A solid first work.

The album showcases the band's pop proclivities while preserving the dark, often harsh, atmospherics that makes their sound so distinct.

Mellow and breezy, Spelled in Bones has “summer record” written all over it, with its warm, gentle pop melodies that would make Paul McCartney proud.

The sound isn’t youthful, nor does it try to be. To Del, the quintessential alternative hip-hop artist, and Tame, underground hip-hop mainstay, the panacea to the apparent predicament of age is craftsmanship.

Simply put, this album is more than pretty good.

It may not have the knockout highs that Dual Hawks or Flashes and Cables had, but it is just as consistent all the way through.

The free-for-all collective sound can lend the music a cutesy air, but the intensity of the songs rescues the album from juvenility.

The most apt comparison would be Dylan's more recent comeback albums; if not quite the masterpiece of Love and Theft, it beats the hell out of anything McCartney, Jagger or Simon have put out in the last fifteen years.

Other than on "Answers to Your Questions," it's not real pretty when O'Rourke steps to the microphone. Most of his songs stab at a Tom Waits-style balladry but end up sounding more like schmaltzy Steely Dan castoffs.

Like all Gogol Bordello albums, Trans-Continental Hustle is instantly enjoyable, but even more lyrical and musical layers emerge on repeat listens that show you just how smart and (simple) Gogol Bordello can be.

In a genre that’s desperate for new ideas, Allien’s lack of advancement on Thrills makes for a little less enjoyment.

There are moments when the ambivalence toward everything sounds like it might, just might, be giving way to genuine concern.

The sanitized production can be a bit of a stumbling block, and Rogue occasionally gets ahead of himself with his high-spire vocals, but Descended Like Vultures is by and large not the sophomore slump such and such and so and so were expecting.

Free at Last is everything that his heads could want.

Hella are a band reinvigorated on Tripper, realizing and embracing with all of their arms (a run through any of the tracks here definitely makes it sounds like they each have more than two) the sounds that absolutely work best for them while showcasing their growth as songwriters and the experiences they've picked up from their myriad side projects.

Gently blurring the lines between the warm golden haze of pedal-steel’d country rock with elements of tasteful, classicist new wave, the quietly intimate Cardinology jettisons the schizoid, freewheeling genre-hopping of previous records, giving the album--and, most important, the songs--an intensity of focus where there was once just intensity.

Despite the missteps, the band still emanates a certain cheekiness that's rare these days, especially for a lot of oh-so-serious psych outfits.

Whether or not you think antipathy and self-destruction are legitimate themes for music, or you feel that even the pretty remote handling of rap that Salem has done as three white kids is too much, you can't dismiss what started all this hub-bub in the first place: the fact that the trio has crafted a sound that still doesn't really sound like anything else. Whatever else it does, King Night stays true to that.

Little Joy never really breaks out of its mostly grey color scheme, and is an album that could test the patience of many, but these do not seem like things that concern My Disco in the slightest.

The album sticks very much to the template of ambient keyboard pop and an atmosphere of disappointment that past Lali Puna and Notwist albums traded in. That said, it's effective in what it sets out to accomplish and has a silent ambition that is fairly admirable.

With about half the tracks on this record falling short, Skinner would seem to be teetering on the edge of irrelevance. But even the failed tracks here sound interesting, and if he's lost his way somewhat thematically, it's all in the name of searching for his new voice.

The real problem with Stars is that the most poignant, affecting songs sound like natural, and somewhat neutral, follow-ups to his other songs.

Loud, brash, but never cocksure, Mantaray swaggers like a cat in heat.

Congratulations shares nary a sonic smidgen with Oracular Spectacular, instead existing in a netherworld where mod-era psychedelia meets prog-rock and where the ecstatic heights of the band's debut don't exist.

Luckily, Blackenedwhite, the first post-Odd Future hype machine album, is still as good as it was eight months ago, when it came out and was instantly the most fun album in the Odd Future oeuvre. It's a triumph of two kids putting all of their efforts into an album, and coming out with something great.

The listenability of the second-half might leave hip-hop heads indifferent, often feeling just too full of glossy pop, no matter how solid Plug 1 and Plug 2 continue to rap twenty-five years into their career.

By this point, it's within their rights to utilize pieces of their past in building a new present for themselves, as long as they don't half-ass it and start turning out inferior remakes of their old tunes. That's not what's going on here, and if anything, No Line is ultimately a more visceral and memorable effort than either of the band's other two 21st century offerings.

When the proudly worn tropes – the irascible low-life characters, the working-class heroes – show up to break up the life-affirming stuff on Dream, they're an afterthought (the jokey “Outlaw Pete”) or worse (heretofore never to be mentiond again "Queen of the Supermarket" is, well, really fucking terrible). That's why the finest moment of the album is "The Wrestler."

