Molina has a consistent--if downcast--view of the world in his songs, and the canvas he uses to express it does so perfectly.

Riceboy Sleeps has all the majestic calm of Sigur Ros with none of the dramatic storm, all of the lull and none of the squall.

Not quite as much fun, but still fun.

The record isn't a failure by any stretch; there is enough going on to make it at least worth a listen or two if you love the sound of 1990s American indie rock as much as Wye Oak do.

Alternating between fingerpicked acoustic and electric, the remaining tracks are hardly deficient of introverted charm, but with the exception of the semi-propulsive 'Rebecca,' the pace is sluggish at best, resulting in a collection of songs best listened to in threes, or all at once with one's forehead pressed against the window waiting for the rain to pass.

The textures are right but Our Lady Peace remain deficient in hooks and melodies, something that didn't matter as much when their sound boiled with indignation instead of merely simmering, as it does here.

Nothing here is flashy, which is keeping in a long tradition of Hunter's and is yet another reason why he's often called underrated, but when he's making records as rich and resonant as Man Overboard at the age of 70, it's hard not to listen with not a small degree of wonder.

Sugar Ray can sometimes try too hard to seem younger than their years, pushing the dance beats a little bit too hard, and Mark McGrath relies on some unseemly Auto-Tune, but even with this too-evident aural botox, the group remains a guilty pleasure that's a bit hard to resist.

Megafaun are just as taken by quietly tortured dark-night-of-the-soul whisperings, lo-fi oddities, and shards of feedback shade as they are of banjos and summertime evenings, giving Gather, Form and Fly a bit of an unsettled edge at various points.

It flows. Because it's not as insanely cut as your typical IDM, it works as subtle, non-distracting background music, but it's still detailed enough to make for some enthralling headphone candy as well.

Gorgeous Johnny may be too well crafted for the band's traditional-leaning fans, but its highlights are hard to resist.

Given the fact that the Dead Weather formed on a whim and recorded these songs in a matter of weeks, Horehound is a compelling album, and one that shows that the band's members bring out the best in each other, albeit in unexpected ways.

They have nothing on their mind other than making basic, black-and-white modern rock, and they do so efficiently on Leave This Town, a sophomore album that's every bit as satisfying as the first.

...And the Ever Expanding Universe is a small wonder that easily confirms the Most Serene Republic's status as one of the most impressive acts on a Toronto pop scene that is already producing a bounty of exciting music.

Sound may have a slight edge over the originally released version of this material, if only because it's truer to the band's initial intentions, and Dandy diehards will certainly find it worth checking out, but more casual fans who already own Monkey House can probably skip it unless they're looking for an intriguing lesson in the nuances of mixing.

Even if it's a little less lively, it's still pretty typical Clutch: always heavy, always solid, and ideal background music for driving a semi-truck through a swamp.

Loggins may indeed come across like a male version on the breezy charms of Colbie Caillat but that means he's pleasant, placid, and likeable which is, in the words of the album's opening song, good enough.

Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros have crafted a love letter to Laurel Canyon and all of its quasi-mystic juju that is as infuriatingly contrived and retro as it is forward-thinking and majestic.

Less accessible than his song-based albums (like 4 Track Songs, released almost simultaneously), Music for Falling from Trees is concise, focused, and well executed.

Welcome to the Walk Alone ends up as neither a success nor a failure; instead, it feels more like a missed opportunity compounded by a bad decision.

At times, Embrace can get a little too droning and repetitive, but it's a confident and promising debut.

As far as debut albums go, Until the Earth Begins to Part may not be as important as it thinks it is, but it certainly delivers the promise of greatness.

American Central Dust doesn't have the feel of a step into new territory the way Son Volt's past two albums did, but it consolidates old strengths and confirms Jay Farrar is still an artist worth caring about to 20 years after Uncle Tupelo cut their first album.

For all its dimensions and progress, the album is simultaneously designed to ensure that devoted fans will feel the wait was worth it.

Like fellow abstract lyricist Kristin Hersh, her quill is aimed at the introverted, resulting in work that is both deeply personal and frustratingly impenetrable.

Rabid fans won't mind much; just make sure you're sold on Hell's Winter before taking this bumpier ride through Cage's inner turmoil.

Those who weren't so sure about the Bowerbirds before might change their tune with this release--Upper Air is a luminous, wild-eyed affair, and a solid second album to boot.