Chaosmosis finds the band scaling back their predecessor, narrowing their vistas so drastically it often seems as if the group cobbled it together on an old Casio.

Catfish Haven, led by the booming voice and songwriting of frontman George Hunter, seem to have all the right ingredients in place to be something really special, so it's a bit mystifying why this second full-length feels like it comes up just a bit short.

It's certainly not pretty but it's a distinctive first record that, in a bizarre way, appears to live up to his rather unusual claims.

There's no sense of storytelling or momentum to her performances: she starts the song in one place and stays there riding in circles until the end.

This is an example of an innovator sounding only slightly better than his legions of lesser followers.

It's not for the faint of heart, but anyone partial to heavy, brooding, uncompromising music will likely be gladly carried away by it.

Knopfler fans and lovers of Chet Atkins, Gordon Lightfoot, and J.J. Cale, as well as late-night poker players and early risers with an acerbic streak, will find much to love here.

Busts open half-lidded Velvet Underground fetishisms with squalls of Blue Cheer guitar, and further channels the heady sounds of the late '60s with a moodily dwelling organ.

These quintessential Rifles offerings may appease those deterred by the album's unexpected wistful nature, but Freedom Run's inherent charm has the potential to elevate the band into the big league, regardless of how many longterm fans stay on board or jump ship.

If you're a fan, it's a classy slice of nostalgia.

Musically and lyrically, it is likely to be among her most enduring recordings.

For those who like their electronic music clearly defined, it's a hard sell, but Synthesized is an easy recommendation for those who appreciate Junkie's skill and/or any witty genre-jumping around dance-pop.

This is an immaculately crafted, impossibly tasteful miniature, one that will satisfy any listener longing for a Radiohead stripped of future shock.

Keeping track of whether Logic's writing from his own or someone else's vantage can be a challenge, but one doesn't need to be that familiar with his work to realize that this contains some of his most personal rhymes.

Guided by Voices have been enjoying an unexpected but very welcome late-career renaissance, and anyone who has ever had a taste for their singular take on rocking pop owes it to themselves to check out Zeppelin Over China.

His talents as a rapper and lyricist are still stunning, and much of the production is solid, but the album ultimately feels like a one-sided conversation with an insecure friend. You love them, but kinda wish they'd just go to therapy and get back to you once they've worked some of those issues out.

lack of inspired songs, the pedestrian guitar work, and the overall lack of dynamics in the overblown performances make Secret Machines another unfortunate stumble for a band that once held some real promise.

Anyone who arrived here because of underground mixtapes will be happy to hear the radio-friendly numbers and polish removed, and even happier when they notice Southern street producer Drumma Boy is responsible for all the beats.

Lost in all this is the instantly grabbing songwriting of Kasabian's debut, and to some extent, the bandmembers themselves, who often seem to be riding this swirl instead of guiding it.

Along with celebrating the boldest parts of Stewart and Simone's art, Nina marks the return of Xiu Xiu's uncompromising side at its often exhilarating best.

She's not above revisiting periods where the creative process of collaboration was symbiotic as well as successful.

Members of the Clutch, Midi Mafia, â??Trickyâ? Stewart, Usher, and a handful of other notable producers and songwriters grant Bieber a set of songs that isn't quite top-level quality, but the singer more than gets by on his squeaky-clean charm and natural ability.

Full of slow burning passion and emotion, Twelve is magnificent.

With its driving guitars and massive choruses, The Constant is yet another highly catchy album from Story of the Year that will easily live up to their fans' expectations while making converts out of those unfamiliar with them.

A Thousand Heys, is cleaner, easier, and more melody-driven than most releases on, say, In the Red or Dirtnap Records.

Poignant yet triumphant and joyful in tone, the cover [Call's "Let the Day Begin"], as with all of Specter at the Feast, stands as both a heartfelt tribute to their bandmate and a rallying cry for moving forward.

Boys is where they solidify that position and really start to have some fun with it.

While it's admirable that he's trying new things and broadening his scope, Morning World still feels like an experiment or a transitional stage.

An enjoyable next step for the Academy Is..., this album shows that the guys are still growing, but maybe just starting to figure themselves out.

Adding drums might have spoiled the introspective and feather-light feel of the record. Anyone who's been on their bandwagon all along will be glad of that, as they'll rejoice that Declaration of Dependence turns out to be another autumnal treasure from the Kings.

There's too much going on in every individual song and, at 17 cacophonic tracks, Adam Ant Is the BlueBlack Hussar in Marrying the Gunner's Daughter is simply way too much to take in at once...and yet, that's precisely its charm.

Even though The Paradigm Shift might not be the album that listeners might expect after a reunion with Head, it shows the kind of creativity and inventiveness that, love them or hate them, helped to make them an influential force in heavy music.

Some moments are upbeat indie pop, but most of this is dreamy despite its slightly gloomy textures.

