...And the Ever Expanding Universe is a small wonder that easily confirms the Most Serene Republic's status as one of the most impressive acts on a Toronto pop scene that is already producing a bounty of exciting music.

Sound may have a slight edge over the originally released version of this material, if only because it's truer to the band's initial intentions, and Dandy diehards will certainly find it worth checking out, but more casual fans who already own Monkey House can probably skip it unless they're looking for an intriguing lesson in the nuances of mixing.

Even if it's a little less lively, it's still pretty typical Clutch: always heavy, always solid, and ideal background music for driving a semi-truck through a swamp.

Loggins may indeed come across like a male version on the breezy charms of Colbie Caillat but that means he's pleasant, placid, and likeable which is, in the words of the album's opening song, good enough.

Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros have crafted a love letter to Laurel Canyon and all of its quasi-mystic juju that is as infuriatingly contrived and retro as it is forward-thinking and majestic.

Less accessible than his song-based albums (like 4 Track Songs, released almost simultaneously), Music for Falling from Trees is concise, focused, and well executed.

Welcome to the Walk Alone ends up as neither a success nor a failure; instead, it feels more like a missed opportunity compounded by a bad decision.

At times, Embrace can get a little too droning and repetitive, but it's a confident and promising debut.

As far as debut albums go, Until the Earth Begins to Part may not be as important as it thinks it is, but it certainly delivers the promise of greatness.

American Central Dust doesn't have the feel of a step into new territory the way Son Volt's past two albums did, but it consolidates old strengths and confirms Jay Farrar is still an artist worth caring about to 20 years after Uncle Tupelo cut their first album.

For all its dimensions and progress, the album is simultaneously designed to ensure that devoted fans will feel the wait was worth it.

Like fellow abstract lyricist Kristin Hersh, her quill is aimed at the introverted, resulting in work that is both deeply personal and frustratingly impenetrable.

Rabid fans won't mind much; just make sure you're sold on Hell's Winter before taking this bumpier ride through Cage's inner turmoil.

Those who weren't so sure about the Bowerbirds before might change their tune with this release--Upper Air is a luminous, wild-eyed affair, and a solid second album to boot.

All too often, that energy is lost when a talented young band like this enters the studio, and RAA do their best to transcend the limitations of their home recorded calling card, but that energy eating reaper follows Hometowns around like a cop car on a Saturday night.

At times, WWPJ do give into their dour side too much, and while there's no denying that their dynamic shifts and all-or-nothing climaxes pack a punch, songs such as 'This Is My House, This Is My Home' and 'It's Thunder and It's Lightning' get repetitive. Fortunately, as These Four Walls unfolds, WWPJ show that they can do more than just anthemic angst.

While some fans of his early work may be left behind, most people who enjoy witty songs with tender emotion behind them will be satisfied with Catacombs and happy with the direction he's headed.

Chemical Warfare keeps this capo's reputation in tact. Recommended for aspiring dons and more open-minded thugs.

Party Rock is an indulgent record with plenty of fun and immaturity, but a real need for a growing musical identity.

While many of the group's songs aren't quite as unusual as that string of letters seems (most of them do, in fact, incorporate choruses), the group steers pretty far from the norm on their self-titled record.

If Wilco (The Album) as a whole is considerably less ambitious than its predecessors, it compensates with its easy confidence and craft: it's the work of a band that knows their strengths and knows what they're all about, and it's ready to settle into an agreeably comfortable groove.

Electric Dirt sounds fresh, emphatic, and as effective as anything Levon has cut since the mid-'70s, and one can only hope he has a few more discs in him just this good.

Moby's most unified and understated album, and all the better for it, Wait for Me is a morose set of elegantly bleary material, quite a shift from the hedonistic club tracks of "Last Night."

This dogged sense of purpose does result in a tighter, better record than Something to Be and even it's not a lot of fun, it's not meant to be: it's big music about big issues, even inflating personal issues to the universal.

On the whole, American Saturday Night is one of his dreamier albums, filled with swaying slow dances, sweet love tunes, and the occasional brokenhearted blues, all delivered with a worn-in ease.

