Imperial Wax Solvent is a swift two-finger rejoinder [to middle aged mellowing]. [June 2008, p.112]

By and large, though, Cajun serve up a smooth, folky breed of indie-rock, only rendered unlovely by Blumberg's histrionic yelping. [Jun 2008, p.103]

The bass-fuzz stomp and chain-gang holler of 'Grounds for Divorce' couldn't be more immediate, Guy Garvey refusing to let emotional intelligence blackball a decnt tune. [Apr 2008, p.106]

Mr. Love and Justice unvels a warmer, less blustry, more soulful Bragg. [Apr 2008, p.102]

Restless, relentless, righteous: this guru of the primeval groove is once more helming an exceptional rock'n'roll band. [July 2008, p.108]

The rolling melodies, stately pace and closed-miked, out of phase vocals result in an off-kilter whole, tempered by contributions from the Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra. [July 2008, p.111]

In catharsis lies energy, and this, ultimately, is a very joyful, uplifting album. [Nov 2008, p.108]

All told, it sounds a bit like a band searching for a new direction, and while they don't always find it, it's a worthwhile endeavour either way. [June 2008, p.106]

Unobtrusive producer Tony Hoffer again extracts clarity while adroitly leaving the sense of a happpy mess. [May 2008 p.112]

The sneeringly portrentious title and tracks called'Being Bad Feels Pretty Good' or Epic Last Song' would be forgivable--japes, even--if there were a sense of bona fide abandon bubbling beneath the synth squelches, vocoder-shrouded vocals and obligatory cowbell bashing. [Apr 2008, p.114]

A stopgap while The Gossip work on new material, this album is nonetheless worth the price of a hand-stamp. [May 2008, p.102]

A definate contender when those Best of the Year polls gets underway. [Aug 2008, p.105]

The fourteenth Bad Seeds record is willfully untidy and, at times, pretty chaotic. It also rocks like crazy. [Apr 2008, p.104]

Here are 13 reasons why we don't need another Pixies record. [Apr 2008, p.101]

Antidotes feels like riding a tea-tray down an icy mountainside. [Apr 2008, p.106]

A crash, bang, wallop delivery, plus an organic fuzz, like stubble against a microphone, colour 'Headshock' and 'Le Ruse,' but smart arrangements and Josh Grier's slackjawed, cryptic confessionals tap into something beyond blokey bluster. [June 2008, p.106]

It's the kind of inimitably throbbing slice of neo-psychedelic unease they've knocked out with biennial constancy since 1999's Internal Wrangler. [May 2008, p.109]

A fun day out only slightly marred by clinical execution that lacks the emotional tug that lovers of this vintage seek. [May 2008, p.102]

The best songs here more than compensate for the near misses. [May 2008, p.112]

Sampling Serge Gainsbourg's quivering strings for 'Sensitized,' however, only serves to highlight the album's lack of truly knee-wobbling moments. [Dec 2007, p.98]

At it's best, it's a picaresque, altered-states voyage through old school hip-hop, black-leather electro and techno menace; elsewhere it's as invigorating as trying to get served at a bar. [Apr 2008, p.101]

Danger Mouse asked the pair to write songs for Ike Turner and ended up producing the best album of their career so far. [May 2008, p.111]

It really does seem that a decade-long period of interbal artistic crisis has been resolved, beautifully, even triumphantly. [Apr 2008, p.98]

The quartet's grandeur evokes Maiden and Priest with a hint of Thin Lizzy, yet they avoid European power metal's widdly overkill. [May 2008, p.109]

This third Sun il Moon album demonstrates Kozelek spinning luminescent textural webs on original compositions which, like the ravishing 'Moorestown,' rank among his very finest.

Highly politicised, yet leavened with deft vocal harmony and potent melodies, the album drips with passion and thoughtfully targeted ire. [Oct 2007, p. 90]

As feisty good-time rock goes, the Stones get good and gone and its worth every penny for the duet with Buddy Guy on Muddy Waters' 'Champagne and Reffer' alone. [May 2008, p.103]

Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson's endless calls for us to party hearty sound like nothing less than Shampoo's sozzled grans on a hen night, Fred Schneider's ironic lounge lizard is just creepy, and the same old tuned guitars spar against the same old Barbarella beats. [Apr 2008, p.102]