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.