T.I.'s confidence seems effortless and second-nature, his self-aggrandizement turning relentless and convincing.

Editors sound like an earnest rock band who grew up loving the same bands as the current batch of revivalists, but beyond the workmanlike interpretations of their heroes, it's hard to swallow.

Swept up in maudlin strings and chintzy brass, Ashcroft blurs his anguished syllables like Tom Petty doing Bob Dylan, embraces U2-jerkoff bombast, and follows his idiosyncratically generic muse into uncharted depths. Keys to the World is as hilariously indulgent as "Trapped in the Closet", if vastly less self-aware; it's also a more laughable satire of contemporary music than Bang Bang Rock 'n' Roll, though less durable and totally accidental.

My Dark Places doesn't just uncover shadowy corners in its subject matter-- it's also musically unkempt, stumbling along and veering off in directions most bands wouldn't even be comfortable using as B-sides or jokes.

Drum's Not Dead is a majestic victory lap, and on all levels, a total fucking triumph.

With its subtly joyous tones and lustrous songwriting, 'Sno Angel Like You turns out to be a labor of love with endless rewards.

His soft Ben Gibbard geekiness is an odd, if timely, fit for the swinging material, and flourishes of Jeff Buckley throat rattles don't help.

Born Again is superior to its predecessor in nearly every respect.

The fattened sound, however, doesn't mean an altered band, just a better one.

At only 33 minutes, Subtítulo doesn't leave Rouse, longtime producer Brad Jones, and their small band much time to recover from such miscues.

The only real rub lies in the lyrics, which-- unusually for the sharp-minded Coomes-- veer between cringing and faintly ridiculous.

3121 does a bit better than [Musicology], coming up with a handful of infectious songs-- it's his best since the symbol record, although certainly there remains a massive chasm between it and his masterpieces.

Though Band of Horses aren't likely to be heralded as trailblazers, they do sound quietly innovative and genuinely refreshing over the course of these 10 sweeping, heart-on-sleeve anthems.

Murray's Revenge is one of the better gang-unrelated and Dre-unaffiliated records to come from the West Coast since Murs' last one.

The difference, as between fellow Merge band the Rosebuds' debut and sophomore albums, is a greater engagement with the prevailing indiepop aesthetic rather than long-dead flower-cliché epochs, though without quite the songwriting chops of Bell and guitarist Jeff Baron's other band, Ladybug Transistor.

Notes and the Like is par-for-the-course lap-pop.

Though Madlib's restless joi de vivre keeps Beat Konducta moving at a quick clip... the lack of MC firepower considerably limits its real-life enjoyability.

Young People still find their way to some incredible moments, but the paths that take them there are a good deal less inviting.

It's less catchy than 2001's "Y", yet more immediate and hyperactive.

Despite some interesting accoutrements (tasteful trumpets yay, bombastic strings meh) and some game attempts at eclecticism (acoustic pluck wicked, piano ballad oh geez), Stars of CCTV is of a part with the varied guitar-driven stuff that their fellow Mercury nominees-- Bloc Party, Kaiser Chiefs, etc.,-- have offered folks this past year.

I'm not entirely convinced that this is the best way to present these songs; the live-sounding recordings don't always bring out the full force of the material, and create a sense of continuity that is only undercut by the album's sequencing.

More inventive than Soundtrack of Our Lives and less chillily austere than Oldham, Mercury Rev prove to be his most dynamic partners, framing his songs but never infringing on them.

The slightness of this album is hard to hold a grudge against, but ain't nothing oh-my-god necessary about it either.

Despite the blemishes, Cuts Across the Land is a surprisingly galvanized and consistent offering.

Plenty of these tracks keep feeling like exercises: too thick and melodic to work like dance music, but with melodies that refuse to stick as satisfyingly as pop.

Yes, the Buzzcocks are doing what they've always done-- writing raucous pop songs-- but there's something to be said for honing and plying one's craft.

If the bulk of the album is for the car, the bar, the social occasion, then moments like ["Today"] are for headphones, bedrooms, intimate and solitary states. The presence of both increases the breadth of this assured LP, and establishes ILYBICD as being no longer a band to watch, but a band to listen to.

There is nothing intrinsically bad about it of course, but the album is consumed by the already menacingly "not intrinsically bad"-ness of their canon.