Jeremih's charmingly sly voice, somewhere between One Twelve's Slim and a young Raphael Saadiq, is hard to not like, especially when he tempers his cockiness with a little sensitivity.

Where 2006's "As Daylight Dies" hinted at an accelerated focus on the more melodic aspects of extreme metal, Killswitch Engage cements the notion.

With great audio and visuals, this version of Voltaic should please all but the most completist Bjork fans.

Chamber Music, with all its throwback collabos, only faintly reminds the listener of yesteryear, but track by track it satisfies with the core Wu members sounding purposeful and sometimes even united.

This sense of adventure ties Varshons to those earliest Lemonheads records, but the group marries that spirit to Dando's exceptionally intuitive interpretive skills, turning the album into a bit of a rough, unpolished gem.

This is a sound that's utterly unique to Dinosaur Jr., and what's different about them in their reunion is that the group not only realizes their individuality, they revel in it, getting lost in the noise, and it's hard not to get swept up with it, too.

Calling this an unplugged album is useful only in relation to what the group has produced in the past, but what the Mars Volta created on Octahedron will provide them with more range and opportunities in the future.

It's a decent set of modern R&B, dominated by seductive slow jams, that stimulates a little more often than it fades into the background.

The bulk of Back and Fourth is more insular, though, serving as Pete Yorn's personal therapy rather than his audience's ear candy.

While Far is far from bad, it doesn't quite live up to expectations, either, based on all the talent involved in making it and how fully Spektor expressed herself on "Begin to Hope."

Presumably it's not enough for Patterson Hood that he fronts one of the best rock bands in America--Murdering Oscar shows him stepping into an equally impressive solo career, but when the songs he's set aside for himself are this good, you can't blame the man for wanting to share.

Spinnerette also feels a bit overcooked at times, possibly because of the long time it took to make. At its best, however, Spinnerette shows what Dalle can do outside of the Distillers' context, and suggests that maturity and life after punk rock can actually be fun.

As carefully crafted as it is, this is the group's most accessible record yet. And it's a damn fine one at that.

It can be incredibly difficult for an experimental group to continue experimenting for years on end without getting stale, but Tortoise achieve that balance effortlessly.

By sacrificing grit, some of the charm that made the debut a success is lost along the way, but the sleeker production is only a minor setback and some of the songs onboard are Deer Tick's best thus far.

Pentatonic Wars and Love Songs ends up being an urgent, stubborn, and sometimes overly dark view of love in all of its unavoidable permutations. In other words, it's exactly the kind of album of love songs you'd expect from Taylor, one that is direct and as baffling as it is challenging.

Travels with Myself and Another distinguishes Future of the Left from Mclusky without completely severing ties, and proves they're a band that can keep post-hardcore exciting with righteous anger and merciless wit.

For all its abundantly positive qualities and minor but clear distinctions from prior efforts, is still an archetypal Dream Theater album; one that's unlikely to broaden their audience all that much, but is conversely guaranteed to thrill their hardcore converts with its renewed devotion to the most exigent and stimulating facets of the band's chosen musical domain.

It would be easy to call this album an exercise in dabbling if the quality of these songs weren't so strong--and it's that quality, along with Bibio's continuing flair for crafting distinctive atmospheres, that are the only constants throughout.

Singular pop craftsmen (and women) who can successfully tow the line between commercially viable and artistically sovereign are few and far between in the 21st century, which makes the arrival of Eugene McGuinness a true cause for celebration.

God Help the Girl should probably just be viewed as a flawed work or a semi-successful adventure by a solo artist who needs his band to be truly great.

Person to Person is a pleasant enough listen rather than a gripping one, somewhere between enjoyable inspiration and careful exercise, a flavoring in the general indie rock milieu of the early 21st century that, for the moment, can have no greater impact.

this hodgepodge approach should certainly bring Alexisonfire some U.S. rock radio airplay, especially such standout tracks as the leadoff single, 'Young Cardinals,' as well as the album-opening 'Old Crows,' 'The Northern,' and the surprisingly tranquil and sweetly sung album closer, 'Burial.'

