When Life… is not all bad, however. It is merely middling.

They’re no longer one of the torchbearers of a perceived trend, but they continue to grind out records of a style and overall quality that are still hard to come by (whether we need more of them is certainly up for debate).

Estara is not as musically challenging, hooky or advanced as some albums by similar artists.

He is comfortable enough with the sounds and effects we associate with Sonic Youth to replicate them without the intervening distance of reference, but he is also ready to push these sounds into other more conventionally tuneful byways.

The nuanced defeatism on Nothing Fits separates these brash, loud punk anti-anthems from the standard hardcore fare. The most ephemeral evidence of this is also the most effective: instead of battering you into submission with unadulterated force, songs are separated with just enough silence to make you uncomfortable, impatient. The subtle natures of hell are often the worst.

Baker pretty much only has one idea, and although it's solid, he could benefit from a shift in approach.

Sly winks at a complicit listener are replaced by a troubling disregard for the audience, and The Magnetic Fields sink to the bottom of the sea of self-satisfaction.

Gedge's wryly stilted voice and clever turns of hook are still on display, but without the frantic guitar of Pete Solowka from the group's early lineup, the songs are a bit too slow and heavy.

In this possibly one-off collaboration, Shuford and his pals have dug up an archaic artifact and filled it with powerful intoxicants.

Modeselektor's willingness to collaborate and explore sounds while still sticking to their identifiable, fat, bass-heavy crunk techno style is worth applauding, and there's no reason to think that they won't continue to remain relevant.

There's enough to enjoy here in the murky atmospherics and occasional surges of melody, but Shots can’t be the Ladyhawk album fans were hoping for.

Mister Pop doesn’t quite measure up even to the first few Clean records from their third return (Modern Rock is an overlooked gem); it feels a bit haphazard at times, the instrumentals don’t need to be there, and Robert Scott’s song isn’t as potent as usual.

With piano, female vocals, strings and extra percussion, this is the fullest, most expansive Om album to date.

The band's grasp of dynamics, both musical and emotional, has deepened, resulting in Long Knives, their most nuanced album yet, with a much more understated approach than on past efforts.

It's a densely constructed EP, and the more baroque and strange it gets, the more compelling it becomes.

Life Sux, however, shows that laziness is still very much the enemy here. And it comes in many flavors, but none more egregious than the penchant for gimmicks.

Asiatisch is impersonal and airtight. Musically, the album is fascinating, diverse and expertly produced. But a chance was perhaps missed to deliver something with more to say.

The CD is bound to attract some fans for its unwavering dedication to psychedelic textures, not to mention the number of bodies involved in the logistics of their live show, but this is energy that should have been expended in searching for better sheet music.

After three albums of encroaching conceptuality and quality, they’re cutting back on their known strengths in order to give everything over to the concept and the creative challenges it brings, never quite abandoning the listener, but requiring an undue amount of effort.

Organ Music may not quite be what Krug hoped for--and it's by no means perfect--but it is intriguing and occasionally illuminating.

It sounds as if Atkins and Plummer had merely sucked down a few beers and bashed out some tunes in their garage over the weekend. This is not to undermine their talents, but rather to celebrate the basic energy of the record, which makes you want to suck down some beers yourself and have a go at the rock.

Repo is likeable for all the right reasons. That the band hasn’t challenged themselves or their audience to find new ones is the album’s chief drawback.

Clocking in at an hour, there's ample opportunity for missteps and toss-offs, but also first rate, two-chord grinds that stand up to the best material the Fall has ever recorded.

As these descriptions should suggest, none of the songs on No Witch grabs you on its own as a standout piece of songwriting. It's less that the instrumentation and tones are structural veneers concealing merely passable songs and more that the record is just one extended riff on a host of roots music styles.

This is not a diamond in the rough as much as it is a piece of carbon that might, with extreme pressure and effort, turn into something someday.

Pop chanteuse lets the sunshine back in.

The Host is a sun-blessed electronic album drawing from the now, as well as two decades ago, and that works well enough.

Landing may take a number of listens to begin to sink in, but when it does, it stays with you.

It's unlikely that you'll want to hear any of these remixes, even the better ones, more than once or twice.

These two tracks ["Feels Real" and "Do It (Right)"] read a bit corny on paper, but Lambkin’s knowledge of genre, song form and structure and how to make music evolve (i.e. filters, not just slapping in new sounds when something gets boring) bundle up the awkwardness with cool to present fresh ink amidst the droves of novice DJ nostalgists.

