A strong introduction to a band with unlimited potential.

Howlett is no slouch in the production chair, and the sounds are mostly blinding, but the songs are strictly by-the-books.

Moody, cinematic, and engaging throughout, Cyclone is another tour de force from Neko Case, if not as immediately arresting as "Fox Confessor."

Upon first listen, No Line on the Horizon seems as if it would be a classic grower, an album that makes sense with repeated spins, but that repetition only makes the album more elusive, revealing not that U2 went into the studio with a dense, complicated blueprint, but rather, they had no plan at all.

Communion is easily the most consistent yet visionary and expansive recording Soundtrack have released yet, and proves beyond the shadow of a doubt, they are, even without mass acceptance, an impressively grand rock band.

Blue Lights on the Runway is one of those rare albums that you can pretend to like for its alt-credibility while secretly just enjoying it for the hooks.

Lucky One isn't the Mavericks, but it's closer to what made that band great than anything Malo has recorded in a while, and shows that he remains a great singer and powerfully imaginative musician regardless of the context.

Midnight at the Movies plays more like a subtle step forward for Justin Townes Earle than a quantum leap, but if the "The Good Life" suggested he was a talent to watch, this record confirms that he's a new writer to be reckoned with who doesn't need to trade on his family name.

Adult Nights is an engaging debut from a band that wears its sunny California influences as well as if they were born and bred there.

Written in Chalk is a welcome return by one of American music's great--if under-recognized--duos.

While the instrumentals give cause for heads to silently nod in appreciation, only a few tracks break away to make this something other than music suited for the background.

C'est Com...Com...Complique is better than anything Faust have issued since 1999's Ravvivando - which is saying plenty - writing another elliptical chapter in one of the most fascinating sagas in the history of rock.

Astral Weeks: Live at the Hollywood Bowl is not Astral Weeks, but it's brilliant and emotionally intense; it's honest and spiritually revealing.

200 Million Thousand provides a fair share of these moments and because of that you can say the album succeeds. It just could use a little more teenage head and a little less brains.

There's no denying the sheer "angry basement workout/summer garage weightlifting" potential that Wrath's perfectly acceptable 45-minute running time offers, but without a single hook that sticks around long enough to reel in the fish, all you've got is bait.

This one is solid from top to bottom.

It's his easy charm that turns Easy Does It into an effective piece of country-pop product.

All in all, Copeland has delivered a solid set of music, easily recommended, that should please her fans and translate to some dynamic performances on tour.

Mr. Lucky works because Isaak and crew don't overplay their hand.

There's a lot to admire in Here We Go Magic's dreamy, hazy melodies, and it's easy to get lost in the repetitive, minimalist guitar strumming that centers half of the tracks.

Too many of the songs settle into lackluster grooves, and pairing those grooves with Vermue's style-over-substance vocal affectations makes the album less than memorable.

A mix of veiled threats and bounding guitars, it proves that Dissolver isn't the sound of Iran turning its back on its past, it's the sound of a band finding ways to be more complicated, and accessible, than ever.

Hold Time will do little to entice listeners for whom Matt Ward's sepia-tone charm holds no sway, but for fans who have enjoyed the ride thus far, this looks like the sunniest stretch of road yet.

Nothing here is surprising, of course, but Years of Refusal is a full-bodied, full-blooded album that also happens to be fully realized--even if it is on a rather modest scale.

Common Existence is largely an enjoyable record that gives as much attention to mood and melody as muscle and might.

The Century of Self is compelling proof that the only way a band as fiercely ambitious, righteous, and single-minded as ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead can do things is on their own.

Just barely out of his twenties, he writes with the well-worn weariness of someone twice his age, but Isbell's youth nevertheless breathes energy into a formula that's been revisited by many Southern-born songwriters before.

Despite the catch phrases and recycled riffs, nothing about Habeas Corpus is authentic--it's all trashy punk that trivializes anything it touches--but what's fun about it is that Living Things do it all without a sense of awareness.