Howlett is no slouch in the production chair, and the sounds are mostly blinding, but the songs are strictly by-the-books.

Moody, cinematic, and engaging throughout, Cyclone is another tour de force from Neko Case, if not as immediately arresting as "Fox Confessor."

Upon first listen, No Line on the Horizon seems as if it would be a classic grower, an album that makes sense with repeated spins, but that repetition only makes the album more elusive, revealing not that U2 went into the studio with a dense, complicated blueprint, but rather, they had no plan at all.

Communion is easily the most consistent yet visionary and expansive recording Soundtrack have released yet, and proves beyond the shadow of a doubt, they are, even without mass acceptance, an impressively grand rock band.

Blue Lights on the Runway is one of those rare albums that you can pretend to like for its alt-credibility while secretly just enjoying it for the hooks.

Lucky One isn't the Mavericks, but it's closer to what made that band great than anything Malo has recorded in a while, and shows that he remains a great singer and powerfully imaginative musician regardless of the context.

Midnight at the Movies plays more like a subtle step forward for Justin Townes Earle than a quantum leap, but if the "The Good Life" suggested he was a talent to watch, this record confirms that he's a new writer to be reckoned with who doesn't need to trade on his family name.

Adult Nights is an engaging debut from a band that wears its sunny California influences as well as if they were born and bred there.

Written in Chalk is a welcome return by one of American music's great--if under-recognized--duos.

While the instrumentals give cause for heads to silently nod in appreciation, only a few tracks break away to make this something other than music suited for the background.

C'est Com...Com...Complique is better than anything Faust have issued since 1999's Ravvivando - which is saying plenty - writing another elliptical chapter in one of the most fascinating sagas in the history of rock.

Astral Weeks: Live at the Hollywood Bowl is not Astral Weeks, but it's brilliant and emotionally intense; it's honest and spiritually revealing.

200 Million Thousand provides a fair share of these moments and because of that you can say the album succeeds. It just could use a little more teenage head and a little less brains.

There's no denying the sheer "angry basement workout/summer garage weightlifting" potential that Wrath's perfectly acceptable 45-minute running time offers, but without a single hook that sticks around long enough to reel in the fish, all you've got is bait.

This one is solid from top to bottom.

It's his easy charm that turns Easy Does It into an effective piece of country-pop product.

All in all, Copeland has delivered a solid set of music, easily recommended, that should please her fans and translate to some dynamic performances on tour.

Mr. Lucky works because Isaak and crew don't overplay their hand.

There's a lot to admire in Here We Go Magic's dreamy, hazy melodies, and it's easy to get lost in the repetitive, minimalist guitar strumming that centers half of the tracks.

Too many of the songs settle into lackluster grooves, and pairing those grooves with Vermue's style-over-substance vocal affectations makes the album less than memorable.

A mix of veiled threats and bounding guitars, it proves that Dissolver isn't the sound of Iran turning its back on its past, it's the sound of a band finding ways to be more complicated, and accessible, than ever.

Hold Time will do little to entice listeners for whom Matt Ward's sepia-tone charm holds no sway, but for fans who have enjoyed the ride thus far, this looks like the sunniest stretch of road yet.

Nothing here is surprising, of course, but Years of Refusal is a full-bodied, full-blooded album that also happens to be fully realized--even if it is on a rather modest scale.

Common Existence is largely an enjoyable record that gives as much attention to mood and melody as muscle and might.

The Century of Self is compelling proof that the only way a band as fiercely ambitious, righteous, and single-minded as ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead can do things is on their own.

Just barely out of his twenties, he writes with the well-worn weariness of someone twice his age, but Isbell's youth nevertheless breathes energy into a formula that's been revisited by many Southern-born songwriters before.

Despite the catch phrases and recycled riffs, nothing about Habeas Corpus is authentic--it's all trashy punk that trivializes anything it touches--but what's fun about it is that Living Things do it all without a sense of awareness.

