He's successful even when he is indulging in a little silliness.

At times, Blueberry Boat sounds like it was made entirely out of the noodly bits that most other bands would junk for being too weird and difficult, but the Fiery Furnaces forge them into an album that's both more pop and more radical than Gallowsbird's Bark.

As distinctive as the band's sound is, it's not particularly varied, and two-thirds of the way through the album things may start to drag a little for those who aren't deeply indoctrinated in the ways of the Polyphonic Spree.

Bicycles & Tricycles is a bit of a letdown, especially after a three-year absence.

You can fault the album for feeling much like a scatter-shot collection rather than a planned full-length, but forgiving the lack of structure of dancehall albums yields spontaneous rewards when you're dealing with a talent like Beenie.

Stringfellow has concocted a frustratingly obtuse record that's as beautiful and bold as it is shapeless and erratic.

Even if The Spine is decidedly uneven, it still has enough good songs to please diehard fans and keep them around for the next album.

"Out of the Shadows" is an indie dream come true. A dream like another great Elliott Smith record, or a Sebadoh record that isn't an embarrassment, or a Neutral Milk Hotel record that makes sense.

What the album lacks in ambition and social commentary it makes up for with deep soul.

There's just no getting around how much stronger Sparta are than so many of their peers.

This is her most focused and accomplished full-length to date.

The Cure have become journeymen, for better and worse, turning out well-crafted music that's easy to enjoy yet not all that compelling either.

Largely absent of originality.

If you're looking for some red-hot rockabilly, the Rev is still your man, but Revival shows off some unexpected sides of his personality, and the changeup makes for some refreshing listening.

Although some of the tracks seem like replicas of their previous album and Dykes' voice sometimes falls flat, The Cover Up makes up for that with the attitude that non-stop dance music can save the day.

He's skilled and inventive with his work as a musician, but the aches and pains of songs like "Swinging Man" and "God's Lonely People" fall short of what Malin delivered on The Fine Art of Self-Destruction.

Jumping on the Radiohead bandwagon a couple years too late, For Stars' It Falls Apart cops so much of their sound and style it is almost ridiculous.

With this diverse cast of characters, the web of collaboration and sonic diversity could spin off forever. But under Avanessian's watchful presence, the sonic palette remains in a key that will perpetually draw head-nodders in.

Uneven, especially compared to their earlier records, and less ambitious than the "bring it on" misinterpretation of the title might make you think.

A parade of digital R&B jams that skillfully navigate the divide between cutting-edge headphone productions and bumping club tracks.

A worthy and wonderfully engaging testament to Robinson's creative evolution.

Even if The Concretes is slightly disappointing in some aspects, it also has more than enough charms in its own right.

The Hunger for More is another solid release from the crew and is a couple steps down from 50 Cent's Get Rich or Die Tryin' and a step above G-Unit's Beg for Mercy.

Afrodisiac is Brandy's fourth consecutive durable showing, fluffed out with a few innocuous — if still very listenable — filler moments, but it is stocked with a number of spectacular -- and emotionally resonant -- singles that wind up making for her most accomplished set yet.

There's almost nothing in the way of guitar heroics and it's far from groundbreaking, but fans of darkly personal skewed pop should enjoy Will to Death.

A Ghost Is Born hardly sound[s] like a retread of YHF, but the languid, ghostly song structures, the periodic forays into dissonance and the pained, hesitant vocals from Jeff Tweedy that were so much a part of that album also take center stage here.

LaValle retains his heavily textural, impressionist flair, but has begun to repeat himself heavily, with none of the freshness or vigor of previous material.

Chilltown won't be thought of as a classic down the line, but it hardly weakens the MC/producer's reputation.

Ultimately Creature Comforts is another starry refraction in the cosmic music that Black Dice have claimed, one that hasn't failed yet in dazzling.

The record is rather safe, lacking an adventurousness that is only touched upon and possibly kept under wraps for the sake of not seeming like too much of a departure.

No matter the number of bright moments, you can't help but feel that Jadakiss has his best days ahead of him.

An engaging and passionate collection of songs from a man who has never failed to sing directly from his heart.

With Molé, Jourgensen has mobilized the fatalism and fury that always rumbled through industrial and thrash music, and left everything else in the staging area.

Although the musicians here understand how to convey complex emotions in a pop song, Wilson and his co-songwriters obviously don't, and it's with them that the blame for this record lies.

The best tracks on this album stand up well against the likes of the Move and the Creation, or at the very least, the Green Pajamas and the Apples in Stereo.

