Strained, anachronistic verses may test your patience, but given what Arbouretum has to say when no one's singing, there's still a lot to uncover. [#74, p.90]

This sidecar is neither evolution nor revolution, though its eight tracks contain a fair share of intrigue and insight into Bird's feverish 2011, as well as a contemporary rearrangement so sweet it should comer rimmed in sugar. [No. 93, p.58]

The tunes where this trio goes it alone are audacious. [No. 103, p.54]

The Horrors seem to have found themselves yet another niche writing the sorts of delectable psychedelic pop jams that are destined to see them crowd festival stages for decades to come. [No. 109, p.57]

This twisted, sublime, and otherwise genious U.K. pop outfit's toss-offs, b-sides and radio sessions border on surpassing the group's albums. [#48, p.92]

When they fall into slow, sullen standards like minimalist closer "I Cry Alone," it's magnificently evil. [#59, p.86]

Bazan's ability to write compelling, catchy tunes remains intact. [#68, p.100]

Home Everywhere is noisy and poppy. [No. 115, p.59]

It is, in a way, a dad-rock opus, the songs imbued with the residue of a man pondering not just the intricacies of family but the greater implications of existence that come with it. [No. 93, p.51]

The results echo any number of indelibly British daydreamers, from Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd and XTC at its wispiest on down to Saint Etienne and the Clientele: rife with memory and magic, as fragrant and saturated as a sticky, sleepless summer night. [No. 145, p.61]

Nearly buries itself in interesting ideas that are ultimately unrewarding. [#69, p.98]

Call it the musical equivalent of Cormac McCarthy's similarly brutal The Road. [No. 146, p.59]

In its ornately layered, keyboard-heavy sonics, ALbatross is more latter-day Talk Talk than early Gang Of Four. [#70, p.110]

Top Of The Pops highlights everything that originally captured us, and makes a convincing argument as to why the band's following full-lengths are worth the money, too. [No. 98, p.52]

An overview with passionate, vibrant performances, Disconnected In New York City shows the band's history, talent and diversity with heartland rock, folk excursions, shuffling R&B and inevitable Latin rave-outs from many different points of its amazing career. [No. 104, p.58]

Same Language is excellent ersatz Russell. [No. 135, p.53]

What is by some distance the weirdest, wildest White we've yet encountered on record. [No. 150, p.60]

The group's 17th album sounds as fresh and over the top as anything it's ever done. [No. 130, p.55]

It isn't always pleasant, but it's always surprisingly pretty. [#54, p.88]

O'Neill's voice is so perfectly suited to the material that you can hear single spour forth like rain. [#56, p.109]

The band has finally become more than the sum of its friends. [#54, p.106]

By no means a radical album; challenging as it may be, it's a natural extension of earlier work rather than a sudden departure from it. [#51, p.105]

There are moments where small breakthroughs are made, but as Sway proceeds, it takes a turn toward the dour and depressing. [No. 114, p.61]

If Factory Floor emobodied a dynamic tension between paralysis and movement, claustrophobia and cathartic release, this outing functions similarly but tips the scales slightly toward the former categories. [No. 134, p.57]

Nothing truly "new" but still revealing surprises and delights for the initiated. [No. 144, p.61]

You can only imagine the verbal bonbons Gallagher has in store for Oxford’s Foals, whose bristling, high-energy dance shtick borrows heavily from better U.K. bands--and whose members were gracing magazine covers months before the release of this underwhelming debut.