Throughout Hush he proves adept at constructing interesting soundscapes built on guitar tones and dynamics and not just sheer volume and distortion.

It might not be the best album Vetiver have made, but it's the most consistent and beguiling.

Goodnight Oslo is good enough and engaged enough that you can hardly believe Robyn Hitchcock has been making records like this since 1979.

If the Drones have grown a touch more polished and focused with time, it's not at the expense of creating compelling music--if anything, Havilah even more clearly places the band as one of Australia's best rock bands ever.

Though some of the tracks contributed by Dark Was the Night's artists are a touch too predictable, it's uncharitable to nitpick too much when the collection offers so much music for such a good cause.

Feel. Love. Thinking. Of. is a decent enough album as a whole that sometimes falters but features fine moments of brilliance when the Batke brothers filter out their cheesier influences.

As it is, Come Back can only be considered a noble attempt at something Ferree just didn't have the skills to pull off.

That said, try as you might, you can listen a hundred times and not catch all the utterly magical, deeply moving, and beautifully arresting aural majesty to be found on Choral.

Compared to prior outings, their Zorn-like freewheeling spirit has been toned back and songs feel more like actual "songs" with defined structure and greater emphasis on the individuality of the performers and the negative space surrounding them.

Keeping a good thing going, Uncle Charlie follows the formula of the former Gap Band vocalist's previous release, "Charlie, Last Name Wilson," which climbed to number ten on Billboard's album chart.

Best summed up as a deranged Mardi Gras (the cover art is perfect), it's a strange little album, and surprising that something so alienating and overwhelming could also be so utterly listenable.

Fortunately, even the album's least obvious moments are well worth deciphering, and the emotional connection Sholi make on almost every track raises the band from merely impressive to very promising.

The Blue Depths is an album first and foremost and is assembled as one. Therefore, it should be listened to that way; because the aura it creates around the listener--particularly through headphones--is nothing short of spectacular.

This 2009 release is a fine addition to her catalog, although it isn't an album that goes for immediacy.

For those with more of an ear for intricate soundcraft and matchbox symphonies, The Camel's Back ends up being something far more satisfying and memorable.

It's Not Me never hits heights as blinding as "Smile" or "LDN"--but this approach does wind up spotlighting just how special a pop star Lily Allen is, how she captures all that's wretched and glorious about her time without falling into any of its traps, probably because she's clever enough to avoid them in the first place.

variety here, but Keep It Hid never draws attention to Auerbach's eclecticism, especially because it moves along at a rapid clip, never staying in one place too long.

The tone of the relationship songs is more upbeat, and even occasionally lighthearted, relative to those of "Testimony: Vol. 1," adding a pleasant contrast to the more serious material.

Years later, however, the well-networked songwriter appears to have finally found her own voice with Light of X.

Bottom line: the album is one of the stronger pop-R&B releases of the last few years.

If this is a somewhat more sedate effort than the hot-wired Flat Duo Jets of yore, Ruins of Berlin shows Dexter Romweber's passion and gifts are as strong as ever, and the result is a compelling album from a one of a kind talent with plenty to offer.

It's a hilarious comedy album that's just as hip, inventive, and inappropriate as their digital shorts.

This is one of the most compelling releases yet by one of the new jazz's finest bands to emerge in the 21st century.

The Fray's sophomore release picks up where How to Save a Life left off, reprising the same blend of piano-led ballads and midtempo pop/rock that helped establish the band in 2005.

Doolittle is nothing if not steady, making all the right moves at the right times, sounding at once like a seasoned pro and someone who feels everything she sings while never forcing or faking anything out. It's one of the smartest, most likable albums from an American Idol alum yet.

The whole is still a game enough effort, if nothing else showing Houck's excellent taste in song choices.

Love Hate and Then There's You is the Von Bondies' most consistent album yet.