If there are no classics here, there's no duds, either, and given that the Beasties' pop culture aesthetic once seemed to be the territory of young men, it's rather impressive that they're maturing gracefully, turning into expert craftsmen that can deliver a satisfying listen like this.

And while the album is still more focused and a much-needed improvement over 2002's Round Room and their finest since Billy Breathes, Undermind is essentially the sound of four musicians growing tired of the limits they've imposed on one another after decades of albums and touring.

23rd Street Lullaby is a wise, grown-up record, yet it is guided by an untamed, wily heart.

Making up for some momentum lost last time out, The Real New Fall L.P. gives the faithful another reason to believe.

Even if it's not quite as strong a debut album as Pink Grease's prior work suggested it might be, This Is for Real really does have a lot of hedonistic, cleverly mindless kicks to offer.

It's hard to deny the sparkle and fade of Depeche Mode beats and the sensual allure of Duran Duran. After 25 years, those sounds still hold up; by 2004, however, it's an incredible task to pull this kind of thing off without selling yourself to the tastes of the masses.

All told, this album is probably the band's best balance of pop melodies and avant-leaning structures since Washing Machine; even if it doesn't rank among their most ambitious work, Sonic Nurse sounds like the kind of album Sonic Youth should be making at this point in their career.

Longtime fans, wondering what the Cowboy Junkies have been up to for the last three years, will probably find several songs to like on One Soul Now. Newcomers will be much happier by picking up Open.

The just fair pop tracks keep it from being classic, but this is the best the talented team has sounded on record yet.

It would have been nice to lift the haze with an uptempo track or two, but at only ten songs and 37 minutes, the album never drags. It is a rare reinvention that comes across as well as this.

It is an unabashedly lush, deeply textured pop record that makes no apologies for its radio-friendliness or its adornments.

Little Heart's Ease does deliver more of the dark but oddly jaunty songwriting that made Royal City's previous album noteworthy.

Stone, Steel & Bright Lights manages to capture Jay Farrar at his apex as a solo artist, while at the same time reminding fans of why his solo work continues to be so frustrating.

The thick veil of gloss that co-producers Joe Henry and Tucker Martine use to coat each of the 11 hypnotic tracks is entirely transparent, resulting in a glass-bottom boat ride that's both cathartic and uncomfortably voyeuristic.

The Empire Strikes First isn't a return to Bad Religion at its most vitriolic and unstoppable -- whether that could ever really happen is unclear, and probably unnecessary.

Carl Newman deserves every last bit of praise thrown his way. In a better world, he would be our Elton, our Todd, our McCartney, and Slow Wonder would be on everyone's iPod, rotating on M2 hourly, and his name would be on the lips of everyone from aged Royalty to teen-aged girls.

Perhaps the most nuanced album in PJ Harvey's body of work, Uh Huh Her balances her bold and vulnerable moments, but remains vital.

Borrowed Heaven's lyric sheet is filled with high school diary hackneyed favorites but if you like your pop - unadulterated pop - presented and played extremely well you're cheating yourself if you don't check it.

Despite the weighty subject matter and kinetic mayhem, the Danielson Famile are just an indie pop band, and listeners already familiar with Smith's distinctive shrieking and intricate arrangements will find much to love on Brother Is to Son, while the untested will either submit or run screaming to their mommies.

It does seem like a step backward for them, and it doesn't help that there aren't as many memorable songs here as there are on the debut.

With Contraband, Velvet Revolver has pulled off something tidy, fashioning music that manages both hedonism and maturity.

The tempos drag, the lyrics are nothing special, the electronics nothing much to care about. Instead of sounding like the teenage spawn of My Bloody Valentine and Mouse on Mars, now they sound like Radiohead's very earnest cousin.

Louden Up Now is easily the best record to come out of the [new wave dance punk revival] movement; its ten tracks are filled with fervor, hooks, passion and power.

Even if the sound they pursue here is just a detour, its seamless and creative fusion of rock and electronic idioms deserves respect.

His aggressive but nimble flow is all over each of these songs.

An album that has all of the elements necessary to be a pop classic.

She has winnowed her dueling personas -- brilliant techno-inflected DJ and haughtily self-aware vocalist -- into a fantastically complete, wildly inventive package that offers the lunatic best of both badass sides.

Ultimately, it's hard to avoid that Auf Der Maur is living in the past, re-creating 1996 and acting like she's still 24.

