Rather than the winners, C91 is musical history written by the also-rans, kind-of-weres and might-have-beens. And it proves far more interesting that way.

[Circles] is an uncharacteristically varied, psych-y noise-pop record that just plain sounds and feels great.

Moments of Ufabulum, particularly the middle stretch, are all but impossible for me to remember after a dozen plays.

There is still some great music on God Forgives, but it is somewhat overshadowed by higher-profile misfires.

No Waves stands as a memorable document on its own and a hopeful harbinger for new material to come.

Fortunately, even if the band's lack of cynicism often veers to the opposite extreme, the Harlem Shakes' handshake-and-smile approach is hard to outright dislike.

Even for a committedly lo-fi aesthetic, Warm Slime is rough going at times; listening to it back-to-back with the relatively cleaner Help is startling, like blasting a bug-spattered windshield with a jet of wiper fluid.

Unfortunately, the ratio of thoughtful zeal to clunky screed this time around is decidedly not in his favor.

We the Common's best songs are its most dynamic.

It's flighty, frustrating, and at times a little frigid, but intelligent and never lacking in momentum.

Their most focused and captivating work to date.

Clark can, and hopefully will, do better. But for now he feels like a genuine talent unable to find a foothold.

Afraid of Heights is the first Wavves album longer than 40-minutes and sometimes it drags.... Still, Afraid of Heights provides plenty of bummed-out pleasures and Williams' obvious talent is easy to take for granted.

For those who grew up worshipping at the altar of such ephemeral sounds, a record like Depersonalisation is a welcome bit of gloom, even if it ultimately feels like a record you probably already own.

There's no romance in the songs where the duo confront their demons (Barât has also struggled with addiction and depression), but they're still full of fight.

The Return of East Atlanta Santa leans on this lighter, more playful side of Gucci’s personality, proving along the way that back to business doesn’t have to mean an absence of fun.

A few tracks are infectious enough to merit standalone listens.

Some of James’ solo songs struggle to emerge from under the shadow of their former selves. ... The merging of Abrams’ and James’ worlds owes more to geography than to atmosphere. That makes The Order of Nature something of an inherent gamble. The two composers end up breaking even.

The whole album works something like an expansion on the last three fuzzed-out tracks from Dig Your Own Hole. The Chems aren't in the same do-no-wrong zone they were when they recorded that stuff, but Further brings them closer than anyone could've reasonably expected.

Generally, the tracks here are pleasant and well-produced, but are rarely engaging enough to justify their runtimes.

Seen It All: The Autobiography doesn’t deliver on either one of its titular promises.

Admire finds the band's balance shifting significantly; the rhythm players often seem more like glorified session men than integral components of a sleek post-punk machine.

There will be an audience for bands like Jukebox the Ghost, who at least do this unoffensive brand of power-pap serviceably. But if you're too much of a realist to believe in trick lighting, happy endings or choreographed emotion, Safe Travels will probably leave you wishing for riskier terrain.

The inability to define Porcelain Raft contributed to the initial intrigue, but with his second LP in two years, Remiddi has cemented his sound; Permanent Signal is more or less more of the same, a mutual fatigue passed on from Porcelain Raft to the listener.

They’re a "the + plural noun" band. For those who felt the "New Rock Revolution" was exactly what its name promised rather than a revival of old aesthetics, the Districts' A Flourish and a Spoil signifies a restoration of order. For everyone else who simply likes rock bands, it's actually kinda quaint.

Although Good Sad Happy Bad is certainly the band’s least polished-sounding record, the combination of the scattered arrangements and Levi’s ruminations on sadness shrewdly underline the topsy-turvy feeling suggested by the title. Even with the band’s music messily chopped, looped, and jangled, the emotional messages always ring clear.

There are too many special effects surrounding the messages-- Craig B's penchant for preadolescent vocals included.

Although the outgoing sonics of Endless Now represent a considerable leap in sound, it's those same qualities that could very well repel those drawn in by the burnt-ends glory of Nothing Hurts-- not because that previous record is necessarily better, though.