Somewhat unexpectedly, Hidden World makes an argument for Fucked Up as part of the thriving Canadian post-rock scene, which the band has previously willfully ignored.

It's certainly pleasant either as nostalgia or as high-end lifestyle music.

200 Years is as subtle as they come and makes for excellent background music, especially if you're feeling fragile.

The Dangerous Summer may not be original, but it is available.

Some Kind of Hate is an album that is definitely a treat for old fans who will easily assure anyone who was worried about the new direction the band was going in that the old Aiden is still alive and kicking.

The second half is dominated by ballads made for seduction (with more than a little preening). They don't offer much in the way of development from Thicke's recent past but they should get the job done.

Oh, Fortune is still an indie folk album at heart, with Mangan's acoustic guitar and baritone voice giving every song its most basic foundation, but it's also the most ornate thing he's ever done.

Last Day of Summer is surely weirder than their actual album material, but it's compelling to watch a band rooted in garage rock go so far out of its comfort zone, try some uncharted styles (jazz, prog, tropicalia, and psych-folk), and still come up with some winners.

Ultimately, while Frampton is never allowed to settle into one aesthetic sound on Red--moving from electronic pop to dance-rock to folk-pop--her honey-sweet voice and emotionally compelling delivery are enough to carry you along for the ride.

Colon certainly sounds more comfortable here than he did on his first two albums.

Utilizing his filmic experience, their debut full-length album, Save Your Season, is a lushly cinematic affair drenched in reverb-laden psychedelics, shimmering shoegazing hooks, and floaty ethereal synths, but it's Hollie's detached yet fragile vocals that set this apart from his usual instrumental chillout fare... a valiant and occasionally compelling first effort.

A cohesive but slightly repetitive affair, Ecstatics International occasionally matches the euphoria of its obvious influences, but it's perhaps a little too aimless to propel Swimming into the big league.

This combination of a tight, talented band and a tortured frontman doesn't necessarily make Falling in Reverse a revelatory band, but is does make The Drug in Me Is You a very solid album that will give fans of Radke's a chance to get reacquainted with the notorious post-hardcore bad boy.

This straight-faced, more serious version of the band still knows how to crank out some solid songs, but it would seem that, in maturing, Four Year Strong have lost their way.

More to the point, it sounds like a souvenir CD you might pick up at the gift shop of a historic battlefield site.

She manages to sing through her torment on Voyageur, in hope that the journey is ultimately redemptive.

Stade 2 has its moments, but its overall lack of invention suggests that Mr. Oizo is perhaps now channeling his creative streak elsewhere.

Baby feels more like a leftover relic from the '90s than the game-changer the genre needs.

Gibson's reedy voice lacks power, especially when she forces the Ella Fitzgerald affectations, but when she dials back the theatrics and exposes the talented singer/songwriter within, as she does on the sweet and soulful "Milk-Heavy, Pollen-Eyed," the results are downright magical.

It's a debut with potential, especially if Howler find their own identity as completely as they borrowed others'.

For the most part, A Flash Flood of Colour revels in a unique, organized chaos, and while it's a demanding and often exhausting listen, it's a call to arms which the flagging U.K. guitar band scene could do with more of.

MU.ZZ.LE sounds like outtakes from the last LP--that is, short underwater dub/downtempo emotronica cast-offs--except it is darker.

The pleasant sheen of these song shines just enough to distract us from how deceptively scattered an affair the album truly is.

While The Hangman Tree's left-field approach won't be for everyone, it's hard not to admire its ambition and refreshing sunny disposition.

As a vocalist, this may not be his natural forte, but he takes great care with the songs, and that palpable love is enough to make Kisses on the Bottom worth a spin or two.

Even though the album has a transitional feeling, Foxy Shazam still manage to make their sonic renovation a fun ride, and The Church of Rock and Roll is an entertaining stop on the musical journey.

While this mixed bag of sounds ensures Wonderland is a far more intriguing affair than most superstar DJ's crossover efforts, it also means Aoki may struggle to reel in the same mainstream audience that its guest list suggests he desires.

The band's free-form style of playing is every bit as anti-musical and explosive as '70s no wave, making for a savage listen.

More cinematic, melodic, and mellow than their usual experimental indie pop output.

These tougher remnants of the rootsy, down-home Up on the Ridge are enough to turn Home into a record that resonates longer and louder than Feel That Fire even when it shares much of the same radio-ready DNA.

The album as a whole abounds with effective, intriguing atmospherics. It's just that, for all its potential, Fin is merely fine.

Even when Wire focuses on their not-so-classic material, they sound great in a live environment.

O'Brien helps them articulate their ideas, giving them definition and muscle, attributes that are appealing when the songs lack distinct hooks.

