You don't have to like, or even see, Who Loves the Sun to be moved by McCaughan's work here.

Presents more of the same disconcerting, cacophonous, yet strangely melodic and catchy music that always seems to find frontman John Congleton on the verge of going absolutely insane.

Citrus is as good a shoegaze record you will ever hear, regardless of release date.

Vintage Burden is among the most beautiful, subtle, and moving records this band has ever made.

Though Herbert has outdone himself and matches his ambitions with his achievements, the songs are unmistakably his and Siciliano's, sounding like no one else, twisting and swinging and drifting with optimum vibrancy.

It's quite possibly Patton's most accessible album since his Faith No More days.

The Drift isn't an equally severe leap from Tilt [as Tilt was from Climate of Hunter], but it is darker, less arranged, alternately more and less dense, and ultimately more frightening.

We Don't Have to Whisper is too doggedly dour and amorphous to be more than a curiosity.

[The] lack of zest in the production is forgivable because Taking the Long Way is otherwise a strong, confident affair.

Sonic rabble-rousing doesn't get much better than this.

Their performances sound more confident than ever.

An album that's more like the Walkmen's concerts than the meticulously crafted sound of their other albums.

The great majority of Stand Still, Look Pretty is tuneful, tastefully rootsy, and quite engaging country-pop.

Pleasant if undemanding listening.

Milian's weakness remains ballads; the few that are here are more like placeholders that merely apply some forced variety to the album.

It's brief and even a little slight, but it's almost as much fun to listen to as it must have been to make.

Nearly every single thing about this album is a shout-out to the Clash or Gang of Four, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but why not just listen to the originals instead?

Musically, the album is as hard as the group has ever gotten.

Espers II is both wondrous and troubling.

But even if Every Man for Himself was constructed with the mainstream in mind, it likely won't win any new converts, since at their core Hoobastank remains unchanged: their songs aren't particularly dynamic or catchy, the band doggedly follows alt-rock conventions as if adherence to clichés gives the group legitimacy, and Robb's pedestrian voice alternately disappears into the mix or veers flat when he holds a note.

From nearly anyone else, The True False Identity would be a striking and adventurous work, but given Burnett's body of work, there's no arguing he can do better.

Depending on how much Robin Guthrie you want in your life, Continental is either redundant or another reason to love him.

Pink is easily the most cohesive, adventurous, and straight-ahead rocking recording of their 12-year career.

Like all Ron Sexsmith albums, Time Being is reliable and expertly crafted, and contains a handful of cuts that will kick around in your head until the next one swoops in to replace them.

Though it runs out of steam slightly (at least in comparison to the pop art brilliance of the band's best songs) on its second half, Bang Bang Rock & Roll is a terrific debut, and Art Brut is smart, catchy, and fun.

With the help of Danger Mouse's platinum ear and intricate vocal productions, Green is revealed as a top-notch post-millennial soul singer.

[The songs] manage to be unified in a way that Young wanted Greendale to be but didn't quite pull off, yet they also stand on their own and are, overall, more memorable than those on Prairie Wind.

A pitch-perfect blend of Black Heart past and present, and a recording as accomplished as any that navigates similarly dark seas.