Magnetic Man accomplishes its goal: make pretty for the spotlight.

The choice tracks, the tracks that redeem an otherwise eternally frustrating album are 'Cannibals' and 'Modern Dislocation.'

It's worth listening to with the hope of getting lost in some strange other world where children spew ether ghosts and spirits tap out love in Morse code.

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.

Business Casual will probably slay people at parties, on Urban Outfitters sales floors and as part of the pre-concert entertainment over the P.A. But it'll probably have the same seven-month shelf life as Fancy Footwork did.

Origin is a saccharin mouthful of bloated riffs, burdensome lyrical clichés, and second-rate studio trickery -- songs that lurch rather than rock. In other words, it’s Oasis at their best or the Doves at their absolute worst.

One Way Ticket to Hell's blandness seems like the perfect example of the difficulties of riding a revivalist routine longer than necessary.

Security Screenings is a solid record, one that will probably sound much better in the context of Prefuse 73's catalog twenty years from now than we'll ever give it credit for today.

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

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.

Listening to his simple melodies, uncomplicated structures and often disinterested vocals, the cool with which Jay approaches Slow Dance is unmistakable, and it is largely the single element that carries the album.

Parenthetical Girls consists primarily of Zac Pennington's unmistakable vocals, and they are given a musical context that emphasizes their stark beauty on this album. It was well worth the three years of effort on his part.

So Two Thousand is rich in guitar-disco atmosphere and tone. But it's weirdly lacking in personality.

These mid-tempo songs sap some of the group's natural energy from Dracula.

While the definable hooks are definitely more present than on most metal records, that doesn't necessarily make a better, or even more accessible album.

It's highlighted by an invigorated Kweli who's back to his old sound-bombing ways.

The album has its moments, like a nice surprise bridge toward the end of the title track and the slowly building, percussive arc of “Circles.” But You Can’t Take it With You just fails to make a strong case for itself.

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.

Pluto should be appreciated for what it is, an album of impeccably crafted, energetic, original music that is striving above all else to be popular and universal, even if such goals look less likely of being achieved than ever before.

With Freak Puke, they continue to embody the creatively restless heart of independent experimental rock.

A Love Extreme giddily steals from and collides with a kaleidoscope of genres, all without a trace of modern guilt.

The songs on Goodnight Unknown are well crafted and it’s clear that Barlow still has quite a bit of passion for making music, but the spark of genuine creativity is not there.

Weathervanes is a darling, coherent, and certainly radio-friendly (if at times sugary) record. But on their next attempt, Freelance Whales should tone down the maudlin, veer away from Sufjan territory, subtract a few bells and whistles and grow up with the college crowd.

While some songs appear to have a cleaner polish (the pleasantly danceable "XXXO" and the epic "Tell Me Why") than others (the freewheeling "Born Free" and the ultra-compressed "Space"), every song is structured like a concise pop song with just a few rough edges.

A few tracks here sound less like fully developed songs and more like a college-age kid tinkering with a four-track, but overall, Williams hits more than he misses.

Songs and Other Things' mid-tempo pop feels tossed-off, like Verlaine couldn't have been bothered to do more between walking the dog and a few dart games.

There’s an emotional heft here that wasn’t present before.

Other posses succeeded because all members contributed to a central sensibility and ethos that made the whole greater that the sum of its parts. G.O.O.D. Music just obscures the greatness already there.

Bloc Party once came with something to prove, and the conviction necessary to prove it. Four takes the audience's interest for granted, and refuses to step out of line to draw more interest. So much for a revolution.

Listening to New Chain, there's no reason now to think that Small Black can't put that fine touch to making an album with a tight balance between their drowsier sensibilities and their hookier, head-nodding ones.

As good as some of the tracks are, it's just discouraging to think how solid the record could've been if it had been just ten tracks of more fleshed-out material.

The perfectly pleasant Traffic and Weather is inarguably diminished returns.

Shout Out Louds have long been a case for the positives of going singles-only, and they probably keep that reputation here. But by a minor degree, Work is Shout Out Louds' finest album-length statement.

With nothing wasted, it leaves you wanting nothing more.

Who Killed Harry Houdini? is beset by lukewarm, heart-on-sleeve ballads that spoil the album and sub-form slices of pop that never take off.

Even if almost every song here sounds like something someone else has already done, there's still originality to be found.

Living Thing isn’t easy listening, it functions best on headphones, and it doesn’t contain an obvious single. But music should be challenging.

It's more or less a corporate-rock distillation of nu-rave, three years too late.

There’s no telling if Ludacris will ever be given the level of respect he desires, but this help proves that he deserves it.

Like a good mixtape, the Scott Pilgrim soundtrack works less as a primetime rock album and more as an entry point to some great work that those on the margin may have missed. And for what it's worth, it's the best soundtrack Cera has ever been associated with.

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.

As Olivier's lyrical content matures along with the rest of the band's elements, Midnight Movies could be ready to move into primetime.

Born Again Revisited is brimming with catchy choruses, expert song craft, and a few honest-to-goodness fist-pumping anthems. And this time around, your eardrums remain intact.

Lonely Island are among the funniest musical comedians around. But without video, their songs are more "A Night at the Roxbury" than "Wayne’s World."

Spirals downstream into dreary non-sequiturs faster than the glue addict who lives four blocks from me.