The main thing preventing Big Echo from being a very good (or even a great) album is that the bulk of it is clearly and undeniably influenced by the quieter moments from Grizzly Bear’s oeuvre.

Putting out an album called The Recession right now, and draping the American flag over your head on its cover, comes with expectations of politically conscious ruminations. Instead, we get more of the same

Christ Illusion is not a throwback; it's something new steeped in something old.

It may all cohere together, but it doesn't all work.

Though some of the oddball, art-house tendencies have been lost in this new translation of the band’s music, there has never been a better, brighter or more immediately satisfying pop soundtrack to Das Kapital.

Pixel Revolt simply and beautifully reminds us that no matter how great a rock producer is, songwriting talent is as essential as it’s always been.

In spite of this second half lag, Daedelus continues to exhibit a tremendous capacity for distilling disparate ideas into something personable.

By all accounts, a solid album; it’s just that we have come to expect better from someone with such a flawless back catalog.

A stunning, grandiose pop record.

This ability to remain reverent to its influences without compromising its personal vision or sounding like a dull tribute act is White Hills' greatest strength, and it's on display throughout the album.

Although it's a top-heavy record, Waterloo to Anywhere gets stronger with each listen; the melodies come through and the energy that at first seems restrained starts to break free.

The largely successful results characterize a risky proposition that in the hands of talent and artistic focus has yielded all sorts of adventurous delights.

Most of Death by Sexy plays like the hard-rock equivalent to Ying Yang Twins or a stripped-down version of anything in Motley Crue's catalog.

Heart of My Own sounds more produced than Oh, My Darling, but not for lack of quality. Despite the yearning lyrical plotlines, the warmth exuded from the woodsy harmony of Bulat’s voice mingling with the amalgamation of guest instruments cozies even the bitterest of winter days.

Fate exposes the larger problem with Dr. Dog’s catalog -- namely, that the band have become so comfortable where they are that they are content to merely play to type.

Their chemistry undeniable, this debut could serve as a watershed for both members’ future creative outputs.

It's a lot to take in, but the simple, hypnotic beauty of the stark landscapes Tyler has created here reveals itself more with each subsequent listen.

Information Retrieved's value lies in its stark denial of what fashionable indie rock is these days; it's an admirable and frustrating time warp to the days when Sunny Day Real Estate were cutting edge.

Girls and Weather is a rousing debut effort from a band that isn’t out to try to pull birds by acting like the Stones (or the Clash or the Libertines).

Mandell’s best, most varied album is hidden somewhere inside Artificial Fire. You have to dig through 20 minutes of brightly painted filler to find it, and unfortunately 12 of those minutes make up the album’s first three songs.

On this album she proves herself as something more (way more, in fact) than an eternal scenester and competent drummer.

With Luppi's influence, the band holds its ground in more sophisticated territory on Grand Animals than it has in the past.

There isn't a song here that truly rises above the rest, and nothing here is as offensive as anything you'd hear at a stop on the Warped Tour.

Ultimately, Hearts is an adolescent album in every conceivable sense.

Unfortunately, Sigel has taken a step away from reconciling the truth on his fourth full-length, The Solution. Instead of shedding the one-note dimension of his popular Broad Street Bully persona, he simply cloaks himself in another unconvincing and uninteresting trope: the mack-lover.

The result is an album that's heavy on ideas instead of execution. It's pleasant but forgettable.

Family Perfume Vol. 1 wafts with a brilliant array of aromas, drifting from atmospheric psychedelia to homegrown folk melodies that leave a lingering sweetness in your mouth.

Ditherer is a lot of great noise from a small band with big talent.

Perhaps Adams is just earning cheap sympathy with his strained, tour-weary voice, or maybe it’s just too thrilling to hear him revisit Gram, but Jacksonville City Lights does seem to come by its sound honestly.

Wigflip feels like the type of thing Madlib could churn out on any given lazy Sunday afternoon.

Think Au Pairs or Delta 5, but filtered through Bikini Kill and the Rapture.

Koster's songwriting and arranging is growing by leaps and bounds, and Mary's Voice is his most assured batch of songs to date, it's just too bad that the production can't catch up or exude the same kind of progress and confidence.

The Big Pink's A Brief History of Love is exactly the kind of album I wish had existed when I was 14. That's not a dig at the record; one of the more special things that a group can do musically is create a sound that appeals both to teenagers and adults.

Featuring a crunching call-and-response bass line, 'Hurricane' not only makes for a hell of a good time, but, much like the album Jim, also makes for one of Lidell’s tightest and most enjoyable to date.

