Those who blew their minds and/or speakers pumping the project's 2009 debut will find it familiar ground, but how Free the Universe arguably tops Guns Don't Kill People... Lazers Do is with the meatier, more subdued cuts.

Ultimately, Strange Land is a bold and successful leap into new and previously unexplored territory for Yellow Ostrich.

The sheer density of the tunes becomes an issue right away.

At times, Conduit feels like a step backward for Funeral for a Friend, but that's because, well, it is. Fortunately, the album is solid enough to prove that every so often a little de-evolution is just what a band needs, and that it's entirely possible to head into the future while looking toward the past.

Throughout, Thug injects his distinctive presence when necessary, pulling the best out of the YSL crew and serving as a tasty sampler of their individual talents.

Supervision is some of Jackson's most consistent work, and hearing her have this much fun growing into her music -- and herself -- is infectious.

Context and a bold lack of featured artists lend a sense of solitary unease that differentiates these exploits from those recounted in his earlier output.

Ultimately, Biffy Clyro's gift as a band is to craft songs that balance immediately catchy hooks with complex arrangements that only help to reinforce the drama of the pop moment. Thankfully, there are plenty of these dichotomous yet rapturous moments on Opposites.

Lou Barlow is still the poet laureate of hiss and heartbreak, and although the hiss is missing on Goodnight Unknown, that's the only defining quality he's lost with the passage of time.

Taken together, The Alien Coast isn't as fun or as moving as the Broken Bones' earliest releases, but their commitment to experimentation and growth is as impressive as their collective technical skill, and in this case, the act of discovery provides its own fascination.

There's a laid-back, late-night vibe maintained throughout Obadiah, as Ford unleashes her moody croon over slow to midtempo tunes colored by piano, organ, and Tanyas member Trish Klein's guitar work and powered by mellow but funky, slow-rolling grooves.

As always, it's a treat to enter Herren's soundworld, but he could've made much more of an impact with the tools on display.

Para Mi renders some of the best elements of his songwriting into more accessible forms. Removing the layers of fuzz leaves Cuco's multi-colored songwriting in clear view, revealing an artist still finding his way. This can make for moments of awkwardness, but it also brings his endearing vulnerabilities to the forefront.

It's hard to find fault with the album's intricate arrangements and top notch production, but the songs, which rarely change key, begin to congeal into one big independent film trailer montage as the record progresses.

Even if Lenses' individual tracks remain as foggy as dry ice on the dancefloor, as a whole the album brings Soft Metals' music into focus, revealing them as a tighter, more versatile group in the process.

There are moments during MAYA when it seems like M.I.A.'s next move might involve walking into a laundromat, filling the dryers with bricks and silverware, pulling the fire alarm, blaring a drop-forge beat from a tinny boombox, and recording the result.

A beyond stellar debut in both quality and originality.

Fleming may have lost some of the outsider charm that bubbled through the first Diane Coffee record by going big, but he went big in such a sure-handed and spectacular way, it's hard to complain too much. In fact, an album this crazy and good deserves nothing but praise and adulation.

The album sometimes amazingly sounds as if the Zombies had reunited in 1980 for an album produced by the Buggles' Trevor Horn, resulting in a joyful, 50-minute orgasm of chamber pop jubilation.

With a playing time of over an hour, and a reflective, more often than not formless complexion, even acknowledging its subtle whimsy and California roots, Eucalyptus goes by like a long drive through the plains, rewarding the patient and attentive.

The Desaturating Seven is unlikely to attract new fans. Typically eccentric, it's an interesting exercise, although nonessential outside the sphere of Primus/Claypool devotees.

McCombs and crew have painted a portrait of endless highways, ghost towns, and sunburnt moments of ecstatic possibility.

The songs that pull in the attention are the lumbering riff-rockers, the ones that open the album and set a muscular, nostalgic tone that, if you're of a certain disposition, is pretty hard to resist.

The soulfulness and melancholy of these songs make them special among Tellier's body of work, giving more depth to Confection than might be expected.

The lo-fi production often makes Baenziger's laments hard to decipher, but her delicate voice drips with a heartache and loneliness that makes the tunes hard to resist.

This is bold pop-rap at an "Arena" level, and while partying like a rock star means cohesiveness takes a hit, Strange Clouds is still thrilling and persuasive.

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

The result is an interesting, unexpected piece of work, devoid of a militantly commercial single like Empire's self-titled track, and lacking the shaggy Madchester vibes that Christopher Karloff brought to 2004's Kasabian.