A more savage, flawless and impressive sound could not have emanated from these Austrian-born, Chicago-fed composers of laptop jazz.

Like the band's first two albums, Winchester Cathedral is solid. But also like its predecessors, the album suffers from the "Hey, didn't I already hear this song?" syndrome.

Despite the wailing vocals and insipid lyrics, the rhythm section nearly saves this album with its tensely coiled, ready-to-explode grooves.

It's still very plainly the Dulli Show, placing his cigarette-stained voice and oversized heartache front-and-center.

Kinsella carefully enunciates his lyrics to make sure we hear all the clever references he's making, forcing SAT words into musical phrases that stagger under the weight of their pretense.

The harmonies aren't as blissful and the songs more conventional than those of previous releases.

Within this realism is an incredible sense of serenity, which flows throughout the album and creates an incredibly fascinating work showcasing an immense sense of maturity for this young group.

[Kasher's] ability to toss off seemingly effortless melodic hooks makes one wonder just what kind of water is in Saddle Creek.

Forget Tomorrow is a record of two exceptional ideas that would sound better as separate records.

Whiskey Tango Ghosts is a quiet meditative listen, yes, but those who haven't followed Donnelly's career trajectory closely may find it difficult to reconcile the contrast between her old and new selves.

A record of remarkable beauty.

Here we get the full range of peaks and valleys from Martina's vocals, but the songs are a bit syrupy for those prepared for the menace of Maxinquaye-era Tricky.

Comets on Fire have also learned to harness their dynamic range, an important step for a band that pummels the listener with a seemingly unending freakout.

Breaking new ground probably isn't the point, but the album still fails to generate any emotion or create a mood other than ennui.

The problem with Blueberry Boat is that, while it's a musical marvel, it's not an album that I'll keep listening to.

What's most impressive is that he manages the delicate balance of being emotive without overwrought, something that many of the seventies pop icons never quite got right.

Solid, if unspectacular.

Sparta earn points for thinking big and penning deeply-felt songs that break the five-minute mark, but ambition alone isn't enough.

What the act does offer - chunky dance music with icy vocals that recall Debbie Harry when Dykes is on the mic - sounds great in terms of dance production.

As a hip-hop record, Headset's Space Settings fails to hit the mark of its influences, but it is successful in its own right.

The flaws in A Ghost is Born are almost as interesting as the album's considerable triumphs.

LaValle demonstrates that he is one of post-rock's strongest artists.

This is a headphone record of the highest order, where every last detail should be isolated against your ears and pored over.

While Waves is not quite a knockout, it delivers some undeniable pleasures nonetheless.

The years are beginning to show on Smith, especially on the opener, "Green Eyed Locoman," but his backing band hasn't sounded this energetic and enthusiastic in years.

The krang of album’s past seems more an afterthought as the band explores the natural textures of layered guitar and lumbering bass tracks.

Little Heart's Ease is a respectable effort - just not by Royal City standards.

The album cherry-picks the best songs from Farrrar's last few releases, and presents them in often superior form.

With more room to breathe, the textured synthesizers come to the fore, and it is their melodic decoration that ultimately provides the saving grace. But without the electronic textures, Love and Distance is just Bryan Adams with a hip producer and a great drummer.

!!! has put together an end-to-end burner here, full of songs that will move your ass and stick in your ear for weeks.

As a bridge over the analog/digital divide, Chapel's a bit behind the curve. But, when they hit their marks, Weatherall and Tenniswood's versatility shines through.

Guthrie successfully matches his idiosyncratic lyrics with subtle, layered arrangements lush with strings, crisp guitars, and shifting song structures as likely to burst into anthem or lilt towards confession.

But despite its flaws, or perhaps because of them, this remains organic folk-pop at its bewildering best.

Bumblebeez brings loose, frenetic energy to a mash-up of likely and unlikely sources.

Hotel Morgen serves as a blend of some of the more appealing aspects of both the electronic avant-garde and its more mainstream dance music wing.

The New Year here occasionally let loose with a decidedly unreserved frenzy that is a joy to hear.

The Catheters do little to distinguish themselves, instead offering formulaic rock rebelliousness in a nicely packaged, repetitive form.

There's a very good record in this band. This isn't it.

Emblems is numbingly repetitive.

There is little personality amid the speed and distortion, and no tricks or treats to keep fingers off the fast-forward button.

On A Grand, everything Skinner does is in service to an infinitely satisfying and resonant whole.

That Kinski succeeds at knocking you over with noise on one album and then killing with you silence on the next is something to marvel at.

fulfilled/complete is thoroughly compelling, until it reaches its closer, "The Dream," and becomes urgent, essential listening.

Somewhere between Beth Orton and Iron and Wine, Molina's music feels like it's been pulled direct from the surrounding air; a spring breeze given shape.

Rejoicing in the Hands finds Banhart developing past his early lo-fi recordings in favor of a crisper, more succinct sound that highlights his intricate guitar picking.

The album doesn't break any new ground for the band, but finds Burma at the top of its game, mixing artful music, intelligent lyrics and controlled sonic mayhem.

Particularly striking is the group's ability to mix vast instrumental soundscapes with subtle electronic manipulations, creating a synthesis of analog and digital elements that is visionary in its sonic impact.

Faking the Books loses some momentum beneath a glut of precious, minimal electro-ballads that dot the album.... But the album succeeds brilliantly on the louder numbers.

Beggar Boys may not change anyone's view of the band, but it is another strong outing in what is turning into a pretty consistent body of work.

The band plays a raucous, shifting rock heavy on drama, but light on reasons to keep listening.

