choruses that linger even after you pop the ninth Advil. When Matt Caughthran screams, "Muthafucka, I want your bluuuuuuud!" you want to run downstairs and check on the dog. Bloody. Brilliant. DOUG BROD

35. J Dilla, The Shining
At the time of his death earlier this year from lupus-related illness, hip-hop/R&B producer Jay Dee (a.k.a. J Dilla) was still expanding his shadowy, playful, soul-suffused sound, working on two albums from his hospital bed. The first, Donuts, was a 31-track collection of instrumental bits; then there was this stunning, live-and-sampled mix of warm, woozy grooves, burbly bass lines, and pretzel-logic percussion. Completed posthumously by friend Karriem Riggins, with contributions from Common, Pharoahe Monch, Madlib, and Black Thought, it's a remarkably cohesive, entrancing farewell. C.A.

34. Sparklehorse, Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain
Danger Mouse might not be known for understated grace, but here the producer helps '90s alt-rock survivor Mark "Sparklehorse" Linkous shape his first album in five years into something tender, otherworldly, and quietly astounding. Tiny touches -- crackly electronic drums, weirdly watery vocals, Tom Waits tickling the ivories -- color timeless melodies and delicate lyrics that toggle between effervescent and achingly sad. When the two sides meet, as on the unstoppable "Don't Take My Sunshine Away," it's like a gorgeous, slow-motion explosion. JOSH MODELL

33. The Rapture, Pieces of the People We Love
The Rapture's brittle, strung-out Echoes was a near-perfect backdrop to the whiskey-soaked and coke-dusted nights of postmillenial New York City. And now, during the city's mid-decade hangover, the slick, semi-sullen grooves on Pieces have become an aural hair of the dog. With production from Britain's indie hitmaker Paul Epworth (Bloc Party, Future-heads) and Ewan Pearson (Goldfrapp), the Rapture's Luke Jenner and Matt Safer position themselves as this generation's key purveyors of a new brand of blue-eyed soul, and prove that saxophones have a lifeline outside jazz clubs and Steve Winwood songs. PETER GASTON

32. The Fags, Light 'Em Up
After enthusiastically signing this Detroit trio in 2004, Sire Records kept them in a contractual deep freeze before pulling the plug altogether. And while this makes for a suitable hard-luck tale, it's a shame we had to wait so long for the eventual indie release of this unapologetically mammoth guitar-pop record, which mixes Paul Westerberg's down-in-the-basement alienation with Def Leppard's multiharmony ebullience. Songs like "Tonight," "List," and "Truly, Truly" are too straightforward and irony-deficient to make it on the radio nowadays, which is an even bigger shame, as they're just the kind of anthems that turn suburban weenies into tough guys and steering wheels into snare drums. BRIAN RAFTERY

31. Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Show Your Bones
Slammed doors. Awkward silences. The threat of a solo career. It's no secret that the making of Show Your Bones was like an art-punk soap opera, but such high-stakes melodrama suited Karen O and her boys. This surprisingly vulnerable set of should-have-been hits and heartbroken comedowns makes you feel like you're watching that final scene from the "Maps" video play out over and over again. The cameras zoom in and you sense the tears about to fall, but rock's reigning queen of cool never looks away. TREVOR KELLEY