The downside is it's a couple of tracks too long--'Just In Case' being a slow jam too far--but a confident strut of a debut nonetheless.

False Priest is also Of Montreal's first and only adventure in hi-fi, a co-production job with Kanye West consort Jon Brion.

This fifth album resolutely refuses to tread water, instead coming on like a literary pop version of The Maccabees’ recent explorations in jittery psychedelia.

The second half is noticeably weaker than the first and the constant perkiness will grate if you're in anything other than a blinding mood, but there's plenty here to appreciate and it's perfect iPod fodder. [Sep 2008, p.46]

Mica's choppin' and screwin' attempt at repackaging its intelligence and emotion makes it something fresh that you can feel. Drink up.

The fact is, there's a vitality, a shamelessness, an energy retained throughout here that shows why they mattered so damn much, and why they shouldn't – and couldn't – ever consider doing anything else.

There are a few radio-friendly moments. Happily, they're so sufficiently steeped in classic rawk that songs like 'Curl Of The Burl' don't sound like cynical stabs.

It’s not original, but you’ll love it for the summer at least.

Their debut album is a short, sharp shock to the system. Yeah, they may look like a band that would steal your library books rather than your girlfriend, but that just makes us love them even more.

At times that flow can feel fractured, but the underlying consistency is a singular vision and an irrepressible sense of purpose.

Now shorn of vibraphonist Keaton Snyder, San Francisco's The Dodos remain a three-piece with the addition of alt.country chanteuse Neko Case.

'Tongues' contains some of the most uneasy listening ever.

Somehow they’ve retained their pop nous, making for an album that’s unique, but maddeningly all over the place.

An uproarious set of rock songs that audaciously ape the styles of several of his current iPod icons.

While the music works when it’s slow, sparse and emotional, the band’s debut comes into its own when it steps up the pace.

It's one drawn-out primal scream that goes from dark and broody to blissed-out drone. [11 Mar 2006, p.43]

The advance buzz about Luke Temple’s first record as Here We Go Magic suggested the Brooklyn-based songwriter could be about to do a Grizzly Bear, but his latest project is a far more introspective beast.

A few of the songs stick too closely to the originals, going to show that it's best to do something daft and unexpected rather than just trace the lines of greatness. You can't improve on perfection, but you can certainly play around with it.

If you don't already know the Mac, treat this as your way in. You won't be coming out in a hurry.

It’s a difficult album and requires repeated listening for some of the subtler parts to sink in.

The result is a set of remarkable electronic rituals with an endearing, mystical quality.

They're songs infused with bite and bile, quite ridiculous, very bombastic - and let's make this point one more time - utterly, utterly thrilling.

You hear a band capable of genuine prettiness as well as arch cleverness. [6 Jan 2007, p.26]

Strange Weather, Isn't It? returns as a more disciplined, ziggurat kind of groove odyssey, where the modular sounds are rhombus and the emotional undercurrents darker and more demure.

An inventively arranged mixture of blues, hip-hop, strings, folk and metal, 'Eat At Whitey's' is like Fun Lovin' Criminals' cameo in The Sopranos: by turns, flash, atmospheric, melancholic, and very masculine.

This is a surprisingly decent album, as good as anything they've ever made.

They normally strike a few bullseyes per record though, and so it is with Hold It In.

Liz Wendelbo and Sean McBride have the Human League/Thomas Dolby textures down to a tee but, crucially, they haven't skimped on the songwriting