Selway sounds like a space-age Badly Drawn Boy, only less lovable. His melodies are simplistic, his lyrics amateurish. If he weren't in the band, it'd be easy to write him off as a Radiohead rip-off.

The album's not quite as heavy as its predecessor, but there are enough down-tuned riffs and effects-laden solos to satisfy old fans.

A song like AM/FM is downright uplifting, catchy and groove-heavy which, along with bucking our expectations, is always what lifted this eight-member band above the fray.

The follow-up to Ra Ra Riot's well-received debut album opens with a slow-moving reminder that this romantic indie-styled Syracuse sextet love their violins and cellos.

Ultimately, you sense Powell pushing, giving and breaking through.

Those two qualities [Perry's sex appeal and goofy, self-effacing charm] are out of balance for most of the album, resulting in awkward jams like E.T. (Futuristic Lover) and Peacock.

The hooks are in short supply, and the production, as on "Flashover," overstuffed and claustrophobic. That cat photo almost saves the day, but not quite.

Overall this is a testament to Wilson's endless creativity.

When they do get adventurous and experimental, they execute it with such smoothness that even those moments of danger and excitement sound muted and safe. It's a solid disc, but you can't shake a sense that the Budos Band is capable of more.

It's common for heavily hyped albums to fall flat, but Arcade Fire's long-anticipated third LP hits with the satisfied thud of met potential.

This is much more about capturing their inimitable onstage chemistry with sizzling fuzz guitar solos, unexpected fusions of styles and the kind of relaxed confidence that only comes with this kind of history.

Shards of digital distortion and self-indulgent instrumentals are pretty much gone. What remains is a novel reworking of the California surf punk formula.

While Bun B's weathered voice and lyrical detail add weight to his words, there are a lot of predictable OG conventions on this overlong album.

Unlike Rick Ross, who entertainingly describes his (completely fictitious) exploits in fantastically opulent terms, Joe brags with a dullness that betrays how often he's repeated this story. And the production seems dated all the way down to Kilo, which uses a sample that Ghostface Killah and Raekwon employed to much grimier effect in 2006.

Much of the record is stuck in a good but not great sound from 10 years back.

It's a slow, über-democratic process that, on the band's fourth album, results in sputtering post-rock à la early Flaming Lips that varies wildly from song to song.

Even though the production is immaculate, featuring amazing work by Lex Luger, and the guest list is impressive, the album falls flat. The problem: Ross takes himself too seriously.

Sadly, the vocals thwart this otherwise innovative, frantic danceathon. Those who grind their teeth in the presence of excessive vocoder will have to book a session with their dentist. The record's also too short.

Linkous's vocals make only a few brief appearances, but so much of his personality is in the songs that it feels almost like a tribute album he had a hand in recording. A proper coda to a storied, tragic career.

The new industrial influences and heavily distorted textures work amazingly well at times, but after a few songs you find yourself longing for something resembling a melody.

You expect the worst from Police faves like Roxanne and Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic, since those tunes were tautly written, with minimal pop intricacy. But the RPCO adds an interesting melancholic layer to the former, giving it more drama, as orchestras tend to do.

What's really impressive, though, is how all the nods to glam rock, shoegazer, new wave and 80s indie rock blend together to produce a sound that's maddeningly familiar but completely unique.

Big Boi's lyrically on point, too, balancing cavalier wit and grown-man profundity that puts this album among Outkast's best. Your move, 3000.

Expo 86 feels divided down the middle, and both writers deliver some of their best work to date.

On their ninth studio album, the veteran Philly crew adds indie rock to its formula, and after two straight downer albums, it has them sounding positively re-energized.

This stripped-down effort forgoes the high-profile collaborations we've come to expect to create an unstrained, repetitive thumpathon that fits right into their catalogue.

Not as good as we were hoping, but still strong enough to make us excited about the next chapter.

Two fundamental problems: he's got an incredible amount of energy, raging away in the high-pitched voice that Eminem haters can't stand, with little to say that he hasn't already said before; and the beats are often middling.