Their sound will never grow tiresome; it only gets better with repeated use.

This album ultimately emerges as an erratic project, its highlights spread too thinly to do much good.

If Morello and Riley hadn't been involved in such great projects before, this would be acceptable, but in hindsight, it doesn't really live up to their past accomplishments.

Vines and Trying Times the seams are showing, which makes it a little bit harder to enjoy, even if there are certainly moments where all their craft and charm click, resulting in some fine pop that points out what's missing from the rest of the record.

Some listeners may find this approach riotous, since the humor is pushed right toward the front, while many may miss how their original recordings blurred the lines between real rock and fantasy.

The results are impressive standard-bearers for dancehall, displaying the duo's ample facility for floating the type of productions that have made dancehall the most experimental and extreme type of commercial dance music since it dawned in the mid-'80s.

It's this Grand Royal mish-mash style of mixing genres that makes this such a fun, cartoonish, joy ride.

Forget about long shadows--Williams steps out into the light on Here with Me and proves she doesn't need to use the family name as a crutch.

Seventeen years old and already turning the heads of critics, producers, and session musicians alike, Sarah Jarosz is not only a jaw-dropping talent but a multidimensional one, as well.

In sum, Spirit Moves is a welcome departure for Douglas, who has been working with his longtime electric band and more recently with his great Keystone group.

David Longstreth isn't quite trying to make things easy for his listeners on Bitte Orca, but there's far too much pleasure in this music for its eccentricities to put off anyone who is open to its gleeful, eclectic, internationalist heart.

Sonic Youth's freedom to follow their bliss is what holds The Eternal together; just as paradoxically, the changes they make on this album not only bring excitement to their music, they reaffirm just how consistently good the band has been--and continues to be--over the years.

Battle for the Sun, the band's sixth album and first with drummer Steve Forrest, is given a steel-reinforced production by David Bottrill, a sound that could conceivably be placed on mainstream rock radio if that format still existed, or if it were used as a vehicle for something else than Placebo's music, which remains resolutely pitched toward a niche audience, no matter how many little frills of horns or farting synths grace their guitar grind.

He comes up with a mind-bending, low-key triumph, the kind of magnetic album that takes around a dozen spins to completely unpack.

The E.N.D. (Energy Never Dies) is a mess of pop/dance/rap crossover.

The result is an interesting, unexpected piece of work, devoid of a militantly commercial single like Empire's self-titled track, and lacking the shaggy Madchester vibes that Christopher Karloff brought to 2004's Kasabian.

It's an ambitious album that finds Miller really stretching himself as a songwriter, but it's hard not to wish there were more songs like the nervy 'If It's Not Love' on board to help the medicine go down.

It's unrelentingly grim, relieved only by Snider's dark humor.

At five songs and 15 minutes long, Rainwater Cassette Exchange is a quick tour of what Deerhunter can do and how well they do it, and more proof the band's inspiration is at its peak.

There's no lack of artists making similar sounding music--MGMT, Pop Levi, White Williams, and even Animal Collective come to mind--but Miike Snow is ambitious and fun enough that they're worth checking out.

There's a lot of ground covered here, of course, yet the band never loses sight of its destination, and those who can keep up are in for a tuneful journey.

While weeding through the wreckage of science, sociology, and religion for the quivering individual may seem like heavily guarded Radiohead territory, Dredg pulls it off with the human heart still intact. At 18 tracks, it can be a lot to swallow, but keep in mind that many of these are transitional pieces and rarely overstay their welcome.

Even if People or the Gun does nothing to break new barriers musically, fans of their early work will be pleased to hear a return to form.

On its own, listeners may be lulled to the chilly deeps of sleep, but paired with the accompanying DVD, they'll be wiping the salt spray from their brows and pulling long rows of kelp out of their teeth.

Joan of Arc's work on a whole generally tends to be pretty loose, but sorting through the remnants and mood pieces on Flowers can make "Boo! Human" seem absolutely cohesive in comparison. Oh well. It's still totally listenable and likeable.