It was brave of Memoryhouse to drastically change their approach on their first full-length, but while The Slideshow Effect has plenty of appealing moments, they don't add up to a satisfying album.

Those who shudder at the thought of a Dawson's Creek soundtrack should steer well clear, but loved-up fans of good old-fashioned singer/songwriter pop will find plenty to enjoy here.

Beaus$Eros is fringe listening.

Voice of Ages is a good Chieftains recording; its solid performances easily outweigh its duds, but it feels like something less than a 50th anniversary celebration.

It would still make for a fine, welcome, warming (and occasionally, slightly, chilling) soundtrack to never-ending nights, or any other eternity you might have handy.

The album tries too hard to make its points, generally misplacing Walker's organic, rootsy appeal and obvious talents in the process.

The Megaphonic Thrift largely avoid falling into the same self-indulgence trap that blights many all-star side projects, but they aren't quite engaging enough to suggest the hobby should become full-time.

Bones is undeniably still a solid follow-up that should consolidate their second-tier status, but they'll have to change the record next time around if they want to move into U.K.'s alt-metal big league.

If the songs don't quite deliver upon their promise, at least Crook's production and Meat Loaf's performance keep things interesting.

A Brief Crack of Light shows signs that Therapy? are capable of restoring their former glories, but its overall uncompromising attitude suggests they'll continue to remain a cult moshpit-inducing force for now.

Much of what remains is pleasant and executed with finesse, yet not as memorable as the majority of The 18th Day or Shine.

Brutal, unrestrained, and unapologetically ferocious, Utilitarian proves Napalm Death certainly aren't going to mellow with age, and fans of their merciless sound wouldn't want them any other way.

Wrecking Ball feels cumbersome and top heavy, Springsteen sacrificing impassioned rage in favor of explaining his intentions too clearly.

Overproduction and a general (and oddly generic) sense of overarching silliness keeps the 15-track set from achieving the lovely balance of dirty wit and sincere heartache that made albums like Wayward Bus and Charm of the Highway Strip so immediate and life affirming.

WZRD, the album, is sort of emo, sort of dream pop, and surely an indulgent effort that surprises with its chemistry and willingness to follow the music.

Sugar does little to contradict the argument that the Sunshine Factory are nothing more than a My Bloody Valentine tribute act, but it's an act they undeniably do very well.

While Kiwanuka is extremely talented, his songwriting needs work; some tunes are weighed down by clunky melodic or clumsy lyric turns.

Even if there's nothing inherently new about the band's take on rock, and at times they seem too comfortable coasting on trends from the mid-2000s, Delta Spirit manage to convey a likeable sound that is strong and intimate at the same time.

Happy to You is an album that aims for commercial appeal, so there is a noticeable push and pull between prescribed pop and the eclectic electro that the team is known for, but the songs that land in the dead center have a nice even balance.

The Static Jacks retain much of the energy of punk, and a bit of the attitude, but their sound has a more polished pop tone to it.

Not only are the songs so perfectly patched that it's hard to tell they were ever fractured, but in the age of Pro-Tools editing, they seem like relatively standard pop songs.

While it's true this album often feels like the listener is being asked to endure a personal confession without redemption as a reward that is also part of its hopefully deliberate, perverse charm.

Written while Jason Pierce was on tour performing Ladies and Gentlemen...We Are Floating in Space in its entirety, Spiritualized's seventh full-length echoes not only that album, but Songs in A & E and Amazing Grace.

Even in their best moments, every move feels overly calculated and wraps up so nicely that even what are intended as unpredictable turns are pretty predictable.

There are some missteps and some rookie mistakes here, but ultimately, the collaged beats and convergences of found sounds stumble onto brilliance more often than they fall to the wayside.

Noctourniquet highlights the more intellectual, esoteric sound the band has championed over the years, but even though the album soars creatively, it feels emotionally restrained.

It's not as glossy as the '80s, there are fewer keyboards and more guitars-the sensibility remains the same, so Tuskegee generates a bit of déjà vu: the surroundings are new, yet everything feels familiar.

Their breed of futuristic pop is more polished than ever, and loses some of its edge with that increased emulsion.

Cut the iffy pop off these 19 tracks and you're left with Roman's true four-star empire, but as it is, Roman Reloaded is a frustrating mix of significant and skippable.

New Wild Everywhere may not bring anything new to the table, but what It does bring, as is the case with the best comfort food, has been honed to perfection.

Changed marches to a deliberate beat, the tempos shifting only slightly when things get either insistent or gentle, the group layering its harmonies heavily on both the soft and loud numbers, giving every cut a candied gloss.

There's a roving chaos to the disc, not completely divorced from the springy shifts of his other band, but definitely a different animal.

Royal Baths' singing and playing have grown significantly since their debut.

