They seem satisfied enough with their place as one of the underappreciated underdogs of the American alt rock scene, and it's hard not to get a kick out of hearing such an independent spirit raging through this album, even if commercially, Simple Math doesn't quite add up.

Magic is a strong record, riddled with sad emotion yet a noble intent to carry on.

This is comfortably the best effort from Matt Mondanile to date. A tribute to the power of not just belief but also the idea that patience can be your best weapon in terms of creating your best work.

Lavished with luscious keys and gently chiming guitars throughout, ‘The Trial Of The Century’ tickles and teases the listener, offering subtle hooks that take time to appreciate.

It’s incredibly satisfying to hear a band reform and sound completely reinvigorated--every second sounds like it’s been pored over for hours, and Erol Alkan’s encouraging production sits perfectly within the music, never intrusive or stifling.

While Observator may be no step forward, it is affirmation of a great formula.

Throughout ‘The Orchestra, Sadly, Has Refused’ runs the coherent theme of creeping, haunting lullabies, and that furrow which sees The Silent League ultimately master their own unique beauty.

Often collaborative projects end up being an average of its participants, merging in the middle in a grey mulch. Dark Night of the Soul escapes all of that, Sparklehorse bringing the songwriting genius, and Danger Mouse the production, and the details - the watery sounds, the effects, the atmosphere.

It’s not a game-changer of an album, but the game is certainly changing and Apparat is playing for the right team.

Unreal's feel is of the hangover following the hedonistic romp that was Yuck--reassembling a broken self into a positive whole, and taking an auspicious step in a new direction.

It's that all-too-rare example of a band combining myriad shared influences (early Blur, Radiohead, Suede... The Faint?) into something that seems to exist only in its own brilliant context, regardless of trends or cultural norms.

Parts of ...Cheap Seats feel either disposable or a revisiting of old ground.

A debut album containing no filler whatsoever, and a record that mirrors the ferocious intensity of those live shows to boot.

It’s one of the best late-night albums of the year so far, and deserves to be remembered in the best of 2009 polls.

The Delta Sweete Revisited probably isn’t destined to be anything more than an interesting footnote in the career of anybody involved. But it certainly has something to it: a mood, an ambience, an ethereal sultriness, chilly northern mists turning to hot southern steam.

Attack Decay Sustain Release defies such trite categorization and, ultimately, what it is or isn’t doesn't really matter. All you need to know is this is quality.

It is an album that demands attention, not to mention repeated listenings, to draw out the beauty.

h each subsequent listen, the readout dial wavers more wildly between the 5 and the 9 mark, never quite deciding on where it will come to fall. The enigma that is PVT, then.

The Bears for Lunch is business as usual: more songs about airplanes and beer, as David Byrne would say.

It’s one almighty journey through realms uncharted by The Futureheads thus far, and it’s done in fine form.

As an album, Poetry Of The Deed is a listenable, more than competent collection. The difficulty lies in it's lack of character.

Brand Brauer Frick are unquestionably a force to be reckoned with, yet they seem unsure exactly what direction to take: whether to continue to interpret dance music using classical apparatus, or to move down a darker, more avant garde route.

We Are The Pipettes is possibly the only pure-pop record you need own this year.

At Best Cuckold isn't an explosive game changer, nor is it particularly different to what's already out there, but it sure as hell earns a proud place above its peers.

Threadbare’s generous, circular nature is to be applauded; it’s rare that studies of loss are as authentically moving and sensitively played as this--and even rarer they’re so completely endearing.

This is powerful stuff, showing that not only is Anders Trentemøller one of the best in his field but also a master of the album craft. One for the long haul.

If they cut out about half of the songs and focused more on the parts that sounded less like Sigur Ros, Riceboy Sleeps would be a much stronger record.

She writes beats and creates streetwise slithery DogPop with b-lines and brawn and occasionally shows us that wide-open vulnerability is as vital and visceral as virulent heartsteppin’ sin-sharing.