Although the duo didn't record nearly enough material to justify checking out quite so soon, Sung Tongs is a striking record, a breath of fresh air within experimentalist indie rock.

If label executives of 1982 were brought to the present day, they'd hear at least six singles here.

Compiling the best tracks from each of their previous releases to make one solid EP would've been a better introduction to the band than The Printz is.

A hallmark for the band, a culmination of their previous work, and -- upon its release -- their best album to date.

Under My Skin is a bit awkward, sometimes sounding tentative and unsure, sometimes clicking and surging on Avril's attitude and ambition.

Get ready for the hardcore fan backlash but Greater Wrong Of The Right at least makes up for The Process and with stunning structure from Key it beats most of the current industrial music competition.

It's a satisfying, carefully crafted representation of their career to date.

Confidence bursts throughout, and for a band that has been around seven years and has never released a studio full-length album until now, achieving nearly epic-like status is quite impressive.

[It is] over-produced to within an inch of its artistic life, and lacks the quality songs and exquisite productions that the group had made a hallmark.

It's a shame and embarrassment, and hopefully it will be a temporary slump like Circus.

This record isn't about progressing or regressing, and one hesitates to refer to such a strong, enjoyable listen as a holding pattern.

Perfectly, almost aggressively pleasant.

The intensity and energy get a little too repetitive toward the end of the album, but the returns aren't as diminishing as they have been on the Catheters' previous work.

Listeners who came of age during the alt-rock revolution and were disappointed, even outraged, at Liz Phair's Matrix makeover in 2003 should find In Exile Deo is exactly what they were looking for.

It's brighter, denser, catchier than either of its immediate predecessors, and boasts her most assured singing yet.

An invigorating and glorious mess of undistilled Rock fury.

The band's organ and raspy vocals give Red Bedroom a jolt of early punk, which, combined with an adept sense of rock ‘n' roll, has signs that the Fever has been spending equal time listening to proto-punk and garage rock bands of the ‘60s.

Faded Seaside Glamour trades in the band's dreary English roots for radiating waves and rays of '60s California pop. It's a slick transition, an honest presentation soaked in Delays' crisp musicianship and the foursome's lush harmonies.

With only a few exceptions though, Since We Last Spoke makes the moody Dead Ringer sound like a piece of flag-waving exuberance; instead of the occasional uptempo track, it's brooding and mellow throughout the record -- very nearly a rap singer/songwriter record.

The music is livelier and almost exuberant at times, and certainly more varied that on the last album.

Built on acoustic guitars with little splashes of color like handclaps, tooting horn sections, and subtle strings, the record sounds remarkably large in its smallness.

Give or take a couple hot tracks, this release is not likely to play a significant role in his legacy.

There's an excessive attention to detail to each song, and that tunnel vision means each song runs about a minute or two longer than it should.... That's unfortunate because the core of the album is quite good.

What makes the record good is the level of dedication the bandmembers throw into their work, the lovely walls of sound they build on each track, and most of all the sense of untrammeled joy they infuse their music with.

For those who have been waiting for Gomez to come up with something that truly rivals their amazing debut Bring It On, wait no longer. This one is great.

Owing to its themes, Fuckin A is a shade or two less exuberant than More Parts Per Million, but it's no less passionate or energetic.

Everything here is in its right place, making Kesto (234.48:4) perhaps the only Pan Sonic album you'd ever need to own, for every style of music the group has ever recorded is presented at length and it's all produced as masterfully as ever.

Confronting doubts about his seriousness and squashing whispers about his talent, Skinner has made a sophomore record that expands on what distinguishes the Streets from any other act in music.

It's not so much a return to form as it is a simple return, Morrissey picking up where he left off with Maladjusted, improving on that likeable album with a stronger set of songs and more muscular music.

What it lacks in discernible hooks, Das Not Compute accounts for with tautness and subcutaneous bad attitude.

Merritt's kitchen produces pop confections that can rot teeth, but the bitter aftertaste owes more to Randy Newman than it does Belle & Sebastian.

Compared to Chris Martin's solo work as Ampbuzz, Herzog's efforts can certainly be more forceful and less meditative, though often only by a matter of degrees.

Walks the narrow path between playful adventurousness and tuneful accessibility with ragged elegance and swaggering confidence.

Like a less electronic version of the Postal Service, on The Trial of the Century the band invokes nostalgia for that decade but puts it in a different context.

The tracks with singing find Broken Spindles moving in one direction, and the purely instrumental pieces find them moving in another, and sometimes the contrast between the two styles just ends up as a clash of sounds.