A compelling synthesis of the hip-hop producer's talents and the solid ensemble work of the Blue Series collective.

Even its best moments sound like an amateurish reiteration of These Are the Vistas' quasi-jazz anarchy.

In 2001, their Brit-derived goth-punk was just gaining a foothold and still felt like a novel reinvention; now, its dreary slog is as commonplace as three-chord punk after the millennium's turn.

Too often, Lord's approach to her lyrics is overly reverent, to the detriment of the music itself.

They've focused their maniacal energy into seriously dense and carefully considered songwriting; even the cleaner and deeper production betrays Deerhoof's commitment to letting the songs speak for themselves, and to keeping individual parts as precise and undistracting as possible.

In some ways, Ultravisitor is the only Squarepusher album you need to know about. It contains instances of every idea, texture or beat he's presented until now, and unlike recent releases Do You Know Squarepusher or Go Plastic, little of it sounds stale.

Fall Back Open is more reminiscent of the arid, slow-burning side of the debut ("With a Subtle Look" comes to mind) than its upbeat fare, a reverb-drenched cruise missile flying in relentless slow-motion, like Calla with a pulse and a cherubic blond singer who could have gone boy-band as easily as indie-land.

With huge, ballooning vocals and a shit-kicking rhythm section, the record consistently threatens to pop its own feeble seams; by carefully shuffling away from their past outings, The Von Bondies have produced a booming sonic statement that's far more glam than garage, and a lot less "Detroit" than we've been trained to expect.

The Young Liars EP was as fully realized as all the critics suggested, yet now, TV on the Radio sound like a work in progress. Still, Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes shows more strengths than mistakes.

The record's conceptual brilliance lies largely in Bejar's ability to craft deeply moving passages out of ostensibly artificial and contrived elements, subtly suggesting that all music, if not all human expression, is in effect some sort of artifice.

If the listener isn't eventually caught in swoons, at the least he will respect the degree of Lerche's refined artifice.

Like all lasting records, Franz Ferdinand steps up to the plate and boldly bangs on the door to stardom. There's no consideration for what trends have just come and gone. There's no waffling or concessions for people who won't get it.

A strong experimental record that draws on Cee-Lo's malleable style of rap... one of the year's strongest hip-hop albums to date.

The band have finally mastered the monstrous proportions of their diffuse talents and arranged them in ways that are wholly satisfying and distinctly unique.

Contrary to what some have claimed, They Were Wrong is listenable, and intentionally so: the band frequently finds ways to successfully straddle the fence between form and noise... though most of the time, it's admittedly impenetrable and alienating.

Even the least-crucial songs feature a tough backing band and a powerful, raspy performance from Candi.

Frusciante has finally harnessed the energy and unqualified honesty that pulsed underneath the wandering Syd Barrett-ness of his weird work, and applied them to a reedy, vaguely psychedelic, and consistently melodic collection of songs.

Most of Kila Kila Kila is heavy in all the wrong ways and strangely earthbound.

Were its hooks not as strong, She's in Control would probably come across as mechanical and calculated, but its many bright spots elevate it above being just a shrewdly timed exercise in cultural re-appropriation.

Rarely has a genre sounded so tried and tired, so forced, formulaic and reliant on its own mythology as country music is made to sound on Regard the End.

This album sounds like it was recorded and released as a favor from someone at the label. Truth is, the lighter that ignited All This Sounds Gas is long out of butane.

Profound, innovative, and absolutely vital.

Just as fuzzy and unpredictable as its namesake suggests, with high, hissing vocals, archaic-gone-futuristic blips, pedal steel, keyboards, glockenspiel, and a barrage of other noisemakers helping to build a thick, spacy stretch of soft 60s psychedelia.

The real problem with Volcano, though, is not only the fact that they aren't really doing anything inventive with their music, but that the music itself is utterly forgettable.

To say one of these albums is better than the other is basically beside the point-- anyone who buys one will certainly want the other, and both are fairly comparable as far as quality is concerned, anyway.

They've rediscovered their broad range and proud, sleeve-worn strangeness.

On the whole, this is the quietest Neubauten album to date, frequently lowering to a mere whisper, but don't let this fool you-- no album this band has made in the past has bristled with so much latent violence or been haunted by a more palpable sense of unseen menace.

With better lyrics and a longer attention span, McKay would be a jaw-dropping songwriter, but it's difficult to get sucked into a song if you don't connect with the singer.