Brousseau possesses a certain spirit and shine, but a bit more spark would give Grass Punks more of a means by which to elevate the intrigue.

The songs on Blanco first appeared on Bazan’s monthly 7” series, so it seems clear that using synthesizers was one way of differentiating them from their original versions. (He must like doing this, since his last album was a collaboration with the Passenger String Quartet.) But he seems to be onto something interesting with this electronicized approach.

With the debut, the main argument against Fool's Gold seemed to be that they were appropriating too much African influence, sounds they didn't have a right to, into what was primarily pop. With Leave No Trace, I'd say they've gone too far the other way, eliminating the eccentricities and exoticisms that made them interesting.

While that sad waste of talent and potential deals the album a serious blow, the rest of the set proves mostly satisfying, even when the song selection remains relatively unknown.

If, after four decades, Terms of My Surrender appears to take a change of tune, in Hiatt’s hands it’s a winning formula regardless.

With Instinct, Niki and the Dove have made an album that will surely resonate with the American crowds already grooving to the likes of Hot Chip, Passion Pit and Twin Shadow while providing Sub Pop with a whole new planet of sound to colonize.

Despite being together for more than 35 years, their sound is tight and refined without sounding tired.

Maybe it's just a question of getting used to this new Mangan, but you can't help but lament the old one's demise.

Calling to mind everyone from Dinosaur Jr. to The Pixies, Boston indie noise rockers follow up last year’s great full length, Major Arcana, with the solid, but frustratingly short vinyl 12” EP Real Hair.

The band’s pretty much stuck in nuevo Nirvanaland.

There are a few more hooks on this latest release and the production is clearer, but it certainly doesn’t water down the sentiment.

Despite the variety, this is a decidedly marginal set of songs, one that’s well out of sync with even the most archival Americana.

It captures an aura of domestic bliss through songs that are unfailingly effervescent and jazz infused to the max.

All in all, it’s Rodriguez’s way with both a samba and a sway that helps elevate this effort while making it one of her best yet.

You can’t help but feel a little let down that they didn’t experiment a bit more on this one.

It’s exactly the kind of album you’d expect to emerge from a deserted cave full of records--dark, solitary, a little mad but extremely well-versed in musical style.

Probably not the best soundtrack for you Christmas Eve Open House, but destined to be a Holiday classic for Crowell diehards.

It’s a cerebral, sometimes sinewy sound, but one which leaves a lasting impression regardless.

Though only seven songs long, at least two--“Mallow T’Ward the River” and “One Can Only Love”--offer multiple movements that provide opportunity to explore more exotic environs.

It makes for a suitably successful second record that, regardless of the salacious story surrounding the band that made it, pretty much lives up to the inspiring promise of their first.

Todd tended to distance all but the most devoted, thanks to an album that was, to say the least, rather difficult to digest. So while Global draws from the same synthesized setup, fortunately there’s plenty here to keep everyone enthralled.

There are times when Wilson's meandering style emphasis on ambiance turns on a twilight sound.

Friedberger sits at his keyboard noodling around on little motifs with slight variation here and there, which do evoke cinematic cues. But without the images on the silver screen, it becomes the music of buttons being pushed which gets old quickly.

There's still plenty of glamor and atmosphere in the Crystal Stilts' aura, but with this EP a significantly clearer sense of structure and purpose.

There’s an elusive aura that surrounds this set, suggesting Lord Huron will never pry its door open entirely. Then again, that’s what makes this outfit so fascinating…and possibly so essential.

Despite those candid confessions, Arrows never bows to Scattergood’s self-indulgence, given the swooning synths and other cosmic confections.

The lack of a rhythmic anchor sometimes gives the songs more free form than they actually need--there’s a difference between playful interchange and self-indulgence. But most of the music simply translates deep musical respect and chemistry into moments of artistic fire and great beauty.

Their music, those influences intact, circles around a classic rock genre, but without any mediocre redundancy or artificiality.