"Boat Trip" is the album's strongest moment, a gently treading meeting of spacy Fleet Foxes-style harmonies and buried aquatic melodies cribbed from post-SMiLE-era Brian Wilson mania.

Older Than My Old Man Now contains some excellent work when Wainwright's not putting on false bravado or bullshitting, but ultimately, this is for his hardcore fans rather than casual ones.

Songs are built with obvious hooks and structure, and are lyrically intimate, keeping them in line with the slick electro flavor and emo sentiments of Miike Snow and VHS or Beta.

For all its heart, though, Underwater Sunshine still lacks the unborrowed inspiration necessary to come out of the gates as a stand-alone record.

When compared to the Revenue Retrievin' onslaught, which was sorted into thematic sets (Day, Night, etc.), these unwieldy Block Brochures come off as a hyphy data dump, leaving all executive production up to the listener.

Though there's no arguing the strength of her vocals on Long Distance, comparing these takes with the originals casts greater light on what she's lost rather than what she's gained in her stylistic transition.

While it may lack the dark, muscular, apocalyptic machismo that permeates the majority of metal's subgenres, it's more often than not a hell of a lot of fun.

Perhaps it is a bit stuffy and hidebound for art rock, but taken as a theatrical production, it's adventurously cerebral, an album to ponder if not quite embrace.

Here We Go Magic move between more full-on hyperactivity in that vein from songs like "Make Up Your Mind" and "I Believe in Action" to the easier-going grooves of "Alone But Moving," but too often they don't do much with that.

Its sly, delicately textured rewards are ones to appreciate and ponder, not to cherish.

An appealingly misshapen collection of classics, contemporaries, and originals.

This feels modern but in a distinctly '90s fashion: the melds and mashups of club music and psychedelia forecast a future straight out of 1996.

A Kiss Before You Go has its fingers in so many pies that it's unlikely to be appreciated entirely by many, but listened to in small portions, it's difficult not to be enamored by its inventiveness and inherent avant-garde charm.

Ya Know? is a loving and generous tribute to a beloved hero of the New York rock scene, but the results never match the energy, focus, and sheer rock & roll fun of even The Ramones' lesser efforts, and it doesn't work as well as Don't Worry About Me.

Apocalyptic Love never tries too hard, so it winds up satisfying on its own limited scale.

Though it never feels disjointed, it never feels fully realized, either. In the end, it's hard to tell exactly what the album is aiming for, but taken as another rowdy set of tunes from a living legend, Night & Day delivers from both sides of whichever dichotomy it's grappling with at any given moment.

Vol. 1's heavier layers of glimmering guitar, celestial synths, and twinkling percussion flourishes serve more to create distance between Caulfield and the listener than convey that earlier intimacy in a new way.

Its lack of more compelling compositional ideas and some of its ham-fisted production problems are balanced by the fact that Santana is not coasting on his rep any longer; he's trying, and he's playing the hell out of the guitar again.

The album comes up short in the song department and doesn't quite get by on its abundance of free-love signifiers.

The album is never less than pretty, but it's so slight and drifting that it's difficult to grasp.

At 17 tracks/diary entries, some of which feel like cast-offs from previous sessions, it feels a little bit indulgent, but maybe, considering the subject matter, that was the intention after all.

The decision to rein in the forward-thinking, more ambitious, and colorful musical and textural steps she made on her last recording makes this rather monochromatic affair feel somewhat longer than its scant 33 minutes.

It's assuredly the group's most congruent outing, and for nice background music that's not overly engaging or challenging, Diver will satisfy your needs.

While it's hard not to wish there were a surprise or two along the way, the familiar warmth certainly has its charms, too.

One Day I'm Going to Soar hardly justifies the almost-three-decade wait, but it's as marvelously idiosyncratic as any longtime fan could hope to expect.

As it stands, the album will at the very least provide a better measure of closure to Saint Vitus' turbulent but heroic career than the aforementioned, despairingly pitiful, mid-'90s demise managed to, and the group's important legacy certainly deserves that much.

Language is short on originality, but Zulu Winter's polished musicianship and warm confidence may be enough to win over listeners who enjoy the bands they reference here, and when they do succeed in shaking things up it's enough to leave listeners wanting more.

Once fans shift into the proper gear, [Go] really shows that these guys are capable of something more expansive than anything they've done before.

POP ETC's vie for commercial radio appeal ends up feeling like watching your little brother come home from his first year of college trying on an overexcited new style, complete with awkward slang and ill-fitting fashions.

Despite all the outside input, this is Diplo's show.

Wedded to this warmth is a crisp clean sheen, a sound so bright that it threatens to get goofy when Chesney and crew rock out.

With their big choruses and building grandeur, songs like "The Hunted" and "I Can't Fly" feel not only larger, but much more refined than the songs on the group's last album.