For all its faraway humming and quietly steady pace, Windsor for the Derby has still made a "band" album.

Rocks harder than any Crowell record in the past.

Reliable late-night jams that will appeal to the choir, but not the whole church.

There are no missteps on the album, and the group's faithful will have plenty to rock with. But Don't Tread on Me still feels like one to grow on instead of one to remember.

China is terrifically rewarding.

Both intimate and powerful, Quit +/or Fight is a striking achievement.

Less Than Human might not be what a lot of people expected, but it fits its format as well as any hard-hitting two-track single, and it's a lot more functional than most other albums made by dance artists.

Maritime might be a light, almost frothy album, but that's exactly where its power lies.

The mostly mid-tempo songs plod along, usually turning to a screeching lead guitar over chunky chording to differentiate the choruses.

Musically, Houses and Homes is mostly stellar.

Front Parlor Ballads is built from modest stuff, but the finished product is as strong as anything Thompson has recorded in the past ten years.

Why Should the Fire Die? is a brave album that warrants more than a passing glance from country and bluegrass purists, and the full support of the indie rock/folk/pop community.

Perfectly likable and pleasant.

When it works, like on the rousing, sentimental opener "Walter Reed," "On Automatic" and "Mary Lynn," Penn knocks the ball into the bleachers, but there's an over-flow of mid-tempo pieces about halfway through that bring the record to a standstill.

It may be a remarkably summery album, but it has enough charm and depth for year-round listening.

It's a pleasant enough listen, but it's hard to see the point of the album.

Body of Song ultimately feels more like an attempt by Mould to please both his audience and himself than a coherent and confident effort.

For those who enjoyed the wise-ass undercurrent of his debut, this will be a delight. For those who enjoyed "The Remedy (I Won't Worry)," there will be too much narcissistic tomfoolery here to make this enjoyable. For those who never understood the appeal of Jason Mraz in the first place, Mr. A-Z will make them realize that they've really been taking John Mayer for granted.

Those who were left disappointed by ['Face2Face'] will probably be happy to have the Face of old back with Grown & Sexy, a back-to-basics album that sounds a lot more natural in comparison.

It's a collection of simple but warped electronic pop music, where Kid606 spins a tight hook into five or six minutes of chugging or swinging bliss. No more, no less.

Honeycomb is steeped in tradition, yet manages to buck it at the same time; while not all Pixies and Frank Black fans will appreciate its mellow maturity, it's an intimate treat for those who follow its lead.

So Marjorie Fair's debut isn't an immediate five-star classic. But its backgrounds are incredibly well-crafted... and the songs' blend evening-sun comfort with a quiet forlornness that's somehow welcoming.

There's no question of Sonic Youth's continued influence on Kinski. But Alpine Static is a progression within the context of the band's own discography, and that's important.

It's every bit as focused and accomplished as anything in Lanois' catalog, and die-hard fans will be wanting more long after the disc winds down.

Röyksopp have little left to say aside from what others have said more clearly in the past.

It's a bracing and welcome return to form for an important artist.

If the tech-savvy "By(e) Now" feels like a leftover from the more experimental debut, Statistics sophomore full-length has enough real songs to qualify it as an anomaly.

Even more than some of the group's other albums, La Foret seems guided by dream logic, flowing and crashing unexpectedly.

Underwater Cinematographer isn't your quintessential debut album. It's too complex, too inquisitive, and too ambitious.

What's different here is how relaxed Elliott is, how willing she seems to simply go with what comes naturally and sounds best.

With one or two exceptions, all of these songs are second and third rate by his standard.

There's a distinct community theater vibe to the whole affair... but the majority of Illinois is alarmingly earnest.

A complex yet intriguing soundscape.

Free the Bees is all worth hearing, a lot more than once, and it could be the Album of the Year -- the only question is if that year is 2004 or 1968.

He really is pouring everything he has into the whole thing, but there's so much overly earnest, reverential, "let's get back to making real music" energy floating around that you can sense it nibbling away at the desire to make something that sounds like today.

Hannicap Circus is solid, filthy, fun, and everything else that you'd want from a less nimble Kool Keith.