Anyone expecting a courageous game changer will be disappointed by all the swaggering, sexual bragging, and irresponsible pimping the duo frontload onto the effort, but coming to terms with the overall weekend attitude is quick and easy, thanks to rock-solid hooks and Quik's production.

There's a lot of Busdriver on Jhelli Beam, while his themes and lyrics have become even more dense, which makes for a challenging listen that only fitfully rewards the scrutiny.

Here and Now is good enough that you can't help but wish Holsapple and Stamey cut another album before they start getting their Social Security checks.

The Blackout thunder and squall through a batch of songs that deal with the usual topics of heartbreak, betrayal, isolation, and frustration with romance and society and have a familiar sound (sweetly sung vs. rabidly screamed vocals, heavy riffing, cavernous drums, and great walls of processed guitars), but generally have a fresh and vigorous feel that keeps things hopping throughout.

"Electronica that falls somewhere between rock and dance" is probably the best way to sum up Freeland's Cope.

It's quite a stunning sequence, and evidence of the breadth of Nosaj Thing's compositional prowess, which extends from a fine ear for minute detail to a rare sense of album-length sweep.

Of the Cathmawr Yards is a weird album, but sometimes weird is exactly right. That's the case here.

It is also one of the strongest senses of true ambient music as originally proposed, where volume is secondary to overall impact.

The sound of the SACD is vibrant, present, and life-like, particularly in the little match girl passion. Highly recommended for fans of new music.

All this means is that Chickenfoot's big picture is roughly in place but the pieces don't quite fit, but that doesn't stop the group from trying to force it, with Sammy sounding as awkward singing about south-of-the-border drug runners as Satriani does spinning off complicated riffs on party rockers.

Where "Avenue B" was a pretentious mess, Preliminaires is flawed but significantly more successful.

Despite the occasional stuffiness, there's a lot of good material here and it's all executed well, but it's hard not to shake the feeling that this is a collection of leftovers masquerading as a main course.

What makes Big Whiskey & the GrooGrux King the Dave Matthews Band's richest, and quite possibly best, album is the implicit message that all the love and loss can be felt and shared through the music, that the creation of the music itself is the reason why they're here--and that's not just a moving tribute to LeRoi Moore, it's a reason for the band to keep moving on.

This large, cavernous sound camouflages the lingering emo elements which largely surface in the angst-mining lyrics, as well as the occasional bellow, and even if this lack of stridency may alienate some longtime followers, this gleaming pop-punk makeover is the band at its most immediate and easy to enjoy.

This is a beautifully crafted, stripped-down recording, showcasing once more that E uses searing honesty and a canny sense of pop, rock, blues, and everything else to chronicle his own strange path through life and its labyrinth.

Not only was the wait worth it, Archives feels like it was 20 years in the making. It's an extraordinary work that redefines what an autobiography can be.

Rancid's been doing this a long time and while they'll never recapture the exact same power and glory they exuded in the '90s', on Let the Dominos Fall they show they've got more than enough of each to get by in grand style.

While it is neither as monumental as "Donuts" nor as exemplary as the "Dillanthology" discs, Jay Stay Paid is close to a must for any casual Dilla admirer.

Roadhouse Sun sounds like he's still making his "Greetings from Asbury Park"--the kind of record whose clunkers are obvious enough to put a chink into the album's very real virtues.

While not every song is a rousing success, Blood feels fresh and alive--and underscores that Franz Ferdinand should take chances like this more often.

Crossing the Rubicon is the sound of a band reaching their potential as artists and it's very satisfying to see and, more importantly, to hear.

This one leaves its generational competition in the dust and is wise beyond this songwriter's years, and to be frank, leaves his own previous identity as simply a bedroom balladeer to history.

It captures him as a working musician, pushing his first album hard, trying to get his name and music known, not caring about anything outside of the moment--all things that offer a potent, stirring reminder of Buckley's power and grace.

Because the album is so continuously lush and candy-coated with a shoegaze gleam, no particular song really sticks out. Instead, hooks surface slowly from the electro-wash, rewarding repeated listens.