Felix da Housecat appears to have approached this record in the same manner as other pop craftsmen like Stephen Merritt or Elvis Costello might: as a tireless effort to mine sub-styles and hooks that populate his detail-oriented visions of the perfect song. While that might translate into a record that fails to sit totally comfortably in either the pop or dance section of the CD shop, it's hardly lacking in compositional substance or high-toned flash.

Frankly, it could be much worse.

Whether it's the lack of plot, insight, or collaborators, Achilles Heel also finds Bazan's music stuck in a room with no exits, with one loping distortion-pedal crawler after another.

Coldplaya-hatas will loathe Keane; most others will just be insulted.

Their slickest and most formulaic pop constructions to date.

La Increíble Aventura doesn't quite equal the sheer power and range of the band's best albums (2001's Arde, in particular), but it's a powerful statement nonetheless, capturing one of Spain's greatest exports at their darkest and most ferocious.

Hotel Morgen may be beautifully produced, but despite its expert attention to detail, few of these tracks truly engage in the way they seem meant to.

It's all about finding the friendly turtles at the end of the druggy rainbow, yet, since no one's in a hurry to get there, the songs loop along with space between the beats and guitarists who still seem to be learning their craft.

Whatever excitement this album lends is, for the most part, borrowed by its pre-existing audience, and it's clear the Kadanes aren't going to challenge us.

Ultimately, The Catheters are big on style, and troublingly low on ideas.

Hatfield's finest work in a decade.

Unfortunately, "She Will Only Bring You Happiness" isn't a single, and there a dozen other tracks to account for, none of which live up to that song's pop splendor, and few of which even come close.

Despite some strong ideas and a few memorable songs, Faded Seaside Glamour remains notable mostly for the vocals: the album's ups and downs follow Gilbert's voice almost exactly, best when he's hitting high notes, mundane when he's not.

Unfortunately, few of these tracks wield the same impact as his tried-and-true hip-hop productions, and more often than not, feel like attempts at being everything to everyone.

Elk-Lake is a benign, restful listen, showing a once-unwieldy, always-vibrant creative mind having found a peaceful medium. While it's easy to appreciate the man's development, this blunted songwriting is somewhat less resonant-- and seems somehow less Hayden.

The Secret Machines create songs that are just as spacey and concept-heavy, if not quite as quirky, as those on Yoshimi and The Sophtware Slump.

So Split the Difference is an opportunity missed, with Gomez settling into a safe, well-worn ocean colour scene at a time when an adventurous indie/jamband hybrid might've clicked with Lollapaloozers.

Fuckin A is as stupidly (and gloriously) irreverent as its title, all adolescent three-chord slams and snotty, self-championing chants, a seamless extension of the urgency introduced on More Parts Per Million.

Kesto works, though, because Pan Sonic, through intelligent sequencing and a burst of inspiration, are essentially offering four separate, complete, and internally consistent albums.

That Skinner is able to coax so much from a cliché-heavy, 50-minute examination of solipsism and self-pity is a tribute to his ability to reflect and illuminate life's detail.

The most entertaining and lushly melodic work of Morrissey's solo career.

By combining American punk, British art-rock, and Swedish smarts to beef up their already muscular sound, they've not only developed a distinctive sonic personality on Das Not Compute, but they've developed a pose into a stance.

Granted, the record is far from perfect... Despite all of that, it is a Stephin Merritt record. And SM still maintains his charmingly cynical worldview and almost bottomless well of clever turns of phrase.

By and large, the band works well in this context, but the first two pieces on the album absolutely dominate the last three, making them feel essentially superfluous.

Essentially, Trial is just one semi-interesting idea (retro-tinged, Smiths-influenced, synth-friendly rock) repeated 11 times-- and no matter how able or committed the French Kicks may be to that lone notion, their conviction alone can't make their sophomore record feel any less tedious.

Fulfilled/Complete succeeds on a number of levels-- Mogis' recording is clear as a bell, there are several fine songs, and the string arrangements are impressively detailed-- but doesn't quite live up to either portion of its title, its sequencing too disjointed to make for a truly cohesive statement.

By simply playing by the rock 'n' roll rulebook-- whose article 17, section 4 strictly dictates that ego, excess and publicity stunts are to take complete precedence over, you know, songs-- Penance Soiree is one of the better straight-up records you're bound to hear from the genre all year.

Mirah, it appears, has made the album we've been waiting for.