With its flawless song structures and instrumentation, the album flows seamlessly.

It’s a limited palette to be sure, but they do it well. However, cutting out a few songs would have made a stronger statement if they’re going to follow such a tight formula and narrow range of influences.

Musically, it’s quiet and reserved, making for a subtle but satisfying listen.

The music often verges on innocuous, but it serves its purpose as a backdrop for Darnielle’s steadily churning imagination.

Hopefully, Canadian audiences won’t be fooled by the British hype, because Bell X1 don’t have what it takes to win over the Great White North.

As good as it is, it’s clear that Vernon still has room to grow. A few songs could have used a little extra instrumental kick, and while his songs are great, you can tell he has more to offer. Keep an eye on this one.

Despite the somewhat pessimistic prognosis, Davies is a sharp enough tunesmith to keep his darkly droll song cycle upbeat and rockin’ throughout.

The latest release from former Soul Coughing frontman Mike Doughty isn’t quite as annoying as Matthews’s catalogue, but it comes close.

Choosing to record only songs by women is an intriguing twist. It might actually have made for a great comeback album if Moorer had dug a little deeper for more appropriate material.

This isn’t music so much as it is economic exploitation of a demographic.

Made is at once more adventurous and more accessible, with a greater respect for straightforward(ish) pop.

After 9/11, it seemed like every North American recording artist scrambled to come out with a political message album. Unfortunately for Sheryl Crow, words that to rhyme with “gasoline” have become painfully redundant in 2008.

The group’s fifth disc is an infectious collection of bright rock songs (Whose Authority) and calm, soothing numbers (See These Bones).

Lang gently pulls you into the quieter moments of domesticity on songs like 'Coming Home' and 'Sunday,' but her curled-lip drawl on Jealous Dog shows she can still surprise.

He’s crafted yet another replica batch of breezy, walk-along-the-beach jams [which] won’t matter to his fans, who keep coming back to their sandal-footed prophet regardless.

It’s Time For A Love Revolution, his eighth LP, easily ranks among his highest achievements.

With cleaner, more refined production quality to boot, Growth is an interesting and fully realized progression.

There’s good understated playing throughout, strong songwriting and a casual, immediate feel that comes from recording an entire album in six days.

Three albums and 700 guitar solos later, they sound like a band becoming a bit too comfortable in their niche.

The Vampire Weekend crew, who met at Columbia University, have clearly heard enough soukous and highlife to cop a few guitar licks to cloak their orch-pop pretensions, but almost by accident, the way their chamber strings are played over jaunty grooves makes for an engaging concoction, at least for a few spins.

Jamie Stewart, as usual, sounds like a man on the edge of checking into a white-walled care facility, but that shouldn’t be seen as a negative against Women As Lovers.

Too often these songs sound like Death Cab B-sides, like the 'I Will Follow You Into The Dark'-mining 'A Bird Is A Song.'

Fans won’t be let down by this latest collection of accomplished and almost too-smart songwriting that borrows from the classic sensibilities of piano-based jazz.

Much of Keep Your Eyes Ahead, like the softly plucked 'Shed Your Love' or the Dylanesque 'Broken Afternoon,' could easily backdrop drippy TV dramas, but that isn’t necessarily a knock. Both are beautiful tunes.

Fortress stands out as gratifyingly heavy and heady.

Phil Ramone’s austere production seems designed to let Lynne’s voice carry the album, and that’s a big mistake, since she has neither the emotional range nor the soulful finesse to convey the real hurt at the core of this material.

Yoav’s whole shtick is that he only plays the acoustic guitar, but he runs it through a looping pedal to make drum and keyboard sounds. Conceptually, it’s an okay idea, and Yoav pulls it off, but it gets boring fast.

The album's psychedelic pop runs out of gas near the end in cringe-worthy Battersea Odyssey and Let The Wolves Howl At The Moon, but by then you're won over and wondering how you slept on this band for the past nine years.

They put their cloudy heads together and came up with the power-chord-slashing and hobbitty keyboard werping goods but wisely didn’t lose all the dirty distortion and strummy acoustic bits.

Naturally, the interpretations go beyond mere homage as Marshall uses her mysterious Cat Power skills to channel the spirits of the singers who inspired her, with mixed results.

Mike Cooley steps up with some much-needed light contrast to Patterson Hood’s darker lyrical impulses, which are well represented here, sometimes with touching poignancy and others with blunt force trauma.

The Whigs are at their best when they embrace their more overt pop sensibilities over the wall-of-guitars thing, but it sounds like they need to expand their record collections.

Still, despite his naive imitations, Costa has a gift for catchy hooks, and once he figures out who he is musically, the results could be remarkable.

