There’s not much here that will elevate the band beyond their current status. Bermanites will still revel in his idiosyncratic lyrics, and they can even play along thanks to an insert that lists all the chords used on the record.

But what this offering lacks in mirth, it more than makes up for in transcendence as well as dissonance.

There’s not much here that will surprise longtime fans of Krug and Boeckner’s work, although they have slowly turned the wheel and moved the Wolf Parade sound on from "Apologies to the Queen Mary."

Though at times difficult to listen to, the effect is a clear view of an artist's process. Herein lies the true value of Dennis Wilson's legacy: an open invitation to simply listen.

Diamond Hoo Ha is by no means a return to the band’s glory days, but it at least offers a simple reminder of their talent for writing energetic, hook-laden pop songs.

Ultimately, though, this is a definite misfire in an otherwise impeccable career.

On Off to Business, he accomplishes another step toward canonization, making a late-period album that removes any semblance of what made him great in the first place and is a largely uninspired trip down memory lane.

Tha Carter III soars because of Wayne’s to-date under-appreciated ability to turn himself down.

Keep trying N.E.R.D., you’re not even close to blowing us away here.

Wasser’s a collaborator at heart (she was a charter member of the Dambuilders and worked with Lou Reed, Antony & the Johnsons and Rufus Wainwright, who guests on “To America”), and she sounds most natural when she’s backed by horns and keys and backing vox and slinky grooves.

The album is all over the place, with traces of Queen pop excesses flowing seamlessly with crunching, almost hardcore-punk-tinged guitar rockers and some weird stuff, too. Yet each of the tracks keeps Sloan’s Big Star-sounding power-pop roots intact.

It does manage a nice arc in terms of overall pacing, with some interesting though not entirely successful vocal works at the end (“Testament” and “Infinitum”). Yet the album feels a bit too similar for how crowded it is.

Sure, this is a relatively slight effort--those in search of adventure had best look elsewhere--but for the aural equivalent of a fluffy blanket, this is your crack rock.

As a four-track EP, this would have made for an indelibly catchy collection; as an album, it plays like four lone meatballs awash in a pot of bland noodles.

Takes could have used a few more experiments of this nature, because while his versions of the Breeders’ 'Invisible Man' and Yo La Tengo’s 'Tears Are in Your Eyes' are tasteful enough, there’s no real sense of adventure, no real feeling that these songs needed to be covered in this way, no real attempt at making this anything other than a stopgap between records.

Not that every track here needs to be radio-ready, it's just that with the themes being so dense, another morsel to take with you would have been welcome.

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

If Red Album’s songs were formulaic, shiny, and easily digestible like everything on Green or Maladroit, the vacuity of the new songs wouldn't be as big a problem. But 'Heart Songs,' 'Thought I Knew'--these are just plain bad.

Smilers proves Aimee Mann still has plenty to offer doing the same thing she's already been doing for the last fifteen years.

When The Virgins are paying homage to their New York forefathers in terms of their aesthetic and lyrical content, they have trouble distinguishing themselves from the Jets of the world.

They deliver on [Sun Giant EP's] five-song teaser's promise and then some with their first full-length, a self-titled gem that already seems set to wind up near the top of any right-thinking person's year-end list.

While earlier albums hinted at the kind of open-air pastorals that the band was capable of, Rook delivers on all the promise.

On Real Close Ones, the M’s sound like a slightly older version of the band that made their first album. Sure they’re really good, but they're too pensive to make the step up to the big leagues.

Playing up his role as elder statesman, Green gets away with delivering the familiar back-in-the-day sermon because listeners expect it from an icon of the past. However, by infusing such consistent gentleness throughout the entire record, he pulls off the unthinkable in the early 21st century--a momentary respite.

With its out-of-this-world visions and lines like “Floating off the edge of the ocean/Out into the galaxy,” Dystopia gives listeners the urge to escape to distant lands.

It seems they have forgotten that no matter how appealing this concept is to them, nothing is more appealing for the listener than experiencing the artists as they really are, not as they want to be.

Johansson simply lacks the intensity to stay afloat in Waits's whirlpools of ear-drummed madness.

The Lucky Ones shows him to be as reassuringly sarcastic and self-deprecating as ever.

Arm’s Way represents a step forward from "Return to the Sea" creatively if not as an artistic whole.

Narrow Stairs finds Gibbard more than willing to play to type, offering the same staid character sketches he’s used since his first EP and songs that reiterate his point, that, like, love can be rough on you.

Its muscular confidence and stylistic purity make it a must-listen for the psychedelically inclined, as well as an easy candidate for one of the best records of the year.

