Mostly it is simply an impressively touching and intensely human affair--right now, it seems, nobody does melancholy quite like Girls.

Ghost Blonde brings a glimmer of hope to those who feel that noise has remained stagnant, past overdue its last hurrah. As these set of songs pinpoints, there's still plenty to discover in a genre that has always shown itself as deviously minimal.

Tao of the Dead finally channel their indulgences, creating a heroic symphony that sounds wholly constructed.

People Problems is something the band can be proud of, and it's a great point to move forward from. It's not a breathtaking album, but in the end, it doesn't need to be.

With Stay Home we not only get that genuine approach, but we get songwriting that's been notched up a bit. That alone is worth the cost of admission: The Beets are clearly good songwriters, even if they do happen to get their feet a bit muddy when they stray off the well-beaten path.

Yeah, Minks has churned out an enjoyable full-length debut, but there's an ever-present possibility that it'll get lost in the mess--much like the standout moments on By the Hedge, there's always a haziness enveloping everything like a dense fog.

When an album's main faults are that its too upbeat and lyrically too ambitious, it really is one that deserves to be talked about.

As it stands, Deerhoof seems to have lost its footing a bit with this one.

City Of Refuge is an album which manages to be raw yet transcendental and simple yet layered. Inquisitive ears should find plenty of interest here.

If you're looking for a catchy voice amidst the sea of bedroom outfits, Cloud Nothings is a strong contender for someone to continually keep an ear open for.

Adele and her team have crafted an album that's both full of songs that have the potential to reach the upper reaches of the charts, and also a collection of songs that hang together as an album.

It's got a great tonality and texture to it that gives Adams' voice just enough room to rise above it. There are some songs that are right to be outtakes here, they toil that middle ground that Adams can on occasion slip into, and it's when he's at his 'nicest' sounding that often leads to the most uninteresting work.

The anthemic choruses largely remain but are endlessly unsatisfying and constrained. Given the unmistakeably grittier and less atmospheric qualities of this album it was the right to attempt to temper them; I'm just not so sure they pulled it off.

The overall sound may be modest, but in context, will most likely relate with those fortunate enough to live an affluent, fanciful lifestyle.

Digging into Robert Pollard is an invigorating bit of fun, and it's what's made the man a success. By all accounts, Space City Kicks is more of exactly that.

It's laudable that The Decemberists are still prepared to try something different, still prepared to break away from what they're known for. There's a tiny concern that they've lost something which set them apart from the pack, but as long as they're still capable of writing such strong material, they'll retain their deserved reputation.

Is this record the cure to the ails that is the sophomore LP? Yes and no. Yes, it's new and fresh and spilling over with more of their unique brand of high-energy rock; no, as there's some missteps and growth is often traded out for immature jabs.

It ebbs and flows, and in the end, Native Speaker is a satisfying, invigorating listen.

The equivalent of changing radio stations in his more youthful days, Kiss Each Other Clean is the result of Beam uncontrollably turning the radio knob until finding the right tune in his head.

With Arcade Dynamics, a bit of that moral fiber is lost, resulting in a pleasant number of hooks that hone the psychedelic tag a bit too conventionally.

Graceful, inviting, and evocative as ever, Dan Bejar's assembled the necessary parts for an early-year success.

The band stays true to their rhythmic minimalism and bouts of art-infused modernity and Red Barked Tree has a consistency that its predecessor lacked to some extent, though 47 seemed more prone to experimentation and risk.

They're always willing to invest on either side of the coin, driven to earn their place inside the majestic hall.

With Outside, Tapes n' Tapes have it really tough because, frankly, they're questioned by those who originally praised them in the first place.

Lyrically Wake Up The Nation is largely inscrutable, while sonically it remains a shambling and ungainly listen.

Grinderman 2 follows with more of a racket, still the full-throttle guitar-driven rock meant to separate men from boys.

In lengthening the song lengths and trimming the tracklist, No Mas jettisons the spontaneous, off-the-cuff energy that made their debut so incredibly fun.