It would be nice if some of the titular burn could be felt on Dierks Bentley's fourth studio album, but Feel That Fire is an atypically cautious, calculated affair from one of Nashville's best singer/songwriters of the 2000s.

These are chilling sounds from a dark place that, nonetheless, shelter the listener. Between the European and stateside physical releases of the album, Cooper passed away. Knowledge of that could only intensify the album's most passive spins.

Changing Horses marks a defining moment in the songwriter's career, offering up a batch of pastiche-free country music that, like Ryan Adams' "Jacksonville City Nights," may be a promising sign of what's to come.

"Don't You Fake It" may have suffered from a lack of variety, but Lonely Road is plagued by different diseases: misguided ambition, outlandish excess, and a bad case of the ol' sophomore slump.

Definitely track down 'Meet Me in the Garden' as it stands head and shoulders above the rest of the album, but give the rest a chance too.

If you want to hear a singer's singer, one who can move you to the core of your being with her way of interpreting a song, Wynonna Judd's deeply moving, authentic Sing: Chapter 1 is a fine place to begin. This may be her finest hour.

The Mountain is a more diverse set than the old Heartless Bastards gave us, it's still rooted in the same emotionally direct songwriting and performing that is this band's trademark, and for all that's changed with the band, Wennerstrom has held on to her core virtues.

Bemis and Conley may wield the most power here, but Two Tongues debut is a collaborative effort through and through, with the band taking measures to prove its debt to past traditions and present friends.

A little more variation from song to song, a little more of their own sound, or another song or two as compelling as the best stuff here and the POBPAH's debut would have been classic. Settling for impressive is fair enough and good enough for fans of loud, fuzzy, and heartfelt indie noise pop.

Willie's voice can sound a bit gruff and rough--this is as comfortable and welcoming as a familiar old leather jacket. It's no surprise that it feels good.

It's often catchy and kinetic in the moment, yet it still feels like Franz Ferdinand has the potential to do more with their music than just slightly tweak and polish a sound they established several albums ago.

A large part of Springsteen's appeal has always been how the E Street Band has sounded as big and open as his heart, but Working on a Dream, like "Magic" before it, has a production that feels tiny and constrained even as it is layered with extraneous details.

This is pure NPR music, all neo-jazz melodies and martini-lounge flourishes without the sly bite of its predecessor.

Disenchantment with the state of rap, and society as a whole, is a major underlying theme, but the statements never feel too preachy or in your face. Instead, the vocal freestyles hover just slightly above the music, delivered in an amorphous mumble that matches the sonic abyss of the background perfectly.

Dear John shows that Svanangen has really gotten his act together; it makes good on all the tremulous, tender, wistful promise of his debut.

It is stronger all-around than "Supernova," the poor 2001 album that never came out in the States, with the stitches less audible than the average post-humous album. And yet, nothing here comes close to rivaling the best TLC material.

The fact they fit so well says a lot about this music, and while there are moments of genuine beauty and grace, this is a far cry from what these men achieved in their prime.

Frusciante has done a nice job of carving an identity completely separate from his main gig, and Empyrean fits nicely with his other solo albums.

Paranoid Cocoon establishes its sound early, so anybody initially put off by all of the cloudy skies and soft, neo-psychedelic mountain melancholy will inevitably come away disappointed, but fans of James Yorkston, Richard Hawley, M. Ward, and mild hangovers will eat this up, and rightly so.

Despite this barrage of invective, it's strangely reassuring hearing the oft-preprogrammed Hoobastank break free from their constraints.

Neither horrible nor great, Time of the Assassins is an unassuming album, a working holiday that was probably more enjoyable to make than for anyone besides die-hard Strokes fans to hear.

Among Sheik's albums this ranks among the best, showcasing his subtle skills and sense of quiet adventure in ways his sometimes fussy earlier records never did.

Old Money is so far-reaching, it will likely piss off some of his fans while making others nearly swoon with its unwieldy rockist excesses. As for winning new fans to his cause? You bet.

