On Lost At Last, Vol. 1, he trusted in the spontaneous nature of creation, letting the songs dictate the direction the arrangements take. Eighteen players joined him in the studio, but they remain in the background, mixed down to add subtle, almost invisible nuance to these bleak songs of heartache and dejection. [No. 149, p.59]

Burnt Offering resembles nothing so much as the soundtrack to a '70s exploitation flick. That's no dig. [No. 116, p.55]

If Morning Glory was Oasis' Rumours, then Be Here is its messy, glorious Tusk. [No. 136, p.59]

Daughter OF Everything fits neatly alongside recent work from guys like Mikal Cronin and Ty Segall, and untethered garage rock like this never goes out of style. [No. 107, p.61]

The crisp production of Strange Geometry does give the group's more sedate inclinations a mild kick in the pants. [#70, p.89]

The title track suggests maybe they've found a perfect merging of the '70s and the heavies, as it shifts from funky shuffle to skulking stomp. The rest is still King Crimson than King Diamond, but that's not a bad thing. [No. 136, p.61]

There's a duality to Fragrant World that, sized up alongside its two predecessors, reveals an inherent character trait and a more troublesome trend. Bad songs turn into good songs, and good songs turn into better ones. [No.90 p.51]

He's still evolving, and though the double CD Psychedelic Pill is far from nostalgic, he's spending a helluva lot of time looking back. [No. 94, p.61]

Though Station only gets fully cranked twice (the Battles-esque title track, the explosive 'Youngblood'), Turncrantz’s surefooted playing will keep your interest from flagging.

Some [of the songs] are funny, some are sad, and the best are somewhere in between. [#88, p.54]

Discerning Anglophiles will warm to the charms of the Divine Comedy's 11th album, Foreverland. [No. 136, p.55]

Make no mistake, Blame It On Gravity is a guitar-pop record at heart. Other than a few twangy flourishes here and there, bassist Murry Hammond appears to be the one keeping the country faith, delivering one of his best performances on “Color Of A Lonely Heart Is Blue.”

Stones-y rockers a la "Heartstopper" and "Trouble" have more chug and balls than Richards' band has displayed in a while. [No. 126, p.59]

Cosmonaut is a mostly understated genre-jumper that serves as the platform for frontman Bid to exercise his dry wit. [No. 136, p.59]

It's drowsy, but drowsy with one cup of coffee in it. [#68, p.108]

Even on the weaker songs, when the chord changes come secondhand and the influences arrive undigested, Wrecking Ball remains an ugly slab of guitar sludge that’s well worth the pain.

Whimsical, immaculately realized music. [#67, p.98]

There’s True Sadness, whose songs touch lyrically upon all things sad but with various shades of unsubtle sound to guide them. [No. 133, p.54]

While there's a bit less winsome lilt and a bit more loud fuzz, the songs still sound like a bulked-up amalgam of early Pavement, Television Personalities and your favorite shamble-rock outfit. Why change it if it works? [No. 136, p.61]

The voice and lyrics still confound but it's the music on this concise third LP that demands notice. [No. 107, p.55]

It's amazing that, however slowly, the Ex is still exploring fresh terrain. [#50, p.87]

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

Speed rock, Gretsch guitar thunder and frontman heroics give this rockabilly cat his claws. [#54, p.102]

It's everything you ever loved about obscure French and Italian new-wave cinema soundtracks without the stench of rancid popcorn. [#55, p.74]

Sounds like it was put together using spit, eyelash glue and sequins that fell off David Johansen's costumes all those years ago. [#64, p.90]

If you don't smell the brimstone smoke of hell when listening to Nothin' But Blood, then you just don't get it. [No. 107, p.53]

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]

Faced with conventional, if not threadbare, tunes, Sylvian becomes grand in comparison, humming and mumbling through the subtlest opera of tweaked, quaking noises. [#60, p.117]