In many ways, his music is more punk than punk music is nowadays-stripped down completely to only the most basic and bare of instruments, the tiny Kristian Matsson manages to live up to his name as The Tallest Man on Earth.

Taken as a whole, Castle Talk is leaps and bounds ahead of any other Screaming Females album. Take the album track by track, however, and you'll notice the very few tracks that just fall flat on their face.

This is considerably more poppy than what you'd expect from Cursive, and it's clear: Kasher has never been content with playing it safe.

This is their Holy Bible--in other words this is an unknown quantity alright; it's Weezer's raw, emotive bastard child; and a great, brilliant, titanic blot on an often pristinely laundered back catalogue. For that reason in particular this is a thing to be cherished.

Suckers make this stylistic smorgasbord indisputably their own.

While enjoyable and familiar, this set of songs reflects a band who knows what music they don't want to be making but haven't--at least, not yet--determined what it is they want to be defined by instead.

The National's latest is easily up there with the very best indie-rock records of the year.

Ultimately The Weight's on the Wheels works on the whole. Its finest moments are excellent examples of the wry electro-pop that TRF are certainly proficient at; at its worst, however, the album lacks any evidence of an evolution in sound or style, suffering from mediocrity rather than being distinctly poor.

For whatever reason, though, the voices in her own head aren't strong enough to out-sway input from others, leading to a few unimpressive moments in the LP.

Not only does Undercard not disappoint--there are more than a couple earworms here and there--but it's brilliant and fresh from two musicians who aren't exactly freshmen to the scene.

All Day is Girl Talk's cleanest album in that sense. Pitch disagreements are virtually non-existent, and save for one ill-advised Creep mash-up, it's as close to perfect as he can possibly get.

Lisbon is up to the band's usual high standards; if you've followed their career closely that's really all you need to know.

"Matured" is an overused word in music criticism, but that's what No Age have done. They've evolved in a completely logical direction in ways that are pleasantly surprising but never jarring.

They do rest a bit comfortably on what they do right, circumventing the idea of exploring new territory. This is, of course, a curse and a blessing. In presence or not, Azure Ray's stark simplicity will always remain intact.

At its best, it blows Chemical Chords out of the water but at its worst, it's uninspiring and dull.

It's no exaggeration that doing two concept records in a row could have been disastrous. But after four years and a whole lot of life, MCR proves with Danger Days that the days of their self-involved, namby-pampy crybaby act are a thing (mostly) of the past. And to think, all it took was the end of days

The Lady Killer is generic in the best possible sense of the word; put simply: this is music for the soul, and even Mr. Gallagher has one of those.

As a whole, the record is a brilliant display of Kanye's range and influences, an opus of dirty hip-hop laid over haunting classically-inspired melodies.

There is a clear aspiration for this album to be ubiquitous, and well, overbearing with tunes. Rather than follow the typical pop formula, Rihanna gives an album specifically catered to where she is now with her career, music, and life. And blaring seems to be the point.

It's not too hard to imagine the Saunders sisters staring aimlessly while some confused producers shuffle the cards until randomly finding their rhythmic groove. And that's the worst think about this record: constantly thinking of the word studio when you're trying to invest some emotion.

It's new, fresh, and energetic, all of which are not entirely surprising from an obviously skilled group, but it's in the execution that everything comes into clarity.

The Other Side of Zero shifts from side to side with some regularity, ranging from bubbly and invigorating to downbeat and expressive. There's a real sense of diversity here, and it's what sets the album apart.

Some people might Matt & Kim's music is without substance, totally incapable of being a sustainable addition to the sonic landscape. I submit that their saccharine hooks, covered in a coating of post-adolescent confusion, is just the opposite.

This album does its best to give certain fans exactly what they want in sexually-driven club grinders while offering up real, honest-to-goodness substance. It isn't always a perfect situation, and parts of the album border on forgettable, but when they get it right, everything's groovy.

Even when it seems a bit disjointed on close inspection, it's when you take a step back that this album really comes into focus.