What makes these weak attempts at earnestness all the more disappointing is that the music is great.

Mr. Beast's shortcomings lie not with what's present, but with what's missing. Mogwai are capable of tremendous beauty, poignant gloom, and ear-splitting sonic pyrotechnics, but only transcend when they combine each of these elements. Here, they rarely give themselves enough building room to conjoin these moods and styles.

While Campbell's contributions to the album are far from negligible, the thing reeks of Lanegan, aligning itself with the hard-bitten American roots music of his solo albums.

What once again prevents Case from delivering a front-to-back classic is a perfectionist streak that accounts for Flood's mannered meticulousness.

[The songs] are linked by, of all things, an evangelical urgency: McBean self-consciously blends Satan-fearing Louvin Brothers sentiments with the Velvet Underground's narco-messianism and heavy doses of the 1970s California Jesus Movement's rhetoric/vibe.

These songs run too long, even to the point of faking fade-outs and then bursting back for another coda.

For the most part... the seemingly endless boundaries and subtly propulsive rhythms draw the listener into an engaging world of manipulated samples and shimmering loops.

Etiquette gives up the homemade purity of Casiotone's first few records, but it hasn't entirely gotten where it's going, either.

In general-- and despite passages of extreme beauty-- something seems amiss on Exchange Session.

Sadly the two best (read: different) tracks come at the end, a shame because you'll have probably put on something closer to actual music by then.

It's a feat the band manages to pull off again and again, track after track, over the course of Skeleton, and the true heart of the record: making the familiar seem fresh and giddy pop seem like indie manna.

There's an energy and charisma in this dosage that I find lacking in some of the younger contemporaries.

Although these pieces are wrought with meticulous detail, they're rarely memorable.

If new album The Maginot Line... is decidedly less sentimental or cohesive in tone than its predecessors, it's all the braver for it.

Recalling X's boisterous male/female mantras and careering boogie by way of Sonic Youth's frosty downtown cool, The Invisible Deck is a confident and polished record built of cavernous drums, simply slithering riffs, filthy bass grooves, and high-energy dynamics.

Though the restless time changes and laser-show synth overtures betray prog-rock's ostentatious influence, the tightly constructed songs here (all but two of which stay under the five-minute mark) bristle with a passion and purpose that belongs only to the truly committed and composed.

Jel's music here doesn't focus your attention to a laser-point the way Them did, but neither is it big enough to saturate it-- it lurks comfortably in the middle distance.

A record that's in the same league as Homework or Discovery.

Why, pray tell, did Elbow decide to start sounding less like Radiohead rip-offs and more like midlife-crisis Travis?

At times charming, oddly affecting, and certainly promising but understandably something less than life changing.

Coldcut acquit themselves well, in the sense that they pull off all of their various generic sleights of hand. But, as per usual, whatever off-hand virtuosity Sound Mirrors displays, there's no center here.

At times Davies matures backward, trading the Kinks' tergiversating sophistication for rash generalization.

Encapsulating and elevating the best of Destroyer's back catalog, Destroyer's Rubies serves as a potent reminder that the intelligence of Bejar's songs has never obfuscated their emotional weight.

Everything Wrong Is Imaginary never quite feels like the career-culminating record it should be.

This time out, Man Man's less sloppy but just as ramshackle, as if the snaps and crackles are the band's diversion from actually writing the record.

The quixotic charm wears thin as "Some Slender Rest" dips into lugubrious emo-folk, and the remainder of the album's murdered wives, enraged sheriffs, and luckless roustabouts pile up cartoonishly.

While the sounds of these bands will certainly be familiar to fans of Konono, there is a remarkable amount of variety on the disc.

It's a dense, ambitious record that finally has the confidence needed to pull of the swagger they've been approximating.

So go ahead and grant the Eels an exemption for going the orchestra tour route; the additional personnel justifies their paychecks by saving this live album from being a rote greatest-hits-with-crowd-noise exercise.

When they settle down domestically, many rock artists seem to lose some of their spark, their hard-won happiness diluting the angst that made them so compelling in the first place. But on Bitter Honey, Barzelay thrives on the secret fears that lie beneath the surface of even the most secure relationships.

Sure, the time-tested formula delivers as expected, but ultimately the rote freakout leaves you wishing the band could bring the hammer down like it used to.