The greatest appeal of this record is how little acting takes place, how little consideration has been given to "fully realizing the sound." Because when it comes time to take it or leave it, I'll take the whole thing without any regrets.

Though AUN isn't always interesting, it is a cohesive collection, and I don't doubt for a moment its suitability as the score for Honetschläger's film.

Noah's Ark is not an end-to-end stunner. But there are bright spots throughout, and the sisters display a consistent penchant for deviating from standard folk and twee pop lyrical imagery.

On the stereo, Who Loves the Sun is almost too pretty, coming perilously close to that "beautiful music" vibe popular in dentists' waiting rooms.

The Fallen Leaf Pages settles comfortably into the band's canon, delivering no surprises, no gimmicks, no gags, no quirks and no affectations.

Here, as elsewhere, there may be subtext and hidden allusions but the important stuff is bouncing around on the surface.

Intentionally or not though, the vibe here tends to conjure more of a '71 than '01 frame of references, working up a slightly discordant, cacophonous sound that brings to mind everything from the Kosmiche synth-klang of early Cluster to the Industrial scree of late Faust.

The problem is the lack of hooks, atmospherics and soul.

Though perhaps not as unique or groundbreaking as Ugly Side of Love, Beyond Ugly is still a pretty fabulous record by a band mostly alone in a top-shelf niche.

When guests appear on a few songs (Maxo Cream and Ohgeesy among the standouts) it appears that Greedo is actually not bad, but only on hooks. His hooks are catchy, melodic and even smart in a dumb way. Most songs are just that, hooks stretched for two minutes. If verses and hooks stand for meat and bones, Netflix and Deal is bones only. Thanks but no thanks.

From the Valley to the Stars doesn’t have that directness [of her first album]; it gives the persistent feeling that it is nothing but parts.

It takes some bands several albums to appreciate the strength in subtlety. On their debut full-length, Midnight Movies may rely on it too much already.

Amid the brightness and snark of another consistently entertaining Fujiya & Miyagi record, it’s a reminder that even our modern Lucifers have many dimensions to them.

As a statement of intent from that band, Pyramid is promising in a shaky kind of way: it's clear that there's still creative magic to go around, but also that the old chemistry is going to be a tough one to reorient.

For now, Extended Vacation is nice enough, at times seductively lovely, but it lands short of essential.

Full Circle Nightmare gets its kicks constantly. It has more heft than, both narratively and sonically, Craft’s debut, Dolls of Highland. And, thoroughly steeped in a recognizable tradition of backcountry rollick as he is, Craft delivers a decidedly modern approach to a sound first popularized decades ago.

The a-ha moments in the archaeological game Magic Kids sets up on Memphis are fun precisely because the songs are so unassuming in their saccharine one-dimensionality.

They're going through the motions, you can't get into it, and then it's over, just like that. Strange Weather, Isn't It? is a party where everyone looks like they're having fun.

As it stands here, it too often feels as if the tools mastered them.

His latest LP, Everything She Touched Turned Ampexian is another sinuous but seamless blend of the organic and synthetic, embodying the hand-in-everything spirit of hip hop.

Silver’s a markedly better songwriter on Outside than on Continent, more adept pacing and structure, more keen on crafting variegated moods and atmospheres. But Continent’s strength was its insistent hip-hop thump, which is largely lacking on Outside.

The songs are best when they say the least, implying depths that are, perhaps, mostly in the listener’s head.

Living on the Other Side sounds as good the first time through as it's going to, perfectly pleasant but slight.

If Share the Joy is the direction Vivian Girls are going in, I'm interested in seeing how it plays out.

None of these remixes fall flat. For Radiohead fans, TKOL RMX 1234567 is an opportunity to see their favorite fivesome in a new light by some of the world's most clever electronic musicians.

There are differences around the edges that are making Fresh & Onlys ever more interesting, fresher and more singular, a better version of what they have been promising all along.

As inconsistent as it is, Every Kind of Light, the first full-band Posies record of the century, curbs the pair’s excesses enough to reward repeat plays.

It’s atmospheric, infectious and enjoyable.

Frustratingly uneven album: hang in there, ride out the bumpy passages, and something lovely is likely to happen; until those moments pop up, expect to have your patience tested.

When Animalore clicks, it does it well, but there are too many stretches on here where the band’s restraint feels like they’re playing it safe.

