The album’s emphasis on repetition occasionally sounds too self-conscious, but it’s a rare excess in an otherwise restrained--if not necessarily subtle--collection of ballads.

None of this stuff sounds the same, proving grime to be a borderless hinterland populated by some of the most gifted, uninhibited, maniacal musicians.

The achievement here is that each song feels like its own distinct world.

On Trouble Will Find Me, they’ve perfected it, knowing when a hook should explode and when to hold back and let Berninger’s signature, sombre baritone take over.

All in all, a bewitchingly beautiful debut.

he band has already built a mystique with their live show (frontwoman Jehnny Beth’s penetrating glare and righteous wail transfixed a packed Horseshoe Tavern at this year’s CMW), but Silence Yourself proves they’ve got the songs to back it up.

On Strange Pleasures, Still Corners ditch their 60s psychedelia shtick for sounds two decades younger, and it works.

His strength has always been his versatility: he combines old-school rap with a solid singing voice and an ability to play guitar and drums. Separating these elements is a curious strategy, though his verbal and instrumental talents still show up on both sides.

The melodies sound effortless, but there’s complexity under the surface.

Though Bragg leaves behind punk rock fire for the personal, there are still political--and optimistic--moments, weariness be damned.

Like Snoop’s documentary of the same name, Reincarnated has its moments but needs an editor.

Monomania somehow makes Deerhunter’s previous albums sound like they were controlled and constrained, as if it took four albums for Cox to finally be the shit disturber he’s always wanted to be.

Authentic is ridiculous right down to the heavy-breathing interludes, which worked for Usher circa 2003.

Calling in favours from Neurosis’s Scott Kelly and Mudhoney’s Mark Arm makes Everybody Loves Sausages feel like a loose party record.

A smooth and beautiful listen.

Despite the limited tools, he evokes everything from jazz and doom metal to techno and classical music, often simultaneously.

The tunes are lively, soulful and diverse, each with Earle’s Texas drawl and trademark poetic storytelling in the foreground.

Too bad the missteps and poorly executed collaborations stink badly enough to make the borderline stupid/genius party rockers get tainted by proximity.

The best rhymes come courtesy of Kendrick Lamar on Solo Dolo, Pt. II, and the worst are from Too Short on the album’s weakest link, Girls.

It’s all very easy to listen to, but occasionally too close to easy listening.

Despite the flashy production values and singer Thomas Mars’s wispy croon, it ultimately feels as superficial as its subject matter.

The lyrics are earnest as all hell, but only once--on Hard To Tell--borderline twee.

Wait To Pleasure shows new facets, but that shoegaze tag isn’t likely to disappear soon.

Though not nearly as stunning as its predecessor, Infestissumam still has excellent moments, many courtesy of the rhythm section.

Eschewing the indie rock tag, Born Ruffians are embracing a new diversified sound that reaches beyond the guitar-bass-drums trifecta, and for the most part, it hits the mark.

After the band’s polished, dance-friendly 2009 effort, It’s Blitz!, Zinner’s hard-charging riffs on Area 52 are a welcome return to the urgent, sometimes messy art punk of their early days.

She sounds like she’s rediscovering the thrill of making music, and a nervy triumph pervades.

First single Dope has that by way of Dr. Dre’s Deep Cover, but it fails to push the balance of the album beyond mediocrity.