The mish-mash of moods and modes leaves little from which to gather a theme.

The outcome is alternately brilliant and awful, adventurous and boring, incisive and pretentious, over-wrought and subtle.

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

Unfortunately, the band is not able to match their vitriol with memorable tunes.

An interesting, if flawed work.

With his merely efficient playing, Mould never reaches the highs of electric ecstasy he perfected in his heyday.

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

That's not to say that Love & Distortion is a bad album, just that it's thoroughly average.

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

It is not groundbreaking, or particularly clever.

The album's production, particularly the insistence on pinning Brown's hazy croon way on top of the mix, too often dulls any punch the music would otherwise have.

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

Over the course of Gemstone's 15 tracks, Green's heavily enunciated, lumbering delivery become more irritating than a busload of thespians on their way to an audition. Thankfully, Green's elementary-school melodies, which call to mind Jonathan Richman at his silliest, ultimately save this album from the topical hell to which it aspires.

There is a shortage of pathos, and relatively little ventured musically and lyrically from a songwriting team responsible for some of the most tortured, searching music of recent years.

The album as a whole isn't interesting enough lyrically or musically to hold itself together.

A disappointing concept album with large patches of trivial explorations and experimental noodling.

Those who can overlook this slightly dumbed-down approach will find This Island is not without its moments.

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

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

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

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.

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 '80s idolatry is far too forced and distracting, and VHS or Beta comes off as trying too hard to imitate admittedly great, but definitely dated, pop music.

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

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 album feels half baked, as though Morrison isn't quite sure which direction to take his nascent solo career.

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

Emblems is numbingly repetitive.