There's nothing here that doesn't feel like a weaker version of what he's already accomplished as a Stroke. Or as a solo artists for that matter. [No. 104, p.57]

The band seems aware that it's on well-trod ground throughout Honky Tonk, though that doesn't seem to affect Son Volt one bit. [No. 97, p.59]

Disjointed, yes, but Early Birds is a fascinating document all the same. [No.89, p.57]

The lyrics are often stupid as hell. ... What's novel about Pacific Daydream is that its giant, overcompressed choruses really do burrow their way into your skull. [No. 148, p.51]

Negativity is well worth a shot, but there may be times you'll end up sleeping it off. [No. 102, p.55]

Michael "Fitz" Fitzpatrick still knows his way around a catchy hook, though, and there are more than a few memorable ones here. [No. 98, p.55]

On Banks, he takes a decent pass at pop. [No. 93, p.54]

He conjures females with concrete blood and soldiers in coffins over the priciest anthemic ballast his new major label can buy. [No. 93, p.55]

The band's linear approach might have you pining for an injection of dynamic flourishes, as the songwriting often consists of settling on a single tempo and rhythm and bouncing between two riffs for the duration. [No. 146, p.53]

Merritt is skilled; she just needs to accept that and then actually travel alone into the music. [No. 93, p.57]

Good Graces falls just a tad flat. [No. 102, p.59]

It's yet another solid Lanegan album, although it lacks the harrowing edge of 2004's Bubblegum or the lascivious humor of his collaboration with Isobel Campbell. [No. 114, p.59]

It's a loosely coherent mood piece that, despite (mostly) maintaining a murky, somnambulant vibe, nevertheless leapfrogs around an impressive scrapheap of refurbished ideas. [No. 122, 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]

A backhanded compliment, sure, but really--things could have been so much worse. [No. 93, p.61]

When the melodies are too thin to support their own emotional weight, all the string quartets in the world can't rescue them, and I find myself missing that old pulsing bass, those swirling drums and the sheer fabulousness that made the original versions so liberating. [No. 93, p.61]

It's all beautifully crafted, though very sad. [No. 122, p.53]

Lovers Know is an unexpected turn that is saved by the passion of the performer behind it. [No. 123, p.61]

Most squarely accessible record to date, and easily the most pop album to come from an alumnus of Sacred Bones. [No. 114, p.61]

The pacing is only slightly faster than a brontosaurus in a tar pit, each track riding on a spine of thick lumbering guitar. [No. 104, p.54]

Overly busy.... They're best when they act just like Ratatat. [No. 123, p.58]

Tense and dramatic from the get-go, Seraph hardly changes tack over its next 11 songs. [No. 123, p.61]

The result is music that undulates and bobs, never really going anywhere, but accumulating density. [No. 101, p.52]

Townshend-ian windmills are all over... but it's greatest when Lucas makes his politics explicit on this record on the stomping "woo-ooh" hooked "They Saved Reagan's Brain" or breaks musical script for the intense metal-with-horns of "Here Comes Ol' Laptop." [No.92 p.55]

Like everything these two touch, the results are hardly astonishing, but they're just as pleasant as you please. [No. 104, p.56]

Despite faithfulness to the originals, this is unsurprisingly polished compared to the source material. [No. 112, p.61]

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]

It merits a mild sigh, but no great surprise, that ... [here is] the Magnetic Fields' first out-and-out novelty record. Fortunately, there are some decent jokes. [No. 85, p.54]