While Torino is most definitely not a Wedding Present album by any stretch of the imagination, it should win back some of the die-hard older fans that may have boycotted Cinerama at the onset.

Costello has never experimented so freely on an album in his entire career.

Everything that was great about De-Loused in the Comatorium is blatantly absent, while all of the negatives now protrude like barnacled tumors.

Cure fans are certainly used to Smith’s voice being high in the mix, but on this record it can be overwhelming and stifling.

The most noteworthy aspect of The Photo Album is the band’s upward trajectory. The music is cohesive and even, though still somewhat sluggish.

The band’s finest release by far, it’s a swaggering, head-long dive into funk, rhythm and blues, gospel, roots rock and roll, and disco but with a very sleek modern edge.

And while lyrically nothing comes close to eclipsing the pop genius of "Heartbeats" from their previous release, Deep Cuts, several tracks on Silent Shout demonstrate considerable growth both lyrically and musically, making this a solid follow up from a band that has further evolved their own curious brand of synthpop.

High Society expands upon the hurried schizophrenia of Schmersal’s previous band, Brainiac, elevating songwriting to the same level of experimental deconstruction to both the detriment and advancement of the band’s core sound.

The lyrical terrain is insultingly common (girls, life on the road, girls), yet the band has such an idiosyncratic method of expression that makes these everyday themes sound – at least over the course of each song – radically inspired.

Mr. Beast isn’t Mogwai’s most challenging or daring record, but it might be its most beautiful or powerful.

Less than half of the record actually sports the rock I salute it for, but when it does Superdrag shines like a blast from the past but without the feeling that it’s a calculated throwback to anything in particular.

So what’s the appeal? Sure, there’s a kitsch factor, and her fearlessness exhibits a respectful amount of bravado, I suppose. But none of that changes the fact that the music is insipid and boring, “sexually explicit lyrics” and all.

They show great promise, but also fall victim to the uncertainty of a band drastically altering their sound and trying too hard to make grandiose statements.

Beneath all the off-kilter catchiness, quirkiness and aggression lies little of substance.

Maladroit is a welcome - halfway - return to form.

It is a little more scattered than the last few proper Stereolab albums in terms of musical threads, but the urbane electro-funk of “Interlock” as well as the jittery disco pomp of “Eye of the Volcano” prove that Stereolab is still tweaking the formula with one foot in Esquivel’s grave and the other several light years away.

Luckily, the band doesn’t cave into the dance-punk trend without expanding upon its current ubiquity with skillful songwriting and risky avoidance of testosterone.

It’s an expansive and stupendously produced record with a handful of remarkable songs.

Despite the daunting Radiohead-colored cloud that hangs heavy over Muse, the band pushes the limits of its slick, pre-apocalyptic rock with a self-assured strut.

There are some good songs here, to be sure, but they’re wedged between too many meandering, indistinct retreads of self-referential bombast.

The Delivery Man is a solid, albeit slightly over-learned and patronizing, collection of bluesy rock.

For a guy that has so little to say with so few ways to say it, Trent Reznor has mastered the art of making what is old sound new again.

It is pure fluff. And pretty awful fluff at that.

Orton seems to be embracing the humdrum, schlocky sound of New Age crooners and adult contemporary mush like Dido.

[Gilbert’s] chirping voice is such a spectacle at times, you won’t know whether to laugh or punch a hole in the wall.

The tempos all too often meander into directionless drones, while the vocals portray a thin, bratty, post-punk posturing that tends to grate when not underpinned by a catchy chorus.

Style definitely outweighs substance in the world of The Raveonettes.

This is not an easy record to absorb. The band’s rough-hewn production is tinny and sonically chaotic, but underneath the surface noise lurks one of the finest records of the year.