It's this combination of the simple and the intricate, the elegant and the forceful, that makes Luminous Night work so well.

Full of simmering restraint, Jukebox sounds lived-in and genuine, less a genre experiment than full fledged statement.

It's true that most of the attention Gonzalez received in the beginning was from songs other artists' wrote. The difference with Gonzalez is that he picks songs that fit his minimalist and whimsical approach--and he often makes them better than the originals.

Without any previous knowledge of Treacy's work, My Dark Places could be shoved aside as an album from some bloke being different just to be different, but this is nothing new for Treacy and the Television Personalities.

These musicians came into their own and have created another standout record without repeating themselves.

It's poppy, it's quirky, but it's also shrouded in forebodingness and unease. When the group achieves that sort of balance, AttentionPlease is close to perfect. The album fails when there is too much dance, too much party.

When it works, Temple stuns. Unfortunately, it seems he's also chosen to pad this album with formless sound collages and white-noise excursions, diluting what would have been a stellar EP's worth of material.

Twin Sister live up to their advance press here: They're a good band with room to grow, and a couple great songs.

People will fall in love to this music, and Coldplay knows it.

Ahead of the Lions is pure press-a-button-out-comes-album radio pap.

After repeated listens, the fact that the end of the album doesn't live up to the beginning really starts to stick out.

Song of the Pearl marks a nice transition for these guys, but it ends up sounding like it could have been more.

An awkward, uneven record that comes over like something they made in a week instead of something that was continually pushed back for more than a year.

The danger with The Errant Charm is pretty much the same as any other Vetiver album -- so many mid-tempo, strummy songs can create a sluggish effect.

The album often ventures into the cheesiest territories of pop music, but this is Rihanna's strongest effort to date.

Small Craft probably wouldn't make it as an art installation. It gets too diverse and obstreperous to make good musical wallpaper.

These Four Walls retains its charm, even when Thompson goes to the well perhaps one too many times with the line repetition trick.

Nupping proved it, and Natural History amplifies the point that Dope Body are a completely unimpeachable unit from a musical standpoint: able to fit in with contemporaries while still sounding undoubtedly like themselves, carrying on the proud outsider-rock tradition of their hometown.

Lust gives them the most emotionally substantive material they’ve ever had to work with, and yet there’s still that sense of detached restraint.

A concise killer of an album.

Public Strain improves on Women in every way, which is no small feat. It's 13 minutes long than its predecessor, but Women doesn't use the extra time to spread out. The band keeps the tension up by building the various lean sounds of that record into new, more muscular variations.

Assembling an impressive list of guests that understand his legacy (Paolo Nutini, Mayer Hawthorne, and the Dirtbombs' Mick Collins among them), Coffey sounds downright vital, unleashing dusted licks and stinging wah-wah over boom-bap breaks and buoyant horns.

This type of rough-spun music isn't for everyone, but Among the Leaves is a valuable effort regardless of its pockmarks and dogged minimalism. Enjoy at your own risk.

The album's about being depressed, smoking weed, having fun, not understanding girls. You know, the moments that define any summer.

So are The Hives stuck in a stylistic corner, or is The Black and White Album just a rocky bridge to something new and revelatory from the group? The material seems to drop hints in both directions.

The best tracks on Love’s Miracle match Yow’s wildman performances with equally manic music. Qui doesn’t always achieve that balance, and the album sometimes feels like it’s getting by on quirk alone. But when it hits, it hits hard.

That the group’s second effort, Enemy Mine, is able to accommodate all three distinct voices in only nine tracks is even more remarkable. But that Enemy Mine is a firm step sideways is less so.

Micah P. Hinson and the Opera Circuit is a pure expression of turmoil, a cathartic release through art that skillfully avoids self-obsessed mawkishness.

Opticks is also more mature than her previous outing, which at times can seem like the happenstance work of an adorable child. It's clear that Silje Nes is coming into her own as an artist here.

The lilt of the melodies, the consistent surprises of the production, and of course the poetry of the lyrics are all more than enough in and of themselves to keep listeners fully engaged.

With The Camel's Back, Psapp grows up while successfully eluding categorization in the quest for catchiness.

White Bird Release is a solid, completely contained work.

The results are hit or miss going forward.

Set Free is a triumph, full of tunes that affect well beyond their modest means.

You probably won't remember the first time you hear Plague Park, but that's not because Boeckner and Perry have failed or their record's pleasures are few. It's simply that their goals are modest and their tools humble.

Yet it is the span of moods, paired with the elaborate arrangements, which reveal something new with every listen, that make Dear John an album worth persevering with.