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.

But if the group has grown deadlier and more dynamic in their five years together, singer Julian Casablancas still struggles as a lyricist.

Self-serious and wildly inconsistent (in both ingenuity and style), 29 is hard to swallow without acknowledging and appreciating the record's overarching storyline: getting through your twenties is way hard.