Kidsticks's risk-taking, while not always on point, proves Orton capable of reinvention. She's still a voice worth listening to.

At 18 tracks, Starboy delivers some pop gems, but its last third falters with a string of schmaltzy ballads eventually rescued by the Daft Punk-assisted closer, an enjoyable bit of retro lite-funk that wouldn’t have sounded out of place on Random Access Memories.

On Maps, BR breathe new life into their formula--short, fast and melodic Cali skate-punk ditties led by the always politically and socially aware growlings of lead singer Greg Graffin.

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.'

On their third album, Band of Skulls stretch even further.

Despite the beautiful arrangements, it's hard to shake the notion that Still Corners, like a lot of new indie bands, haven't yet risen above the sum of their influences: movie music, Morricone, Slowdive, Broadcast, Nancy Sinatra.

Like Mickey Mouse conducting the ocean in Fantasia, she often seems more a celestial vessel for the heady energy and abstract imagery than a relatable character--a balance she doesn't always strike.

Another artist might show signs of disappointment or uncertainty when faced with the notion that not much has changed in half a century, but on Medicine Songs, in the face of the unchanging nature of the oppression she’s expressed through her music, Buffy Sainte-Marie has chosen to be just as determined, unflinching and constant in her own art.

Roberts is less concerned with sticking to a chunky, riff-driven formula than with experimenting with the many layers that he and his band are capable of producing.

Infinite Arms further fluctuates between the vigorous (NW Apt.), the understatedly pretty (Evening Kitchen) and the yawn-inducing (title tune).

Some songs feel just short of full-blown biting, like No Question, which is awfully reminiscent of the classic Breeders single Saints. Still, it feels hard to write them off as some kind of revivalist project. If anything, the band’s unshakeable determination to stay in their own lane seems like an ideological gesture. You can’t be cool if you’re worried about being cool.

Casually clever lyrics, gloriously fuzzy guitar leads and that immediately identifiable off-kilter pop genius dominate.

Same Old Man isn’t Hiatt’s finest hour but it’s still far from his worst.

The married couple bash out organ-pumping pop blasts that exuberantly pick apart their youthful experiences.

Ginuwine sounds more than comfortable throughout, and succeeds in making fundamental R&B with a good deal of replayability.

The songs are excellent in their own right, but when they’re all lined up, Interpol start seeming like a one-trick pony.

The more overtly rock moments give the album a bit too much of a 90s alternative feel, but that’s got to be expected from someone who came out of the slam poetry scene and previously worked with Trent Reznor.

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.

The whole idea of Philly fruitcakes Man Man releasing an album that sounds like a dusted deconstruction of Tom Waits’s Swordfishtrombones--complete with grumbling old man affectations--on the same label that releases albums by Waits is too much of a nutty coincidence not to be a cockeyed po-mo parody.

By rights, this should feel cloyingly sentimental, but Vandervelde’s musical virtuosity means it’s beguilingly exotic, particularly album opener 'I Will Be Fine'--an insomniac’s echoey hymn to the pre-dawn hours.

Unfortunately, the rest is incidental disco-lite dross, with a couple of bland bumpers and a little East-meets-West fusion thrown in for good measure. The three M.I.A. tracks would’ve made a solid EP.

Brendan O’Brien, best known for his continuous work with Pearl Jam and Springsteen, takes over from Gavin Brown on Billy’s third s/t offering, and there’s some noticeable dulling of the edges here.

All the best cuts are Ye-led and stellar. He's as inventive, hilarious and potent as ever. The guest list, however, is less consistent.

The mainstream-organic gloss of his production has always baffled me.

Unfortunately, subtlety gets lost in the process, and only about half the guest vocalist are actually effective.

She manages to cut through generic themes to inject darker predilections with hard-sung vocals that sound downright masochistic at times.

Less party than their live show (and some of their previous releases), Inner Fire is still damn hot.