The Welsh quintet's second release goes down as easy as a mixtape on a '90s spring day. [No. 121, p.57]

Penn's precision in balancing melody, mood and texture throughout nicely counters the often-depressing subject matter. [#69, p.106]

The production is crisper, the songs seem less abrupt, and the vocals are less murky. [No. 100, p.53]

This album sounds nothing like the stuff that got you into Slow Club in the first place. Approach tipsy and with caution. [No. 111, p.61]

The Blow is full of those breathy moments, minimalist percussive and vocal stimulations that send shivers and sparks from the headphones to the brain to the heart to the feet. [No. 103, p.53]

Partygoing is arguably as good as Memories Of Love. [No.99, p.54]

Ultimately, neither the album's ample, artful ambience nor its pasted-on continuous sequencing can help it transcend the ho-hum resignation of its title. [No. 149, p.59]

Coomes' vividly imagined, bloodcurdling tales of anger and dreaming are so cleanly produced and layered... that you barely remember how lousy Quasi's other records sound in comparison. [#71, p.110]

Heavy, haunting and wholly captivating. [No.90 p.56]

Another fine Vanderslice record with all he things we've come to expect. [No. 100, p.61]

Arthur goes at it more heartily than ever on autobiographical treatises like "King Of Cleveland," with a full-blooded band of renowneds and a funk that matches his usual finessed frenzy. [No. 100, p.52]

Circulatory System is once again a soft pharmaceutical machine on Mosaics. [No. 110, p.53]

After a promising start, the album charts a steep and steady decline into ersatz Bowie and slapdash psychedelia. [#58, p.96]

No One Is Lost features some of the band's richest melodies, not to mention some of its heaviest grooves. [No. 115, p.60]

Smith keeps his garage-rock grounding--and his distinctiveness--intact. [No. 100, p.58]

Musically, it's another melodic goldmine and their most vigorous, least fussy work in ages. [No. 150, p.57]

After The End is disappointing because Merchandise has already proven it can do more. [No. 113, p.59]

Capacious, intimate and brimming with both whimsy and tension, Recording A Tape is what classical music might sound like from some advanced alien civilization. [#70, p.86]

When the record works, it's unarguably charming. [#86, p.54]

If there's a complaint to be leveled, it's that the off threesome might have smoothed out its differences a little too much. But it mostly works. [No. 101, p.57]

They create fresh sonic collages that reference past epochs rather than erect shrines to exalt them. [No. 101, p.57]

Exister may still press a heavy thumb on the melodic rock end of the scale... but enough Caution-era magic is recaptured for us to welcome these new transmissions from Radio Free Gainesville. [No.88 p.56]

Here Dee Dee even strips the roaring guitar off a lazily tuneful stopgap that's not quite as revelatory as High. [No. 92, p.53]

If it isn't the most interesting Pink Mountaintops album on its own merits, it's still leagues more engaging than most of those. [No. 109, p.59]

A beautifully dark masterpiece. [#56, p.99]

By keeping it simple, Bowie has avoided the stupid, said more with less and made the clearest record of his career. [#61, p.88]

A rewarding, cohesive and climactic experience. [#54, p.88]

This attention-grabbing sophomore grower beckons with a wicked lick. [No. 106, p.55]

An endearing solo effort with a higher percentage of hits to misses than 2003's My Room Is A Mess. [#75, p.96]

While Femi's flame doesn't burn quite as strong as his dad's, the Kuti family still holds the belt as reigning champs of Afrobeat. [No. 100, p.55]

This latest offering carries an overwhelming feeling of desperation. [No. 139, p.53]

Taken all in one sitting, the dashing Mole City is both way too much and way too little. [No. 103, p.60]

It's a serious-minded, dramatic record, dressed up with strings, marimba and reverb-soaked guitars. [No. 109, p.60]

Taut, catchy songs ripe with beginner's pluck. [#71, p.105]

The band's flair for drama comes to the forefront on the "be My Baby"--quoting "Algiers" and intensely epic closer "These Sticks." [No. 108, p.53]

Calder never strains, never belts it out; she finds her sweet spot and reveals in all album long. [No. 119, p.53]

The quartet has reached puberty on its second album, which sees the band embracing awkward teen angst a la Winona Ryder's character in Beatlejuice. [No. 96, p.61]

It's hard to ignore that the arrangements feel like templates. [No. 107, p.55]