Throughout Sean-Nos Nua the production treats O'Connor's voice like a canvas on which to paint vivid images. At times the result is distracting, with far too much slapback, but it also scores on songs like "Molly Malone," where vocal and instrumental textures together trace the tale through poignant light and ominous shadow.

Jones' unmistakable style is unlike anyone else's, and that fact alone will turn away some potential listeners; however, for fans of gentle jazz-pop, It's Like This is an intimate, dreamy wander through the songbooks of the last century.

While Trans Am's need to express their political views and their cliché-busting approach are both admirable, unfortunately their ways of expressing their dissent aren't all that inspired.

Where Director's Cut was a variation of different '70s film themes, Delirium Cordia is a score to Patton's own horror imagination.

The slower tracks don't match up to their opposites, or even the bittersweet midtempo cut 'Alienated,' but they're not enough of a snag to prevent the album from being one of 2009's most replayable R&B releases.

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."

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.

Ode to Sentience sports elegant, graceful chamber-folk arrangements that make the most of the space between the instruments.

Fans need not worry; colorful, variously world music-infused, psychedelic, and ultra-rhythmic, I Need New Eyes retains Larry Gus' somewhat warped artfulness, and the relatively more coherent presentation may attract at least a few more willing ears.

Like the EP, it frustrates almost as much as it charms, but Raury's energy is ceaselessly positive, and his potential is abundant.

Their songwriting shows growth, their vocals remain flawless, the production team continues to throw the occasional curveball to go along with the softballs, and there are plenty of songs that sound like the best pop music has to offer in 2015.

Like any good album for the information age, Soul Punk is overloaded well past the point of saturation and its merciless in its attack, so it can be a bit overbearing, yet there's a real, vivid imagination behind its crystalline clamor.

Decades after their freewheeling beginnings, Just Us still shows a picture of a band as playful as it is fearless, willing to pick up any object, idea, or unlikely concept and transform it effortlessly into something strange and captivating.

From start to finish, Let It Be You is a collection of appealingly loose, lush songs full of creativity.

The sound is pretty awe-inspiring, with huge molten streams of guitars, thundering drums, swirling voices, and all sorts of keyboards, sound effects, and stray noises combining together into a great, layered wall of sound that rivals My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless in terms of sonic construction.

If it's a long way from a triumph, it's a solid, heartfelt work from a veteran artist who isn't about to give up the ghost.

R.Y.C. is scattered and uneasy, but considering its subject matter and the emotions it expresses, it seems like it couldn't have turned out any other way, so it sounds undeniably genuine.

The endlessly bending array of guitar tones that make up Yeah Right still sounds raw and unrefined, trying to lock its unwieldy buzzing and blurring in with Everton and Garcia's gift for pop melodies. While the record isn't without its moments, these warring elements often do more to obscure than complement one another.

As a cohesive work, The Beekeeper holds together better than nearly any of Tori's more ambitious albums, but there's a certain artsy distance that keeps this from being as emotionally immediate or as memorable as her first two records.

Little was done to clean them up: they're rough, woolly, and loose, but they rock.

With Rush!, Måneskin make good on their Eurovision rock promise, delivering an album that's campy, inspired, and thrilling all at the same time.

Sawdust does indeed contain some moments of grand pomp, but its scattershot nature works against the band as it winds up emphasizing the lingering question from "Sam's Town," that the group has a hell of a lot of ideas but they just don't know what the hell to do with them.

It Kindly Stopped for Me is no easy listen, and its mostly mumbled outpourings don't leap out of the speakers, but it is intensely honest, which is something we don't hear often enough.

There's still a fair amount of skippable tracks here. Despite this, Goldie remains a hero and an inspirational figure, and even if The Journey Man doesn't quite stack up to Timeless, it's still a respectable effort, and its best moments confirm the man's legendary status.

A firebrand debut album, Talk About Body celebrates the struggle and freedom in defying easy classification.

They've embraced their schoolboy selves and are simply singing songs of love and good cheer, albeit on a grand scale that somehow seems smaller due to the group's insuppressible niceness.

It's a highly polished, professional sounding debut, with Lewis hitting all the right notes even when she warbles up and down the scale.

Solid and pleasing, if somewhat predictable.

As far as guest rappers, old friends like Teddy Riley, Keith Murray, Redman, Havoc, plus an especially on fire KRS-One are here, making this album short on new developments but greatly appealing to those who long for the way it used to be.

This is the problem that bands face when they go from the thrill of making the first record to the grind of having to produce something equal or better than their debut. Not too many groups can pull it off; add the 1990s to the long list of bands who have failed.

Fans of the first two albums might find it difficult to adjust, but Digi Snacks brings that "through the looking glass" feeling and offers a murky world unto itself, one where Wu-Tang Batmans and blaxploitation anime seem entirely possible.