While the Jesus and Mary Chain might have been limited by their musical ability and knowledge, Merritt and company understand the pop principles they’re working with.

If you can deal with the nostalgia factor, it’s a pleasant but unremarkable disc.

Her control has never been better and Jimmy Hogarth’s production provides the perfect foundation for her deeply delicate expressions.

The various producers behind this all pull their weight, but as usual the star is Blige’s husky voice and that charming mix of vulnerability and over-the-top diva confidence.

The problem is that he hasn’t yet developed a signature sound that immediately identifies a track as his own, nor is he capable of writing the sort of provocative rhymes that stand out.

While Alone is a big ol’ mishmash of varying quality, it is, for the time being, the closest any of us will get to Cuomo’s former songwriting charm.

The album's dominant sound is dreary even by Wu standards: grey, bass-heavy beats for the eight living members' equally drab rhymes.

Sure, your tweenage little sister will probably love this album, but I’m sorry, if she was even partially aware of hiphop and R&B music for the last decade or so, she’d know how much pilfered production and recycled rap is crafted here.

Songs you thought you knew are put through the spin cycle--each track deftly fastens together at least two of their best--so even if you're the level of devotee who owns 'Homework' in every format, you'll still be impressed by this heavy load.

Sadly, no RZA production appears on Ghost's seventh solo project -- thus this isn't as good as the invincible Supreme Clientele, but it's more cohesive than Fishscale.

Hearing 2003’s Frank the first time around, I can’t say I was knocked out by Amy Winehouse’s supper club jazz singing, and the album hasn’t improved with age.

The increased repetition of blurted nonsense phrases and the further dumbing down of their very basic progressions should serve to rid them of numerous long-time fans who hoped the Hives could save rock 'n' roll.

So, Danja hooked up Duran Duran with some seriously dope beats and nasty Neu-ish grooves for Red Carpet Massacre, way hipper stuff than they even know. The downside is that Simon LeBon is still singing and writing all the lame lyrics.

The album is also comfortably ignorant of the times. With its feathery production and common pop arrangements, it could have come out in 1996.

People who like him, rejoice. Those who don't may continue to live without his music.

Without any clever arrangements or production gimmicks to rely on, Keys tries to compensate for the obvious shortcomings by oversinging each syllable in a way that would make Patti LaBelle cringe.

There's enough decent material on Sawdust to exempt Brandon Flowers and his Vegas boys from cynical gap-filler accusations.

His intentions sound pure, but Shaggy's musical moonshine will leave all but the biggest fans with a heavy hangover.

Ya boy is back with another dark soul-saturated album in the vein of "The Blueprint."

While the production displays a genuine level of talent, including excellent drummer Atom Willard, just about every song teases with potential before going absolutely nowhere.

Some of the innuendo ('Take You Down') is kind of hurting but the song 'Nice,' gangsta-fied by a Game appearance, is solid.

Younger rap fans may be puzzled by Buck 65's throwback character sketches and references to Allen Ginsberg's Howl and Bettie Page, but those who yearn for a more literate approach will find lots to dig in Situation.

The production is glossy and futuristic to a nearly avant-garde point, yet every song is a hit.

The end result is a safe, predictable record that could very well be Metallica-lite (like the new Metallica), in addition to being pretty close to silly.

A deadly dull set of cliché-packed piano ballads probably isn't the best way for aging harmony synchers to prove to their shrinking tween audience that the old Boys (sans Kevin Richardson) have still got it.

Comeback of the year.

It's a record full of straight-up good songs from a band that should be (and would be, except for Doherty's fuckery) much more important than it is.

Although Young's compositions on Chrome Dreams II aren't quite up to the quality planned for the first volume, the 10 songs at least have some of the shape and gravity if not the epic dimension of his classics written decades ago.

The aggression is still there, now tempered with lighter numbers like Feathers, but the whole thing still reeks of comic nerd sci-fi awesomeness.

His ambition is never entirely realized, and though his voice is versatile, his almost operatic style at times borders on annoying.

Some songs start out peppy and intriguing, but his moaning over top sucks all the life out of the groove.

So even though Burnett has assembled a crack acoustic support unit to play the choice material he's selected from Gene Clark, Townes Van Zandt and the Everly Brothers, without that magical X factor you've got nothing but two good vocalists trying to stay out of each other's way.

If In the Vines isn't a record that impresses at the level of individual songs, neither is it something you throw on in the background and forget about.

The edge is still very much here. Prefuse can still drop it apocalyptic-style, as he proves on 'Prog Version Slowly Crushed.'

Not amazing, but steady and fun all the same.