This brand of thoughtful ambient music is certainly not for everyone, but those willing to take the plunge may just come away surprised. After all, being perhaps too original and ambitious is often better than being trite and derivative.

The Fool rewards at almost every step of the way with its experimental touches.

Halcyon Digest goes by like a breeze, and when it's finished there's nothing better to do than play it again.

Write About Love may not be a great leap forward for Belle and Sebastian, but it's such an enjoyable record it's difficult to hold it against them.

What It Means To Be Left-Handed is amply adorned with Pierce's distinctive improvisatory drum stylings, with each rim hit and snare taking on a melodic spirit of its own, whilst never intruding. His kit-work is a baffling contradiction of smooth and jagged, providing a solid backdrop whilst playfully interacting with dense acoustic guitar textures or washy post-rock atmospheres.

Love Remains has no established coherence, disrespects the meaning of creating a full length from scratch by (reworking?) rehashing material, and frankly, relies too much on Krell's scorching falsettos.

Sure there's some nice stuff here and no one ever said Stevens lacked ideas. But I'm telling you that despite this, The Age of Adz is a major misfire from an artist of uncommon depth and talent.

Gough has crafted a beautiful sonic masterpiece that is equal parts raw, open emotion and simplicity and a picture-perfect example of a truly layered production.

1,000 Years is an uplifting album, despite some of the painful imagery. Sometimes wallowing in the past isn't such a bad thing, especially when, like it did for Corin Tucker, it moves you forward.

If you've embraced Clinic's reverberating panache for the past ten years, there's no reason to dislike Bubblegum's peculiar fabric. This is the sound of a unit that still has no intention in keeping up with the times, delivering more of what they do best with an already proven track record.

At its weakest, the album is merely boring with the lamely typical Can't You See, an album opener of distorted rumbling and vocals so low you'd strain to make them out. Arguably worse than a bland track is that the album actually offers some hope for a reasonably enjoyable experience.

Crush is the result of Abe Vigoda's common practice to evolve without abandoning their signature sound. There's still a fair amount of sharp guitars, post-chorus breakdowns are just as memorable, and metronome time signatures are still shattered. Not to mention, their shrewd tack for melody is as resounding as ever.

My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky is an advance for Swans, and Gira comes across as less of an eccentric noise-generator, and more of a presence that requires our attention.

If you want to hear this sort of thing done properly, you'll find happiness in the more sedate moments of the peerless Saint Etienne, but there's little to recommend The Trip. It's not much more than a Christmas bauble: shiny and polished on the surface, but with little of substance on the inside.

With Frankie Rose and The Outs, her first self-accredited rock music excursion, Rose predictably weaves femininity and cherubic harmonics with garage rock, resulting in a pretty, albeit somewhat tired, retreading of familiar waters.

Wilderness Heart is probably the best new utilization of the Iommi/Page/Lynott grab bag you'll hear because, to put it simply, it's going to appeal to men AND women.

With this latest effort, Superchunk have proven just that, and done so in their own insightful, rocking way and without compromise. All hail the kings (and queen).

Penny Sparkle straddles the line between comfort and tension, the woozy synths bleed into one another, the music is warm and enveloping but frequent, unexpected minor chords and bass rumbles mean you can never be as comfortable as you'd wish to be.

Hurley sums up like a consumer guide of all the musical directions Weezer has explored throughout the years.

While the concept of exploring new horizons seems like a perpetually Megafaun thing to do, it's a case of too much too soon and of a band reaching for places they have no business going toward.

Inasmuch as they continue to build upon The Velvet Underground's Warhol-ian art rock daze and the psychedelic blues of hometown heroes The 13th Floor Elevators, The Black Angels attempt clarity with Phosphene Dream, revelatory guitar playing that owes more of itself to the garage gems associated with The Kinks, The Monks, The Troggs and even The Doors.

It is broad in its appeal, yes, but it is miles deep in its longevity.