While another updating of Bloodrock/Blue Cheer/proto-metal is exactly what the world doesn't need, it's a different story when Electric Wizard puts such source material in the crosshairs to show the saturated margins how it's done. [No. 149, p.55]

A tasteful restraint envelops the album, continuing the musical maturation of both its performer and producer. [No. 111, p.61]

IX strips down the layers and offers walls of noise, but cushions the blow with moody interludes. [No. 116, p.53]

Occasionally struggling to balance style with substance, Gardner nonetheless makes Hypnophobia much more than just an exercise in sonic adventurism. [No. 120, p.55]

The songs are as dense and atmospheric as we've come to expect. [No. 126, p.55]

Pretty and pleasant without ever being especially compelling. [#67, p.100]

A phenomenal recording of sonic and lyrical depth. [#53, p.69]

There's no mistaking this unpredictable, lovingly tended aural scenery for anything else. [No. 144, p.53]

Its wide-open sound is full of giant guitars, processed keyboards and retro beats, suggesting a meeting between Lee Hazelwood and Ennio Morricone at the Brill Building. [No. 141, p.57]

As with his main gig Ex-Cult, Shaw’s detuned, smoke-trailing vocals are the runaway engine to which this crazy train is hitched. [No. 133, p.57]

Fans will find nothing to object to. [#67, p.102]

Wilson is brilliant and creative yet hindered by his own expansive eclecticism and purple prose. [No. 150, p.61]

As If offers something close to perfection, as far as !!! goes. [No. 125, p.52]

The LP is an unpredictable and often euphoric collection with plenty to, well, love. [Fall 2007, p.90]

Down In Heaven is the third full-length from Twin Peaks, and it’s undoubtedly their most solid collection. [No. 132, p.61]

There's something far too aloof about Again. [#64, p.84]

Tepid, predictable.... It's sleek and stylized, the spastic, jittery punk replaced by impassioned, searching guitar lines. [#60, p.110]

The album's first half explores the same musical territories as Nocturne--the chiming euphony of a hundred things happening at once, the guileless melodic patterns that wander up the scale and back--but it does so in lifted fog. [No. 92, p.59]

If the fanboys and motorheads are equally turned off by it in places, you get the sense the Puppets themselves--who sound happier and more comfortable here than they have in years--would be perversely pleased. [No. 98, p.58]

Buffalo Killers have conceived an evocative soundtrack comprising equal parts of rush, peak, contemplation and glow. [No. 109, p.52]

It's yet another excellent Oldham album. [No. 115, p.54]

Worth a listen, for Ween fans and armchair guitar heroes alike. [No. 137, p.61]

We All Want The Sam Thing is the best of his three solo albums because it lets the music serves the stories. [No. 141, p.55]

Rouen is all long jams and breezy acoustics, the telltale signs of a band that feels it's time to sober up. [#70, p.110]

Putrifiers II finds a compelling bridge between the two poles [the breezy, lo-fi records Dwyer makes on his own and the heavier, more propulsive ones he makes with the full band] - ironically by being a remarkably wide-ranging effort. [No.91 p.59]

Music to take drugs to. [No.87, p.52]

Though the sax draws you in, you'll stay for the trashy energy. [No.87 p.56]

Vol. 1's gorgeous "Sea Of Clouds," Dylanesque "Hope IS Big" and crystalline "Limp Right Back" quiver with quiet emotional power. [No. 146, p.51]

Largely thanks to more robust production and instrumentation than was afforded last year's Pajo, 1968 proves that it isn't so much what you say, but how sweet you can make it sound. [#73, p.103]

Tripper is a strummy, breezy delight. [#81, p. 55]

ProVISIONS tells a less reassuring truth than "’Sno Angel Like You," but one that’s just as true; you just never know.

If Seaworthy is more restrained than Macha, it's just as colorful. [#83, p.89]

One of 2002's candidates for record-of-the-year honors.... Too Late is a top-to-bottom masterwork. [#54, p.85]

Has enough regret, sadness and self-loathing to power a Trent Reznor comeback. [#61, p.96]