It's all Around You isn't their best -- or most challenging -- work, but it's a sign the band is still making music in a bubble.

The group has obviously lost whatever touch they once had for making unique, interesting music.

Labeling Again as entirely derivative would be inaccurate, as Tan folds flourishes of dub and krautrock into a lascivious mix of after-hours cool.

On My Way promises to be voted "Most likely to get lost in your collection and never thought about again."

This is a great band's most fully realized and mature album in a career already dotted with highpoints.

Of Montreal have safely entrenched themselves as an institution in the indie rock world, and Satanic Panic shows them as dependable as ever for some of the best pop songs around.

They have all of the grandeur of the best REM ballads, but Snow Patrol leader Gary Lightbody sings with indie rock's characteristic understatement.

Because every note is perfectly placed, and the contemplative mood sustained throughout, it's hard to notice the lack of originality and occasionally pedestrian songwriting.

Marrying a knack for hummable melodies to a much-needed dose of sincerity, The Hiss hammers their tunes home with a sense of urgency on par with their classic rock and Brit-pop idols.

Moments of the overfed ambience familiar to the band's debut, Feel Good Lost, poke through as the album drags on.

Repeated listens... reveal the album's complexity and highlight how far the band has come in the four years since their last release.

Though the dark atmosphere can weigh Cavelight down on extended listening, it is the record's most lush, emotional moments, like the operatic "Sunday Séance," that are most suggestive of Blockhead's potential.

The disc's highlight, "TV Pro," ably blends the band's two moods and adds some promise to an otherwise bland and vacant offering.

Fennesz does an excellent job of balancing the IDM portions of his sound with more challenging layers of material, making music that is both individual in approach and eminently pleasing to hear.

Ten turns out a few good songs, but there are better solo records by each of its members.

It is Stevens' creepier qualities that make him a cut above the average singer-songwriter.

Battery is an album of diminishing returns that sputters out of steam halfway through.

Deerhoof's diversity is less a series of self-conscious genre references than a genuine proclamation of unimaginable artistic freedom.

Excise these less-than-enthralling moments and the forty-nine remaining minutes of Ultravisitor are satisfying.

Despite its slowcore pedigree, Fall Back manages to stand solidly on its own haunted ground, forging a yet-to-be-realized level of tender creativity.

Swathed from head to toe in ecstatic fuzz.

TV on the Radio relies more on the influence of eighties prog-pop than the typical Brooklyn grit, which is definitely refreshing.

Your Blues is some kind of masterpiece, the work of a truly original and iconoclastic talent.

What sets Franz Ferdinand apart is their unapologetic adherence to the pop formula.

What the band lack in cohesion they make up for with a healthy mania.

The concept is difficult to follow and the music occasionally unpleasant. But the band’s willingness to stretch in new directions is refreshing.

It's a bit of a disappointment considering the rich subject matter, though Trans Am prove themselves once again masters of their own oblique domain.

This is music that is both lovely to hear and challenging to ascertain at the same time.

While the group treads similar musical and thematic ground to [Nick] Cave, the results are nowhere near as ominous.

It's not that Kannberg has somehow "sold out" with Preston School of Industry, but for the time being, he's clearly lost the urge to take good risks.

Sonically, it's well-tempered between its beat-driven and its acoustic pieces; lyrically, a unique, personal pain drips out from Stewart's whispered vocals, providing the driving force of Muscles' challenging, diverse ensemble.

The first pleasant surprise of 2004.

As the album wears on, however, it becomes clear that Einstürzende Neubauten has spent more time cultivating their bristling sonic elements than exploring compositional variety or subtlety.

The result is a tad muddled, with the valleys unfortunately outnumbering the peaks.

This is at once a record to rock out to, a record to contemplate, and a record to immediately buy if you think it impossible for a band this well-hyped to defy their own press.

The concept does start to wear thin towards the end of the CD, and the recontextualized product is inherently one sided: it's the Beatles' soundtrack that is made to dance around Jay-Z's unedited verses.

On Obrigado Saudade, Pierce picks up where he left off on his last few Bubblecore releases, melding post-rock, world music and analog electronics into rich, earthy shapes.

Classical guitars, mellow piano chords and brushed drums lope across the proceedings like yawning animals still awaiting their first caffeinated jolt of the day.

Achieves that rare supernova of artistic vision that dares to reconcile palpable, unapologetic ambience with unpretentious soulful simplicity.

In the band's able hands, the music still sounds dangerous, unpredictable, and potent.

What separates them from their peers is a refreshing feminine perspective that draws from '60s girl groups and the conflicted teenage angst of Leslie Gore.

Corner's gutter low ends, amphetamine drum programming, and Dizzee's cockney slang-spitting place this record among rap's paradigmatic moments.

Phantom Planet, although obviously representing a group still searching for its sonic niche, nonetheless manages to entertain, perhaps proving there can be life after "California."

Mansions end result is a scarred mess, a fitting aesthetic for such introspective music.

The smart pop hook chops displayed on So Much For the City make it clear that this is one retro-minded band that may just make it to the future.

Room on Fire is a passionate, 32-minute burning effigy of the seemingly insurmountable expectations fans and critics had for the record.

Standout tracks include the Breeders' "Wicked Little Town (Hedwig Version)," the Polyphonic Spree's "Wig in a Box," Spoon's Stones-y take on "Tear Me Down" and the whisper-to-a-scream romp that Yoko Ono and Yo La Tengo let loose on "Hedwig's Lament / Exquisite Corpse."

Whatever their motives, this return to rock and roll is a welcome one.