Cheery in the moment but with a lingering poignancy, Bigfoot is a soundtrack to shared memories of summer, first love, and all the bittersweet things that can happen when those two meet.

Even more so than their debut album, Gallery shows just how impressive Craft Spells can be and sets them up as the synth pop revivalists to beat in 2012.

What makes this album so wonderful isn't so much the efforts of its star rapper but rather the behind-the-scenes cast of producers.

La Bella Mafia affirms Kim's briefly questionable status as a formidable female presence in a man's world and once again turns the often sexist mindset of rap on its head in the process.

Kiss & Tell comes off a bit contrived and lackluster in the beginning, but after a few spins you'll grasp (and thirst) for its sonic goodness.

Song-wise, this is a stronger album from Mellencamp than we had any right to expect, and an excellent from-the-cradle album when we need it most.

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.

Sound City: Real to Reel sounds exactly like what it is: a bunch of old rockers jamming in a studio. Often, this is quite enjoyable, as they're all excellent musicians playing through a top-notch board, but the songs do have a tendency to drift away from the point, sounding like exceedingly well-executed first drafts.

Even the music Jenkinson makes completely with computers by himself has more of a push than the automated tunes that feel more dispensed than played on Music for Robots.

This is less about hooks and more about mood. The mood is heavy and only begins to lift in the George Clinton-assisted finale. Miguel's voice remains a marvel, commanding enough to enliven substandard material.

The lack of variation creates a series of lovely, sad, but blurry episodes in an extended work rather than strong individual tracks. That said, this is a marked return to form for the Pineapple Thief; it delivers back to fans a sound most have been missing for years.

Better Nature suggests Silversun Pickups have an interesting future ahead of them as their sound evolves, and as for Billy Corgan--hey, buck up, buddy, you and the Pickups had a good run for a while.

This is a decent album; it bears a craftsman-like solidity and many fans will no doubt be satisfied (and, more than that, happy) with it. But <i>An End Has a Start</i> is simply not the best album Editors are capable of putting together.

Dios (Malos) emphasize their way with hooks and downplay the hazy sonics of Dios for an album of sunny, instead of smoggy, Californian pop.

They may not have as much depth as their influences, but at their best, their shiny surfaces are a lot of fun.

Superhero Brother will probably sound pretty good as background at a party, but there's not a lot of meat on these bones.

As a whole, the sophomore album is inconsistent, but when being eccentric is such a large part of a group's appeal, this is to be expected. Notwithstanding a few weak moments, many tracks are potentially their best.

As with most of The House, songs like the folk-inflected opener "I'd Love to Kill You," the Eastern-tinged "The Flood," and the yearning and pretty "Red Balloons," take time to build and grab you slowly with deft, biting lyrics and Melua's lilting, burnished vocals.

Far from sounding as if they're grasping at straws, Linkin Park seem rejuvenated, proving there is value in the cliché of returning to roots.

Pagans in Vegas can be viewed as their first post-success album and while the struggle for their musical soul that plays out over its course makes for a sometimes less than coherent listen, it's always an interesting one.

The good bits can get lost between the production and falsettoed harmonies. Which is too bad, because Seward has talent, a talent that definitely appears on the album, and perhaps enough of it to put him where he and his label want.

The trademark Proclaimers sound was still there, including the finger-snapping opening title track, the staccato guitar that introduces "In Recognition," and the thoughtful lyrics, discussing religion on 'New Religion' and 'If There's a God.'

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.

A charmingly lush and wistful affair which proves that their unexpected Ivor Novello nominations were no fluke.

Free Dimensional lives up to its name by serving up lots of sparkling pop with depth as well as heart and brains.

Here on The Still Life she has begun to solidify and challenge her undoubted songwriting ability.

Appropriately titled, the album exudes warmth but occasionally sounds so relaxed that it seems to lack inspiration--more suited for a department store soundtrack than vacation listening.

North American Poetry is at its best, however, when Wauters strips away the slight clutter and lets his most introspective thoughts, questions, and feelings flow.

This album evidences an expanded creative reach for the pair, even as it re-engages the sharp edges they displayed on earlier recordings.

Radium Death finds Whitmore at his songwriting and singing best. That said, his successful indulgence in rock & roll's various forms makes one wish he had just put the entire album on stun.

Even though Vieux Loup is markedly different from its predecessors in the Acorn's catalog, it feels like a natural, graceful evolution, and is an elegantly understated, resonant listening experience.

She's always been a sweet, pleasant crooner and Male plays to those very strengths.

If anything, the defining factor on The Temple of I & I is that it's their most formless record to date.

Sounding revitalized, projecting a mix of gratitude and disgust, Wale breathes new life into an old breakbeat (and a sample from Marvin Gaye's version of "I Wanna Be Where You Are") for a defiantly proud pro-black finale. It should be enough to retain the listeners who strongly prefer the more lyrical, less hedonistic aspects of the Wale discography.