Like much of today's synthetic approaches, Splash reaches broadly, but his process is more substantive than his content.

the majority of the album is exactly what indie rock has been lacking for over a decade, and this is too crucial a release to get caught up in nitpicking.

The Long Blondes sophomore album, Couples, is a disappointing follow-up to their sublime 2006 debut, "Someone to Drive You Home," but not as disappointing as it initially appears.

This application of the synthesizer’s capabilities across styles and time periods allows Matmos to explore their music through a more purely compositional aesthetic -- and, with any luck, they’ll be remembered for this just as much as for their experimental leanings.

Hebden seems to be using the Ringer material to delicately maneuver the Four Tet sound away from the folktronica tag that was foisted on previous releases such as "Rounds" and "Pause."

Behind these minor tones and detached themes, Third emits a knowing and quiet confidence that communicates the band’s strongly held ideas, especially that of existential ennui.

In highlighting the more tasteful, nuances of their sounds, they’ve emerged with a more cohesive whole, a representation that better captures their classic-rock heart while simultaneously stripping the fat away and revealing the core behind the chaos.

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.

Clearly Robyn knows her pop history, but she manages to prevent the album from slipping into simple pastiche by always keeping the balance between old and new just right.

Madonna and some of music’s edgiest producers have again brought an underground sound to the forefront of pop music.

Santogold is sure to be one of the year’s best albums, with only one near-miss (“My Superman”), an album that may become unavoidable in coming weeks and months.

Here the hairier, dronier doom aspects of the band’s sound have here largely been put on hold to focus on songs, and the results are the sort of mixed-bag of serious stunners and unfocused ideas that we might expect from a superbly talented and intelligent band trying to eke out a new path in the wake of a defining album.

This is a live recording that stays true to the night.

The chemistry between them, first displayed on 2005's "Chemistry" and now on The Formula, is consistent from song to song.

Transcendent tracks like 'Your English is Good' and 'In a Cave' indicate that there’s still room to grow on subsequent Tokyo Police Club releases. But for now, the band seems to have lost its mojo.

Pulling off the high-wire act of musical comedy this well deserves an unabashed kudos.

Stronger, more contemplative feelings are at work here; gone are the sugary la-la-la's and superficial lyrics inserted on cue.

It’s all pretty cohesive, yet the album relies too heavily on its slick production and lyrical arrangements.

The Kooks come off like a Ringo to most of Britpop’s Paul.

You Have No Idea What You Are Getting Yourself Into is not a record to take seriously, and I suppose on some level it succeeds in reveling in that, even if it wasn’t the intention of the band.

[Pfeffer] pruned this album to an essential thirty-two minutes, in which every note (and there are a lot of them) has its purpose and every bizarre genre switch leads somewhere important and ends before wearing out its welcome.

On Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!!, Cave weaves yet another tapestry of characters.

It's an interesting mix, but unfortunately, the album is never as much fun to listen to as it probably was for the Deal sisters to make.

Two forgettable bonus tracks tacked on to Sub Pop’s U.S. edition of Antidotes don’t help on that score. We don’t need any more of what’s already here.

Rabbit Habits struck me most where it rescues the jazziness that's sorely missing from 2006's "Six Demon Bag." At the same time, though, the band continues to develop some productive tendencies from that sophomore outing.

With In Ghost Colours, Cut Copy have created a record that is both en vogue and timeless, familiar yet fresh, full of glossy optimism, and unforgettably gorgeous from start to finish.

It’s tighter, and incredibly, more intimate and intense than the first, this is a band that functions as a whole, not merely a threadbare net of musicians straining to support the singer.

X isn’t the comeback album some may have been hoping for, but it is a welcome return for Minogue.

Hold on Now, Youngster... succeeds where the band does hold on: to genuine emotions, to vulnerability, to a cohesion that threatens to shatter under the pressure of self-deprecation and relentless skin-pounding.

And though it's doubtful that any of these qualities will duplicate the success that Moby had in 1999, Last Night is a surprisingly solid and fun listen for anyone who ever gets nostalgic for MTV's Amp.

Even if Anti-Flag’s hearts are in the right place, Bright Lights of America is too vague to be impactful.

With Consolers of the Lonely, the Raconteurs are still content to play record-collection plunderers, but instead of ripping what they can from the '60s, they spend much of the album as twenty-first-century stand-ins for Grand Funk Railroad, Blue Oyster Cult and Three Dog Night, playing big, limp, calculated rock 'n’ roll.

Though heavy-handed lyrics and ominous proclamations can be tiresome and often too taxing on the arms of music that bears them, the sheer artistry of SMZ makes the band’s messages endurable.