In parts, Albion's shambolism is stunning, but that's no excuse for moments of total sloppiness.

Too often the rawk they bring feels terribly labored.

Like much of X&Y, Magnet is exceptionally unobtrusive, music to ignore.

Though omissions are certain to be an issue for cratedigging obsessives, this collection is as flawless a primer as has ever been made available on a single disc.

The band's latest extends their newfound confidence to content as well as delivery, and stands as the finest full-length by Stuart Murdoch and his shifting collaborators since [If You're Feeling Sinister].

This album drops four consecutive hard rock stinkbombs to kick things off... Senor Smoke's saddest aspect, however, is its yearning for another dance-floor single.

Far from perfect-- at times even dull-- these songs balance their heavy despair with genuine, if hesitant, hope.

Gun finds songwriter's songwriter McCaughey slightly stuck in his own unique, nuanced niche.

There isn't much in here that could be considered hip, or that shows technical skill. But there's a total gut-level joy, as if these were tracks made by an ecstatic, well-meaning kid who hadn't yet encountered the complicated concerns of the places people might actually dance to them.

Security Screenings is a marked improvement over last year's directionless Surrounded by Silence.

If this is your first exposure to Clogs, you've picked a fantastic time to become acquainted.

Magnificent City is lazy and inept, devoid of force and inspiration and chemistry.

Idols of Exile is consistently solid; the songs are fully realized and, ultimately, memorable.

The end result is akin to Norman Smith and DJ Shadow sitting in on a RZA-produced session-- spry, voiceless prog-hop by any other name.

It seems particularly odd that for all the time and sweat Stoltz has put into this music, there's no sense of a real person behind these songs, just a tightly wound bundle of ideas borrowed from likely pop sources.

While I'd love to say this is the album that breaks the holding pattern, Last Night holds a palm full of surprises and otherwise stretches the underdog charm a little thin.

There are minor moments when Demo's slight r&b hooks miss and when Sway deviates too far from his good-natured strengths, but the lion's share is ace-- thoughtful but not pedantic, funny but not stupid, sincere but not treacly, realistic but not boring.

Too much of Sexor feels suspiciously like the middle of the road.

The most fully-realized thing-- if not the most exciting one-- the band has released since 1994's Tiger Bay.

Generation is a sonic mess, all weightless synth swish, dull beats, and maybe-ironic midi horns.

Like all Cat Power records, The Greatest is a mostly sad, heartbroken, hopeless, rainy-day affair; it just isn't damaged. For that reason, it's also going to gain her a lot of new fans.

Frequently gorgeous but over-lubed, the album forges soundscapes so lush they're almost narcotic.

Sun, Sun, Sun is a modern pop simulacrum of traditional country, devoid of the electro accents that pocked the last Elected record, pretty delectable as long as you've a strong taste for ham.

On repeated listens, the songwriting makes the album lukewarm.

In short: We all really wish this was better-- less tiring, less dour, less sluggish-- than it actually is.

The most fascinating Bob-project in years.

Unfortunately, bare-bones arrangements, train songs, and good intentions are no shortcut to supposed authenticity, and still less are they a guarantor of overall quality.

The UK trio is hard, fast, and viciously catchy, but above all scary.

While the tight playing and vocal pyrotechnics are impressive, Ditto's narrow lyrical scope gets really redundant.

The Indian Tower rocks in the most literal sense of the word; if that means anything to you, it's really all you need to know.

At times, Film School achieve a foggy, grandiose psychedelia, but their compositions aren't always as shimmering as their production.

What Are You On? bristles with unchecked bitterness that often curdles into condescension.

The biggest hitch is that Electric President seemingly achieve all of their humble goals by mid-album, and so spend almost half their time with pencils down, repeating the day's assignments silently to themselves.

Clearly, these boys can't grasp the concept of "say when."

It's probably the best thing Defever's ever done.

The album does rather muddle the group's ongoing identity, but hopefully future releases can serve to confirm this album as the watershed it now appears to be.

Instead of offering playful, engaging pop music, we get new wave retreads and a couple of rock journeymen and the whole thing comes off like an overgrown episode of MTV's "Making the Band".

Most of these tracks have hooks aimed straight for your jugular, but "Can't Lose" shows the band could go even farther with a little restraint.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the heavy emotional inspiration behind Sia's trebly moans drags on over the course of 50 minutes.