A very pretty, measured album of slow, organ-supported mood crawls. And nothing else.

Certainly Blonde Redhead's most accessible yet.

Retains the experience of its formative years in the heyday of psychedelic collective Elephant Six, but expresses itself in more of a straightforward manner, with a set of agreeable pop-rock tunes.

It's not that the music is bad, per se, it's just not very interesting.

Dog has a strong, old-school rock and roll feel to it.

The majority of the new songs are keepers.

A rather haphazard collection of dialogue snippets, instrumental vignettes, and the occasional proper Belle song.

A glossy, major-label-sounding record that’s dull, atmospheric, frustrating, and beautiful in pretty much equal amounts.

Sounds more like a toss-off by a drunk band in the studio.

The uninitiated will still perceive these songs as music to slit your wrists to, but The Covers Record is actually the first time Chan Marshall lets her hair down for more than one song per album.

Although the whole thing begins to make more sense after (many) repeat listens, the overall results are at best uneven, and at worst, absolutely baffling.

With her second solo album, Timony returns to earth, revitalized by a renewed sense of adulthood, while continuing the experiments with mood and texture.

Possibly a step forward from The Boatman's Call, but far from being a return to form.

The album has enough setbacks that Terroir Blues cannot be considered on the same page as Trace, Straightaways, or anything he did with Uncle Tupelo.

An odd, almost schizophrenic collection.

It's an improvement over Standards, which sounded unfinished, but it's nowhere near the peaks of Millions, TNT, or even the self-titled first album's great "Tin Cans And Twine."

The best record Lou Reed has made in a long time.

SDRE has always flirted with prog-rock machinations, but some of these songs are just too over the top to be written off as experiments in musical nostalgia.

Most indie-somethings will scoff defiantly upon hearing the note-for-note schlepping of excerpts from Mogwai's Young Team or the Sonic Youth-isms dripping from some of the guitar build-ups. Still, the members of Kinski, like a stubborn weed in a thicket of thorns, grow past their numerous predecessors at times, unearthing moments of pure psychotropic bliss.

By turns alluring, obnoxious, and laugh-out-loud-funny.

Dark, downtrodden, and gloomy.

On first pass the album might feel like a lateral or even backward step. After repeated spins, however, its subtler arrangements take up digs in your head like pesky squatters who one day, inexplicably, start doing chores or even paying rent.

A lot of major label-imposed ideas, like rhythm guitar and a heartbreakingly conventional new bass sound, combine to utterly ruin the record's first half. If you can make it through to News' innards, however, an EP's worth of something like better-recorded, more thought-out Lonesome Crowded West material awaits.

This ambient/noise/psychedelic amalgam is limited by tedious repetition and a lack of emotional focus.

Ghost have helped Damon & Naomi reinvent themselves on this dream-pop excursion.

He wastes half of the ideas for lack of a good singer, and can't resist some counterproductive musical doodling in the arrangements.

The big downside is the lyrics.

For the first time in a long time, one can actually listen to David Gahan's lyrics. Indeed, on Exciter, he has rarely sounded less moronic.

Eclectic to the point of sounding confused.

Cure fans will enjoy this record, it's well-made and Smith doesn't break character. Everybody else, no sequels to "The Love Cats" will be found herein. Feel free to stay the hell away.

While Golden Greats features some intriguing tracks and a healthy dose of Brown's trademark bravado, it doesn't come close to ringing in as powerfully as the Roses' era-defining sound.

Little more than infuriatingly lame collaborations.

Unfortunately, talent alone doesn't always make a great record, and Howdy! lacks the excitement to put it in that category.

Belle & Sebastian's formula is beginning to see some wear.

The catchy songwriting doesn't sit well next to Neil's crunchy soul, and the performances feel so stiff it makes for an unusually uncomfortable listen.

In relation to what the Dave Matthews Band is capable of -- or even what they've recorded previously -- it's dreadful.

Of Montreal are at least three indie subfads too late.

Singular parts of this disc throw forth a few pretty piano chords or guitar strums but don’t expect to gain anything from this listening.