But no matter, because the tracks that Universal has okayed are the kind of ballsy primal rock that conjures up images of a glorious multicolor three-way between Bikini Kill, the Ramones, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

There’s still plenty of bits on Beat Pyramid you’ll find exhilarating. But the rest of the time, you’ll find yourself wishing These New Puritans would ascend above its well-established reference points.

There’s nothing wrong with a band being crass. But when that band tries to act like they’re doing it in order to make a vague, nonsensical statement on twenty-first century love and sex, the result is albums like Reality Check.

Seems that no matter what project Rhys is involved in, his love of bright, Brian Wilson-inspired melodies is going to shine through.

Careworn and authentic, the prismatic scatter of songs on Volume One, filtered through the sepia tinge of Deschanel and Ward’s nostalgia, sound more like out-of-time gems than the loving recreations they are.

Crystal Castles leaves its mark as an electro record that challenges, succeeding and failing all at once, and perhaps most important, never forgetting the primary goal of dance music.

Sixes & Sevens feels more like movie-hopping at an art-house multiplex, an exercise in genre formats and stolen identities.

Ultimately the album is merely a reward for sitting through a season of reality-show high jinks.

With Visiter, the Dodos have made one of the year's best albums, one that mixes folk traditions with impressive sonics and texture. It only hints at what they may be capable of.

Once you get the lay of the land of Alopecia -- with its ethereal production, endlessly analyzable wordplay, and moments of supreme pop clarity -- it’s a captivating realm to explore.

Clunky, overblown, and decidedly Ross.

So while there’s very little that’s surprising about obZen, the album finds Meshuggah’s strengths filtered through tighter song structures and more approachable grooves than we’ve heard from them in a long time.

Confrontational as Hello, Voyager is, it’s also a carefully constructed work by a group of players that know how to wrench compelling music out of dark places.

Mastered by Nilesh Patel (Daft Punk, Depeche Mode), Robotique Majestique has the Austin-based Ghostland Observatory throwing down a solid, synth-heavy version of their stateside electro-punk, making their third release less guitar influenced than the occasional rock moments of "Paparazzi Lightning" (the duo's 2006 debut) and 2007's "Delete. Delete. I. Eat. Meat."

For the most part, the album succeeds insofar as it either builds upon Malkmus's perennial themes or allows itself to indulge in experimentation.

In their desire to avoid repetition, however, they’ve indeed strayed somewhere they’ve never been before: the middle of the road.

Their sound doesn’t deconstruct or reconstruct anything; it just kicks some tail.

Over and over, we get the sense that Cadence makes records for that gaggle of kids on the album cover, for the look on their faces. If any of the rest of us likes it, all the better. It works: We’d like to know more about Mr. Weapon, and his buds.

Everyone who likes Howlin Rain’s sound will come away from Magnificent Fiend wanting more. At just eight tracks, it’s a rare full length that doesn’t seem full enough.

The Ruby Suns’ greatest strength is how easily they’re able to pull off this mix on Sea Lion without seeming over-bearing or preening. It makes the whole album seem effortless.

While Driedeger and company still have a ways to go in crafting a distinct sound and generally tightening their writing (especially the lyrics), they're well on their way.

Seventh Tree ultimately may have club-happy "Supernature" devotees shaking their heads, but for those of us who cherish all things weird and wonderful in the land of Goldfrapp, it is a welcome (and much-needed) return to form.

Discipline, is nowhere near the high point of her career, but it is better than its predecessor.

Another Country, whether in rock or country mode, is an album built on the voice of its artist.

With NY's Finest, Pete Rock, whose place in hip-hop is alread firmly cememted alongside masters like Premier, may not go beyond expectations, but he certainly meets them comfortably.

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.

Heretic Pride lifts those shadows--it's the most optimistic Mountain Goats record yet. It’s uplifting and soulful, genuine and sophisticated--full of tender moments enhanced by remarkably pretty melodies and arrangements.

The strength is in Vernon’s ability to make a quiet, lonely album that is not boring.

It's an uneven and at times painfully intimate record, but one that confirms the talent of a songwriter obsessed with illuminating his interior truth.

Sleep Forever distinguishes The Big Sleep as a force in its own right, and it’s a testament to the band’s growth. That--as well as the tracks themselves--make Sleep Forever a pleasure to hear.

To extend the title’s metaphor, Golden Delicious has the taste, but none of the bite.

Grand Archives ought to be more than a library of dusty riffs and Beach Boys records; Brooke's work succeeds where it adds fresh material to the shelves.

It's almost impossible to pick favorites off an album that doesn't have a weak track.

This album stands out because of its stadium-worthy aspirations.