Root For Ruin is an album of decent, somewhat disappointing Les Savy Fav songs, but as its come to pass in the indierealm, any batch of Les Savy Fav songs is better than no batch of Les Savy Fav songs.

It's great when artists learn to produce work that has more than one dimension to it. Robyn's has two. I'd just like to see her develop one or two more.

Fortunately, The Thermals like to venture into unfamiliar territory--songs sound more spacious when they need the breathing space; bass lines will override a song when guitars ought to blend in. And then there are the lyrical themes--listeners take their so-called simplicity for granted, provided they come up to the requisite standard of conceptual excellence.

I guess I'm the contrarian here, but I think Interpol deserve a significant amount of respect for taking the risk and mustering the sheer talent to create something so deeply submerged in melancholia you can't even see light.

Carrying features stellar glockenspiel work and a beautiful chorus, but uncharacteristically poor drumming and a gaudy ragtime piano solo. Perhaps the most damning indictment is that the worst songs are all similar enough to blend into each other.

It's a fine record on its own terms, but the it's just not possible to circumvent the expectations that come with his dayjob.

Save for a few tracks, you get exactly what you'd expect from a band like Dead Confederate: middle of the road alternative rock music with seemingly little depth and a whole lot of cliches.

Magic Kids do pull off a winner with Summer, a sultry delight of abounding strings and tropical strums that, sadly, sounds out of place with the obvious eye winks scattered throughout. Memphis may borrow from such an imaginative time period, but their explorative range remains very limited.

Cloak and Cipher is unpretentious in every respect, escalating their previous subtleties with furious, transcendent melancholic moments. While many Canadian bands find themselves teetering on the edge after much premature praise, it comes as a pleasant surprise that Land of Talk keep getting better.

Ra Ra Riot's focus on overall listenability may have produced an album lacking some of the excitement found on their first record. While The Orchard is certainly a pretty record, it's not always the most thrilling.

They play directly to the people willing to get swept up in a communal euphoria, and they do that very, very well.

In the love affair of listeners to this EP, an overly ambitious singer-songwriter who seems to be far more into growing artistically then creating genuine songs will force fans and detractors alike into the arms of another.

You could call it inconsistency, but you can tell they never signed up for the mission of steering the chasm of modern rock music. Instead, they're four guys doing what they want, culling their influences and breathing life into whatever construct emerges. But regardless of where it falls on the spectrum, it's always fun.

Even though King Of The Beach marks a dramatic step forward in Williams' abilities as a songwriter, he's still the same lonely dude that can't keep his friends, can't get a girl, and can't catch a break. Except it seems like maybe this time he finally has.

The Suburbs is about a search for home, for a place in the world when the home you knew is gone.

Transit Transit justly follows the digitalized distortion their debut paved, keeping a decidedly drab mood that permeates throughout the entire production.

It's cohesive, it's tight and it illustrates the band's continuous depth and attention to subtlety.

Infra is a pensive and deeply involving achievement, which rewards long after the credits have finished rolling.

As it stands, there is a lot to like here and a lot to digest. One advantage to having so many vocalists is that each song can be separated and dealt with accordingly, giving the record the sort of film soundtrack feel I think the principle authors were aiming for. Other than that, this unburdens Sparklehorse fans slightly of the wait between albums by providing a mainly interesting and, at times, genuinely moving distraction.

M.I.A. has now made a trilogy of inventive, engrossing records, but for the sake of music we'd all better hope that MAYA isn't the beginning of the end.

Admiral Fell Promises sits somewhere in the middle of being a series of musical pieces and being an album. It's brave, but Kozelek's grace and musical deftness means he never risks alienating his audiences and makes Admiral Fell Promises another essential addition to Kozelek's remarkable catalogue.

As the name may suggest, it's a daring, sprawling effort that simultaneously ventures beyond hip-hop and celebrates the genre's very history.

Expo 86 emphasizes the fact that novel beginnings are meant to prosper whilst winking at the past from time to time.

It's another rock-solid album from one of rap's most consistently great collectives, with no discernable weak spots to attack.