Poppy, '80s-tinged, and hooky as hell, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's debut certainly makes for pleasant listening.

If it were condensed down to one disc, it would appeal to more than the most devout.

Out-of-State Plates is a ragged collection of hits and misses that will satisfy FOW completists, while being of intermittent interest to recent converts or general power pop fans.

The gravity and changing tides of this engaging self-titled effort help David Pajo warm up, if not transcend the post-rock tag.

At 77 minutes and 23 tracks, the sprawling album is weighed down by some filler and redundant numbers, but as a step forward for a party band riding on whatever the Dirty South sound of the moment is, it's surprisingly bold and accomplished.

Wikked Lil' Grrrls occasionally gets lost between songwriting, thematics, and stylistic flow.

We Are Little Barrie is a stunning debut for sure, and the kind of record both old-school classic rock dads and groove-loving young kids should be clambering over each other to buy.

It's nice to have the Posies back in the studio again, but Every Kind of Light isn't the triumphant return fans might have hoped for.

There's nothing new or surprising here, but it's a completely satisfying listen thanks to the strong material, sustained mood, and Strait's unhurried, confident performance.

Humming by the Flowered Vine is an album that's a joy to listen to without sounding simple or hollow, and resonates with an evocative beauty comprised of both compassion and intellect.

Musically, it's closest to Adore, yet it's a distant cousin: if that album hinted at '80s synth rock and goth, this re-creates the spirit and sound of 1986, right down to the robotic pulse of the rhythms, the cold, slick surface of the production, and the brooding, self-absorbed atmosphere.

Derivative as it may be, it's done so well that it's awfully hard to bash.

All in all it's as essential a piece of O'Connor's history as anything in her catalog.

Cole's voice is sweet and ringing, like a wiser version of Lil' Mo who has had to weather a tremendous amount of drama.

The whole package ends up having this strangely alluring glimmer. It's like discovering California Babylon after being lost in suburbia.

While Hiatt sounds soulful as all get out (as per usual) on this set, the lingering mood is often downbeat and introspective.

Chavez Ravine is easily the most ambitious thing in Cooder's catalog, and it just may be the grand opus of his career.

The overall tone of the album, and the fact that they have made two records in a row like it, might be enough to chase away many of the band's original fans for good, but those who stick around will be treated to an album of fine, fizzy adult punk-pop with a mean streak and a broken heart.

If lightweight, it is often pleasant and amusing, if not utterly engaging.

By stretching out, the Foo Fighters not only have expanded their sound, but they've found the core of why their music works, so they now have better songs and deliver them more effectively.

Between the perfect production and the genius batch of songs, [it] makes a case for the Pernice Brothers as the best pop band on the planet.

This is inspired stuff from a rebel who still has plenty to offer.

Never Gone [is] a solid adult contemporary album, which will please both BSB diehards and the dwindling ranks who wish that the glory days of Jon Secada never ended, but its relative strength does highlight one problem with the album: this kind of music doesn't sound quite as convincing when delivered by a group of guys as it does by one singer.

The Oranges Band doesn't rewrite the indie rock handbook; more like they follow it in note-perfect style and form and in such a familiar way (Spoon, New Pornographers, Guided by Voices, Yo La Tengo, new wave influence, etc.) that your initial inclination might be to dismiss them as generic wannabes. Stick around though and you just might be won over.

As cunning as it is, Anniemal is also deeply affecting.

But for as impeccable as X&Y is -- and, make no mistake, it's a good record, crisp, professional, and assured, a sonically satisfying sequel to A Rush of Blood to the Head -- it does reveal that Martin's solipsism is a dead-end, diminishing the stature of the band.

What the group made sound effortless in the past sounds strained and canned here.

While nobody could accuse Teenage Fanclub of taking huge creative risks, more often than not the tracks on Man-Made do resemble something along the lines of '70s soft rock group America backed by Stereolab -- which is a very cool thing.

Get Behind Me Satan may confuse and even push away some White Stripes fans, but the more the band pushes itself, the better.

Visuals are such a crucial aspect of their performances that the set will naturally fall short of making you feel as if you are there.

Given the strength of this album, it's hard to wait for the second part to arrive.