The consequences are not always dull, and Go Go Smear The Poison Ivy is as enjoyable at points as the music it’s clearly drawing from.

If you put Dos on, then do something else that demands more of your attention. You’ll feel better about whatever it is that you’re doing. That’s as ringing of an endorsement as I can muster.

Many of these tracks--indeed some of the most interesting--are more snippets than fully developed destinations. But there are real skills on display here.

As a listener, you pretty much have Eskmo pegged by halfway, and it's disappointing that there aren't any sonic curveballs in the second half.

There’s nothing particular catchy. No song stands out.

A solid 64 minutes of cavernous drumming, propulsive, grating guitars and cotton-mouthed moans.

The problem is that the 11-song album is exactly 10/11ths forgettable.

Picture is an album’s worth of universal feelings spoiled by his compulsion to present them as sordid or literary, to make them clever or allusive or needlessly alliterative

["General Hospital" is] a rare mis-step on a collection of songs that's beautifully judged, possessed of an idiosyncratic melodic logic that few can equal.

The thing is, this isn’t a bad album. But it is so full of mediocre songs--as are most of the albums since the end of GBV--that one has to ask why he just didn’t save up all the great ones and make one really excellent album.

As a relic relief map of an endearing school of Canadian pop weirdness, Swan Lake's first offering is an accomplishment; still, that doesn't make teasing the occasional shining strand out of so much ugliness any less of a chore.

There are many moments here when the good times roll effectively enough, but rarely as well as past Born efforts.

As is often the case, the idea of this partnership ends up being better than the result.

Both musicians are good enough at this genre that Joy is never a total drag (if not quite a Joy either), but also both of them have been better, and Segall has been better this year, so caveat emptor.

The whole of it seems passive and incomplete.

Waves is an album filled with nice touches and sincere sentiment, not much more.

Earth Junk doesn’t sound like anything else in his discography. However, it does betray Hagerty’s encyclopedic knowledge of rock history, which yields some respectful iconic nods and a few bizarre what-ifs.

The results are pretty weird. Which is a good thing.

Jackson’s debut album is not always a success, as Smash’s panoptic detail eventually turns homogeneous.

The Jackson-White reboot casts the song as a swampy, country vamp, and while it isn't a horrible idea in theory, it does feel contrived and a bit of an unnecessary pander. Even with that misstep in mind, though, it's pretty tough not to root for Wanda Jackson and The Party Ain't Over.

TMV’s latest major-label misfire is called The Bedlam in Goliath

While the band's celebrity rose in the wake of national tragedy, Interpol will remind you that it's time to be worried again.

The end result lumps the worst banalities of "indie" music into electronic sounds that, if properly fleshed out, might have been interesting.

As a live recording, it’s severely impressive, and sounds far more like an obsessively premeditated studio creation than anything on Kinski’s last official album.

It’s hard to criticize the Wooden Birds at any length, because their music is so harmless, so unashamedly pretty and honest.

What A Pleasure drips with what so many second-outings lack: promise. If this EP is an indicator, what comes next from these dudes will merit anticipation.

It's a fairly fun album, albeit not one that sticks with you.

For all its veneer of accessible pop, I Love You, It's Cool is too often bereft of good old-fashioned melody--still too often adrift in the clouds of instrumentation,

An accomplished release that attests to their enduringly unique sound and vision.

It's a body of work that begs deep listening, the better to divine the wild kindness at its core.

The sound necessarily lacks the precision and propulsion of, say, house or grime instrumentals, and since nothing forces the listener to pay attention or move, Down 2 Earth disappears as it reveals itself.

Speck Mountain might have a great album in them; this one isn’t bad. But I hope that some day they get over themselves and really get down.

La Sera's debut is the Kate Moss of garage rock, blank-eyed, pretty and dangerously thin.

Wallpaper Music is a lot more complicated than it seems, and those complications give it a depth and resonance that most garage punk records can't muster.

There’s little to grasp onto with The Sun, as the record more often than not locks into a cautious mode of jamming on simple figures with little idea as to where to actually take them.

The reissue shows how prickly and difficult Social Climber's aesthetic could be, its arrangements as sparse as Young Marble Giants, though less even less concerned with hook and melody.

Songs like "Walky Talky" and "Bye-Bye-Bye" reference the band's Devo inspiration a bit too explicitly, but overall Polysics show themselves to have for the most part outgrown their influences.

El Khatib's voice is good and scrawny, and yelps out Tennessee hiccups just right. But he works too hard at selling the whole show.