While BPM ultimately feels disjointed, it does get you thinking deep thoughts, pondering the similarities between brain activity and seismic activity. [No. 85, p.53]

Their grandiose mini-operas and stadium-size choruses can thrill. But to hear the relentless string of outsized anthems in a row is exhausting. [No. 105, p.55]

All four of these tracks succeed in holding the listener's attention throughout. [No. 122, p.57]

Holdin' The Bag pleases the punks and suppresses the alt-country garage rockers alike. [No. 125, p.61]

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

Plaid's sweet spot is halfway between cross-eared sonic doodling and IDM convention, the midpoint where you can hear both ends. [No. 133, p.59]

It certainly stands among his best. [No. 105, p.60]

Sure, the stories are worn and the whiskey is cut-rate, but the feeling is real. [#71, p.113]

The result is another set that perfectly captures the scruffy energy of its live shows. [No. 133, p.55]

Hatfield, drummer Todd Phillips and bassist Dean Fisher still mash up the agony and ecstasy in the same idiosyncratic, gorgeous way we knew and loved. [No. 117, p.55]

Naked and nearly innocent, the raw talent of Buckley is finally revealed. [No. 137, p.53]

Much of Smoke Fairies is the sound of a band embracing fatter orchestration and fuller arrangements on virtually every cut. [No. 110, p.61]

I don't know which Stereolab album is more nauseating: Sound-Dust or the last one. [#51, p.118]

It's as if Steve Miller and the Beach Boys got together, sacked the session players and sang over breakbeats and a thicket of digital clicks and clacks. [#56, p.105]

They've tempered the cheerleader quality of their vocals, and the breakneck pace has slowed down just enough for you to discover that, somewhere along the line, they learned to play and sing. [#48, p.85]

Defend Yourself is virtually filler-less. [No. 102, p.52]

The synths are crisp and warm, and the beats are motivational in that '80's coming-of-age soundtrack way. [No. 85, p.57]

A spotlessly produced, classic alt-rock album that recalls Garbage's golden age. [No.88 p.58]

Even when Black Lips operate more on the obnoxious side of the coin--"We Know" grinds to intolerable, screeching halts in an attempt to prove themselves both edgy and improved--the fuzzy, surf swing of tracks such as "Occidental Front" prove the band can be powerfully charming. [No. 143, p.55]

This fourth outing puts to bed both Tonight's frantic lonerism as well as any notion of a second night out with Alex Kapranos' equal-opportunity, Jacqueline-and-Michael seducer. [No. 102, p.56]

You have to admire the survivalist nature at hand here and the ability to craft an album that doesn't smack of inorganic hashtag laziness like those of many contemporaries. [No. 145, p.59]

From a fan's point of view, this [playing the same songs for years] rarely works. And it rarely works here. [No.99, p.55]

R. Cole Furlow reliably packs every Dead Gaze song with pathos, effects, blurred motion and voices, man, voices. [No.99, p.54]

Overall, though, Mr. Love & Justice is a collection of broken promises and lyrics that don’t live up to their potential.

By stripping away the symphonic, avant edge... [Gomez] loses much of what made it unique in the first place. [#64, p.96]

It's all very impressive (and pretty), but that doesn't necessarily mean it leaves much of an impression. [No. 992, p.52]

It makes music that tips its hat to the past without sounding derivative. [No. 144, p.53]

With Rented World, the Menzingers aren't doing anything new; they're simply coasting from where Impossible Past left them. [No. 109, p.57]