You get what sounds like Karl Hyde doing freestyle slam poetry overtop of dull beats on 'Ring Road.' 'Crocodile' starts off promising but then gives up and becomes a backdrop for a one-syllable nightclub with white sofas.

Their clear evolution in terms of talent and ability is more than evident on songs like Firebreather and The Whaler. Between that and some pretty sweet packaging and liner notes, this is likely their best to date.

This album is well-crafted and smart.

It's true that we've come to expect a certain level of genius from this band, but when they actually exceed expectations, as they do here, it's a clear sign that Radiohead will continue to reinvent themselves and drop more jaws along the way.

It's not what anyone is hoping for from Harry, but the highlights are decent enough to keep hardcore Blondie fans satiated until she finds some collaborators worthy of her talent.

Indulging in a baroque concept that includes chanson, 60s French café swing and lush pop, he has no qualms about pushing the drama levels vocally. He warbles yearning lyrics on songs like La Banlieue, Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route), alongside swaying accordion waltzes such as The Penalty. Best served with croissants and café au lait.

The songs are formulaic but catchy, and the production is meticulous.

As usual, this record will leave many scratching their heads, but for fans who like their music a little more complicated, this is easily one of the more interesting records out there.

Spencer Krug is blessed with an extremely creative mind, and in this album he unleashes it full-throttle. While it's less accessible than his work with Wolf Parade, this disc may still manage to overshadow his more famous band's efforts.

The result is a uniformly pleasant selection of peaceful, easy feelings that wouldn't sound out of place sandwiched between the similarly smooth tunes of Loggins & Messina, America, Gerry Rafferty and, yes, Christopher Cross.

It should all work extremely well to break Lekman beyond his current fan base of bored Sufjan Stevens fans waiting for Pitchfork to tell them what to like next.

On a disc that ultimately exhausts itself with boredom and clichés, it's just not worth it.

Convinced he's some kind of rock revivalist, he's more Bob Seger, Skynyrd and Hank Jr. than anything else here. That works in his favour for most of the album, aside from a few misses like the generically foot-stompin' 'So Hot' and the gospel-infused singalong 'Don't Tell Me U Love Me.'

Setting a song called 'Livin' In The Future' to the tune of 'Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out' indicates that Springsteen's sense of humour may be returning, but the fact that Miami Steve didn't tell him 'Girls In Their Summer Clothes' sounds a little too much like 'The Kids Are Alright' suggests it's not quite back to the good old days yet.

Songs like 'Little Bombs' and the title track are evocative of his "So Impossible" EP while also showing a definite maturity without relying on the disappointing FM-friendly electric rock that's marred the band's work in last few years.

Astbury's voice is just as deep and earnest as it ever was and comes through like gangbusters on opener Born Into This, while Billy Duffy's guitar work is still as raw and dirty as it should be--clear indicators that the whole album doesn't give itself time for ego or pointless filler.

This is the album I've been waiting nearly 10 years for them to make. Better late than never.

The slower grooves still swing hard while allowing Jones to show off more of her impressive vocal range, although it's difficult to say whether her deep funk crowd will be able to handle the shift from the typical shuffle beat barrage they've come to expect.

In real snap-music fashion, everything's repeated to death over tinny, cellphone-tailored little synthesizer riffs with snares.

The painful White Chalk is either a studio experiment gone horribly wrong or a crafty bit of career self-sabotage by a sensitive artist who'd rather make sculptures in the desert than play pop star.

Echoes sounds pretty business-as-usual.

Beam has managed to maintain some of the intimate charm of his home recordings by cleverly trading a conventional trap drum kit for hand percussion. It works wonders to make an elaborate production seem smaller and more organic while strengthening the music's rhythmic component.

Rather than the thoughtful songcraft and inspired peformances of Banhart's pre-Roberts Young God recordings, what you hear now is the zoned-out noodling of someone who foolishly believes his own genius hype.

Beyond The Neighbourhood isn't Athlete's triumph, but with far more rock moments, spacey sounds and well-placed hooks, as on the driving anthem Hurricane and the dreamy Airport Disco, they've redeemed themselves a little.

Accompanying his gruff voice with a bleary-eyed strum, he's probably more potent and alive on Serenade than many would expect.

Will.i.am has to be one of the worst rappers of all time, a fact his solo album doesn't just confirm, but stamps in red.

In Our Bedroom After The War is better than expected even as it wallows in its own broken heart.

This is a sparse, minimal and unassuming record that's unlikely to hit anyone over the head with its innovation, but Gonzalez accomplishes much while sounding like he's doing very little.

Through it all they maintain a charmingly chiming and cheery vibe that's probably the closest humans can get to making elf music.