The arrangements are much tighter than ever and cover up whatever lyrical deficiencies the charismatic, freewheeling attitude of the band doesn't.

There may be a fan favorite or two missing from the set list, but the selections are excellent overall, and it's nice to have a sample of what they sound like live, whether you've missed them to this point or just want a great-sounding souvenir.

Here Come the Tears is what Coming Up would have been if Butler had stuck around: it's cinematic and bright, lush and passionate, halfway between the incessantly catchy pop that wound up on Coming Up and the sighing romanticism and larger-than-life sweep of Dog Man Star.

A River Ain't Too Much to Love is a subdued, plaintive collection of songs that accompany silence; they encourage reflection without guile and unveil themselves without a hint of studied artifice.

It's confident, muscular, uncluttered, tight, and tuneful in a way Oasis haven't been since Morning Glory.

The left turn Hebden has taken into jumpy Krautrock with 2005's Everything Ecstatic will make listeners yearn for the clever, nuanced productions he turned in on Pause and Rounds.

Most of A Certain Trigger's album tracks sound like singles waiting to be discovered.

This slick homage to electronic hippie music sounds like two smart guys having genuine fun playing something they love.

It not only eclipses the first Gorillaz album, which in itself was a terrific record, but stands alongside the best Blur albums, providing a tonal touchstone for this decade the way Parklife did for the '90s.

This may be the band's most self-assured sounding work yet -- their music has never lacked confidence and daring, but now they sound downright swaggering.

Lean, hard, strong, and memorable, a record that finds Audioslave coming into its own as a real rock band.

This is her finest moment yet.

A vibrant return to form... thrilling and rewarding.

As great as Alkaline Trio are at relating their booze and blood-spattered lives to listeners, it does get a little tedious. But Skiba and Andriano's interlocking harmonies never flag, and the band's rhythms are just too catchy throughout.

Be isn't likely to be referred to by anyone as groundbreaking, but it's one of Common's best, and it's also one of the most tightly constructed albums of any form within recent memory.

It's the kind of splashy, impassioned, infectious record that could make Nikka Costa a star -- maybe not on the level of Prince or Madonna, maybe more like Lenny Kravitz, but a star nonetheless.

Not that Rebel, Sweetheart offers anything all that different from previous Wallflowers albums -- they just do what they do better than they have before.

Even if you already have all the EPs, you'll want to get this disc. It is reasonable priced, housed in the usual attractive package, and hearing all the songs back to back reinforces what an amazing group Belle & Sebastian were and are.

No Business is one of the least surprising albums Negativland has yet done, but one entity's repetition is another's source of continuing inspiration, and the end results are familiarly entertaining.

The Secret Migration is oddly too conventional and too quirky; it's another paradox that this album, which in its own way is Mercury Rev's happiest album, is also, sadly, the weakest of their career.

Mezmerize doesn't fail to be unique.

One of his very best records.

Magic Time is one of those rare, intermittent Van Morrison records that consciously offers a bird's eye view of everywhere he's been musically and weaves it all together into a heady brew.

The attention to detail Nobody uses throughout is staggering.

Unfortunately, too much of Tourist seems like an amalgam of other things, whether it's the Coldplay-ness of their ballads or the distinct Super Furry Animals influence that's been with Athlete all along.

Too many of the cuts appear pieced together in the studio, never once capturing the energy of a band playing live.

There are too many stumbles and missed opportunities to consider the album anything but disappointing.

Mighty Rearranger is a literate, ambitious, and sublimely vulgar exercise in how to make a mature yet utterly unfettered rock & roll album that takes chances, not prisoners, and apologizes for nothing.

Spoon continues to build one of the most consistent, and distinctive, bodies of work in indie rock -- the band makes changes and takes chances from album to album, but ends up sounding exactly how Spoon should sound each time.

It may be a spiritual cousin to Pinkerton, yet it's far removed from the raw, nervy immediacy of that album.... This has a lighter, brighter feel than any of its predecessors, not just in the music but in its outlook.

While perhaps not on par with De La Soul falling from 3 Feet High and Rising to De La Soul Is Dead, this is almost as disappointing a plummet from Day-Glo genius to drab everyday product.