They do what they do quite well and this cohesive debut should win them plenty of fans.

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

For all its abundantly positive qualities and minor but clear distinctions from prior efforts, is still an archetypal Dream Theater album; one that's unlikely to broaden their audience all that much, but is conversely guaranteed to thrill their hardcore converts with its renewed devotion to the most exigent and stimulating facets of the band's chosen musical domain.

Wasted in Jackson is the work of a music industry pro who also has a genuine, unaffected natural talent for vintage soul and blues styles.

On their tenth studio album, In Flames officially complete their transition from Swedish melodic death metal pioneers to unpredictable Swedish progressive pop/rock/neo-classical metal innovators... It's as epic as Scandinavia is cold.

It's hard to get offended when everything about Supermeng is so self-consciously goofy.

The result is a bookend to that 2010 release [Just Across the River], with the same feel and makeup.

When GusGus joined Kompakt, the association seemed odd--almost charitable on the label's part--but now it makes total sense.

It moves deliberately, never rushing and rarely rocking, preferring to find pleasure in majesty instead of hedonism.

Most of the time, Basses Loaded is more interesting in concept than it is satisfying in execution, though the best moments suggest that future full-length collaborations with McDonald or Dunn would be worth exploring.

The songs "The Ballad of Jimmy McCade" and "Bottle" hail back to "English Rose," while "Jawbone" simmers to funky wah-wah rhythms and swaths of psychedelic guitars. These grab the attention--the other three short selections are essentially incidental music, even "Jawbone Training" with its hyperactive hi-hats--but the album's centerpiece is its opener, "Jimmy/Blackout," a 21-minute suite that builds from atmospheric electronics to a shimmering sung denouement from Weller.

As a collected album, No Fun Mondays is a bit of a lark, unexpected in its energy but not its contents. With two notable exceptions, Billie Joe Armstrong chose tunes that stay well within his punk-pop and power pop wheelhouse.

The main shortcoming of At My Piano is that even though Brian Wilson is playing songs that he wrote, the mellow, elevator music style of these versions doesn't sound any more significantly connected to Wilson than any other session musician or unknown piano player running through familiar tunes as background music at a martini bar would sound. Despite this, it's pleasant to hear these songs in a new form.

Zig ends up being her most focused and mature work to date, one that finds her spreading her wings and expanding her arsenal yet again.

If Model suffers from anything, it's sometimes seeming a bit formulaic in the process, but the good news is that the band is really good at catchy unlucky-in-love songs.

The limited palette and relentless attack wind up a little wearying, especially when married to brickwalled masters.

The album is a bit more raw than previous, so expect more fan favorites than hit singles. Otherwise, this is business as usual, and business is absolutely gangbusters.

The weightless drones and light filigrees are as mesmerizing and familiar as ever when folded into each other.

A tremendous return to form.

Fans and involved listeners are definitely rewarded with increased dividends after multiple listens, but even they may wish for an album that harked back to the simpler days of the Premiers Symptomes EP and Moon Safari.

Few will ever refer to this as a classic, though even fewer will ever think of this as a poor showing.

Highly recommended.

Based on pure sound, Von is just as much of a treat as the acclaimed follow-up.

Best of the lot is "Isn't That Enough," built on a loping riddim in the mold of Sly & Robbie's work on Grace Jones' cover of "Nightclubbing," though Khan is uninhibited and impassioned, as always. Even when a surplus of synthesizers, organs, and flame-throwing guitars threaten to overtake her elsewhere, she cuts straight through with full-tilt, life-affirming power.

Rouse sounds perfectly at ease, as if he were just playing for fun with no tapes rolling.

Scott could probably keep releasing this same kind of crazy, funhouse psych pop record forever and it wouldn't get tired, especially if he keeps writing songs this catchy and keeps giving subtle tweaks here and there.

The mild growth and light sophistication they show in spots doesn't make the record any less of a rollicking good time. Just like they have since their early days, the Orwells bring the songs, the suds, and the knuckleheaded energy to the party.

The results are alternately ghostly, sexy, and nocturnal, but they’re always moving.