There's an unquestionably seductive flow about Young the Giant's debut that's sure to lure in many wandering postmodern rock children, looking for alternatives beyond the same old blockbuster bands name-checked above.

Hope St. certainly won't be the most fashionable or credible album of 2011, but it's a consistently strong collection of old-school tunes which will provide the ideal soundtrack for any road trip, whether it's to California or to Cowdenbeath.

The key feeling could be summed up in the album title, in a way -- it's not necessarily that the album is all about love, but it's definitely about warmth and happy energy with a definite male slant, a blissed feeling over the heavy crunch and impact of the music.

Panic of Girls rushes forth on a sleek new wave disco pulse that's entirely unconcerned about whether '80s retro is in style this season or not. This is fashionable music existing outside the realm of fashion.

For better or worse, this album is polished and mature -- words that never would have described Cold War Kids' music before.

It hardly feels coincidental that My Main Shitstain was released on a label called Big Dada, because that's almost exactly what it is: a statement that borders on nonsensical; cynically upbeat garage punk that's equal parts entertainment and introspection. No matter how it's described, however, it's definitely something you won't forget.

Described as a rallying call to guitar bands by Bowman, Up, Guards and at 'Em isn't distinctive or original enough to inspire anyone to swap their synths for a six-string, and instead, sounds more like a final nail in the British indie coffin than the shot in the arm it needed.

They execute it all with a fullness of sound and compelling melodic content that pulls the listener in, almost as surely as any first-rate opera.

If Famous Monsters was a step back for the Misfits legacy, this is a bigger step in the wrong direction.

The end result is an album on a shaded, comfortable grayscale, music that's suitably mature yet sidesteps stultifying notions of middlebrow class.

After 15 years, Boris are doing exactly what they should with fascinating if uneven results: testing their limits as a band and expanding their sonic horizons.

Despite all the electronics, there's no mistaking The Path of Totality as a Korn album...and one of their better ones to boot.

If the songwriting isn't strong enough to make listeners confuse this with a Back to Black follow-up, the productions and performances are up to her high caliber.

The man's overuse of Auto-Tune is now a given, and here it coats all of his heartfelt moments with robotic perfection, but it is surprising how T-Pain's gigantic producer hat remains off save a handful of cuts.

Turner walks a fine line of providing hushed mood music for a film, and delving into someplace deeper; his tunes aren't mere background music, yet there's a casualness to his Submarine songs that keeps them from truly resonating.

Condon spends much of Rip Tide writing in first person, and it lends an air of much needed intimacy to the always gorgeous, yet historically elusive Beirut sound.

The essence of the music might be simple but the band squeezes remarkable emotions from it. The new world order of psychedelia is here.

While it doesn't break any new ground and remains firmly entrenched in contemporary country's geography, it evokes the riled-up, bluesy hard country rock sound of Hank Jr. enough that it separates Church from the genre's other practitioners who are attempting the same thing.

Ultimately, The Cosmic Birth ... is a further step in Akron/Family's already expansive musical journey; one that will no doubt delight fans and should turn on novices in droves.

[Thurston Moore's and Beck's] collaboration lives up to its promise, delivering an album of psychedelic chamber folk that is the perfect meeting of both artists' mellow sides.

Peanut Butter ... might be just a little too left-field to capture the zeitgeist in the same way that Skinner did a decade previously, but it's a hypnotic and ultimately rewarding debut which, along with recent efforts from James Blake and Jamie Woon, proves that the words chill-out and challenging don't have to be mutually exclusive.

It's an excellent introduction to the modern Western Saharan sound, and also a fine addition for existing fans of the group.

Losing Sleep is a heartwarming tribute to Collins and a statement that, although he's still on the mend, he's still got a lot more to give.

Jarosz's talent is wondrous and in no way normal, and her developing musical maturity continues to be a wonder to watch.

Several cuts are instrumental workouts, unpredictable and flagrantly noodle-y. Others venture into tranquil folk-soul and soft jazz-pop; for all the animated instrumental flexing on display, it's those atmospheric and simpler songs that move the most.

There aren't quite as many standout tracks this time around, but there are no real low points to speak of, and there's plenty to enjoy, especially from a beat programming standpoint -- or, even more especially, from the center of a crowded, sweat-soaked dancefloor.

On the surface of things, this is a bit of an odd task, taking left-behind lyrics from one of the great songwriters and breathing life into them. But nobody here seems intimidated; they seem honored -- and there are some pretty good songs that come out of the project.

The experience of The Director's Cut, encountering all this familiar material in its new dressing, is more than occasionally unsettling, but simultaneously, it is deeply engaging and satisfying.