The best ones spit in the face of death; this album instead finds aging men trying to reclaim their youth.

His proxies fare a bit better, though there's another problem: There's way too many of them, and none of them stick around long enough to establish themselves.

Ultimately, this is the type of record this band is suited to making, and it richly rewards repeat listening--details and melodies that seem buried or understated eventually come to fore, slowly revealed in a mixture of organic warmth, welcome variety, and subtle complexity.

While not guilty of carrying any true bombs, Lightbulbs does reveal how the band's stand-offish approach can serve as both a safety net and an anchor.

The Stand Ins continues that ambitious musical development [in "The Stage Names"], further roughing up the group's sound while sharpening its attack to an even finer point, and refining some of their old tricks while introducing new ones.

Alphabutt is honest and funny, and manages to sidestep all tired, kid-song tropes.

The record is perhaps a more extreme a transformation than that of Patrick Wolf.

The gradual and hesitant payoffs of these songs give the feeling of standing on a precipice, while their brief but gorgeous outros are like looking out on a limitless horizon. The latter half of the record could have used more of these moments.

It's a nice flourish on an album with more than a few such moments, but they're not enough to make the Donkeys' nostalgia sound like more than a pose, or Living much more than dry and dull.

They cast a powerful spell and sustain it over 11 tracks, yet at times you wish they'd jam, or perform a cover, or do anything to break it up somehow.

But as clear as that opening switch to afterburners rings, much of Heavenly Bender sounds too-worn in at times, hooks still more familiar than barbed.

Drowning pop compositions in jittery polyrhythms is indie rock's move du jour, but the Shaky Hands aren't trendy; they make fine-boned, classic rock'n'roll in the Strokes' vein.

Given the far sunnier cast of the group's debut, it's fair to say Now or Heaven is a document of growing pains.

Caught in the Trees, quite simply, is too busy moving along to get too caught up in anything.

Torrini's voice is pleasant but also pretty anonymous, so it's therefore well-suited to any number of (mostly mellow) musical settings.

An intimate, intelligent, and always transporting cycle of songs that sends VanGaalen closer to his own voice and, in the process, closer to us.

Bound Stems have the rarefied ability to make that mess sound gorgeous, as if all were in its right place even when it's held together by chewing gum in some spots.

Perceived loss of self is a risk Desveaux herself takes in making music so largely bereft of easy cultural or regional signifiers, yet the keenness of her songcraft makes these hard-won, universal sentiments far more rewarding than most lazy splashes of local color.

They're this close to being a rock band while still sounding like their weird selves, which makes this their most accessible album to date.

Because of its multifarious song types--leftfield club thumpers, futuristic sex ditties, and funky space jams--some will contend that Sweaty Magic lacks cohesion, that it's too ADD to be listenable, but I would argue that is precisely Rafter's point.

Nights Out may turn in a little too early, but for about three songs, it wrests synth pop supremacy from Metronomy's many competitors.

It feels like exactly what it is: a slipshod collection of songs constructed intermittently, in broad strokes, over a period of years.

The Holy Pictures turns out to be very much a soundtrack--but one in which heart and mind prove to be as inspiring a source as any script Hollywood throws at him.

"But now I'm back." And he is, with his finest non-"Smile" album since the golden age of the Beach Boys. Lucky us.

End Titles rewards just about any amount of listening investment equally, and it completely lacks sharp edges.

Bolstered by a gimmick and a catchphrase, the album is by-and-large Jeezy qua Jeezy, and the new fissures aren't enough to keep pundits gabbing.

Shall Noise Upon is a great record, and an impossible one to digest in just one sitting. That's hardly a problem, though, because coming back to it is so rewarding.

proVISIONS is no exception, its array of peyote rock, twilight ballads, space cowboy soundtracks, and spooky sidetracks off the beaten path on par with the band's best work.