It's a fantastic album, and one of the standout metal records of the year; it's just too bad that it's kind of embarrassing to admit that you're a fan.

Merriweather Post Pavilion is a perfectly organized record, not a note out of place, not a second wasted.

Whatever hopes you held in the aftermath of "I Am a Bird Now," they have been exponentially exceeded in poetry, music, and honesty here.

Anyone who can craft a record that sounds and feels as good as Get Guilty deserves to keep on making records forever.

Whatever romance he lacks in the textual medium he more than makes up for in melody.

Grand isn't as majestic as its name suggests, with only a handful of songs moving past the anxious minimalism that permeated the last album. For returning fans, though, Grand provides a familiar brand of punk music for happy people, for lovebirds, for those who wish Mates of State had more swagger and less glockenspiel.

Recorded over a couple years and in various locations, the EP sounds like outtakes from "Emma," but not in a bad way.

Fiction Family is slightly sprawling as a result, having been compiled over a number of years, but the track list takes strength in diversity as it alternates between sprightly duets and slow, Elliott Smith-styled melancholia.

You and I's stranger moments reveal that Cut Off Your Hands have more personality than the album's more tasteful songs suggest.

It's an unfocused album that defies comfortable listening, perhaps deliberately so, but the collision of half-baked folk tunes and uneasy soundscapes isn't as stimulating to hear as it might have been to create.

Wino aims to combine vocal and guitar swagger with psychosis in equal measure on Punctuated Equilibrium--the mark of someone who knows that one of the best things to do with electric guitars is to figure out how to stun the listener and make them queasy at the same time. So if nothing on the album ultimately surprises, it's still a great demonstration of ability.

That magic might be missed a little on Mirror Eye, but its fever dream-like intensity is more than compelling in its own right, and feels as subtle and natural as a shadow or a reflection.

Most of Lily Perdida is charming--it's like these songs were always within Mitchell's reach, but were buried underneath processing and slower tempos in his earlier work, and they're bursting out here.

More polished and refined than the EPs, Fight Like Apes and the Mystery of the Golden Medallion (named in honor of an obscure Mr. T movie) skillfully walks the grey area between mainstream and underground, spit-shining frontwoman May Kay's effortless pop smarts without losing sight of their zany outsider appeal.

Truth be told, it's still a bit of a mess, but it's a glorious and galvanizing one: a convoluted construction crammed with so many immediately gratifying moments that it takes multiple listens to extricate them all--in other words, enough instant pleasures to easily outweigh its occasional grating, overreaching, and faltering.

The material is stellar.

The soundtrack to the Notorious B.I.G. biopic Notorious is a welcome surprise. Selections from the past (a bunch of old hits plus some wonderfully raw demos) and the present (Jay-Z's infectious collabo with Santogold) along with a hint of the legacy's future (an appearance from Biggie's son, Christopher "CJ" Wallace, Jr.) are sequenced in a way that avoids any of the bombast or misguided majesty of Born Again or Duets.

On Compass, Redman has finally learned the greatest trick from his mentor--to walk out on the wire with his horn more, trust the fluid abilities of his incredible rhythm section(s), and let his inner sense of song and freedom take precedence over his already well-established sense of discipline.

The band's ninth album continues the Austin-based ensemble's penchant for offbeat Southern minutia and melodious, after-hours juke joint revelry, but despite boasting production values that rival anything before it, Haymaker! feels less like the blow to the face that its title implies and more like a last quick rummage through the basement before the garage sale starts.

Whether intentional or not, there's a certain glee to FOB's pop absurdity because their cheerfully careless genre-bending has no reverence: fitting all these sounds and jokes into a pop song is all a game and it's one listeners can share, whether they're playing spot-the-allusion or just succumbing to the sugary hooks clustered within one track.

Discerning fans may demand something new from the band's next effort, however, since this is essentially "Move Along" with a revised track list.