Tamborello's textural sensibilities remain, but his ability to supercharge glitch into something intoxicating and luminous seems to have dipped out the back.

Roadkill Overcoat is a thorny album, one that doesn't give itself over easy, and definitely not on first listen.

Cotton Jones is comfortable, but that comfort can be tiresome.

Now that Cuomo is older and singing about things like fame and the alienation of age, it's become harder to empathize.

The Fragile Army is the Polyphonic Spree's most consistent album, and it thunders with an assurance that was missing from "Together We're Heavy."

An album that is warm and inviting without being overpowering and rich and varied enough to warrant repeated listening.

Musically and melodically, this is the best work Green has ever done (even counting The Moldy Peaches -- which isn't to suggest for a second that Jacket is the superior record). Lyrically, though, it's the same old Adam Green bullshit.

Fortino's considerable talent for trance-inducing musical honesty could probably use a little bit of editing. It's better in the end for listeners to feel like they're being driven, not just along for the ride.

The self-titled release was dominated more by decaying, almost bleak instrumental meanderings than the half-cocked pop-fuzz that made the group's many singles such hot items. 2010's Nothing Fits, released on In the Red, is a near total about-face, consisting of 11 swift, fierce blasts.

At times, the country air's so strong you can smell the hay/freedom. Far more often, though, Dekker and company find the sweet spot.

No one will ever get sick of Love Songs--they're an essential product of the thing we call the human condition. But it's easy to get sick of these.

They may play noisy guitar rock, but they also wear military uniforms in concert and write songs about Czech history. Man of Aran illustrates both the successes and shortcomings of that dichotomy.

Formulas churn out reliable, consistent results, but "reliable and consistent" art doesn't always inspire a passionate response.

Valentina spends much of the time spinning in circles instead of plodding onward.

Self-Entitled [is] the most energetic NOFX record in a while, but one that still ends up a bit uneven.

It was all too easy to brush aside Turbo Fruits when the band was doing straightforward, blues-tinged punk. Echo Kid makes that less than possible.

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.

At its best, Kingdom Come is about possibility. At its worst, it pales in comparison to past albums.

Most of Asleep at Heaven’s Gate is forgettable, uninspired, middle-of-the-road indie pop.

In a genre where dullness is constantly being fought off, there's never a moment on Soft Money moment when monotony threatens to take over.

A thoroughly enjoyable and well-crafted album of mid-tempo soul.

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

This album works adequately, maybe exclusively, within the folds of Bright Eyes' self-contained space, and that's really not such a bad thing.

Advaitic Songs is Om 2.0's second full-length album, and it is far and away the most entrancing document the band has released.

Much of With Love and Squalor is like your old coat rack: You know where the hooks are going to be even in your sleep.

Sleepy, sporadic and inconsistent.

The songs blur into one another, edited to form a metal-machine grind of music that, while certainly exhausting--there’s even a disclaimer on the album: “Do not attempt to listen to all at once” -- maintains a kind of lurid appeal in its dogged attempts to capture a three-year journey within the constraints of a double LP.

On We Are the Night, Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons pull out all their tricks, delivering an album of euphoric psychedelic electronica, quirky guest appearances, and danceable grooves.

It's disturbing like a Mike Patton record, with blink-and-you'll-miss-it lyrics that serve as confrontational one-liners.

Nobody sounds quite like them, though, and few metal bands balance spiritual and metallic consciousness so well.

Organ Music Not Vibraphone Like I'd Hoped is about as ambitious as 35 minutes of music can get, and Krug gets an awful lot out of one instrument here.

The members of Tha Alkaholiks may not have wrapped up their stellar career with the bang many had hoped for, but I'll still drink to this.

Repo isn’t a great progression from previous Black Dice records. But their willfully amateurish approach, and a continued fascination with the coarse and the crude, make this another welcome addition to their woozy, dog-eared oeuvre.

Ultimately Songbird feels a bit rushed, and when you have as gifted a songwriter as Adams working with as gifted a songwriter as the Red-Headed Stranger, it's a bit of a letdown to ponder what they could have done.

The original Pussy Cats may not be classic enough to be untouchable, but Nilsson was enough of an oddball original, and the album carries so much back story, that a remake of it just ends up being a "why bother" moment.

Fol Chen's debut, Part I: John Shade, Your Fortune's Made, is end-to-end melodrama and that's fine; so far, they're doing it right. Instead of the kind of melodrama that produces sugar and hooks, Fol Chen appears to opt for storybook.

Unfortunately with No Witch, there just isn't enough excitement to hold the listener's attention for long. And while the group is to be commended for their artistic efforts, it could benefit from a more aggressive fusion of sounds on its next album.

Richard Butler is a personal and, at times, beautiful album, but sadly not enough to qualify it as a success.

[There] are only the few standouts on an album otherwise comprised of facile dance tunes with overwritten lyrics.

Aside from the occasional goofy detail (“I love sandwiches after sex”), their horndog bravado provides exceedingly little in the way of memorable lines, growing numbing and interchangeable over the course of 15 tracks.

Glitter is a guilt-free collection of mature rock/pop.

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

Through its happy welding of superb vocals and tactical percussion, Gold Leaves achieves a timeless quality, with a bright future on the horizon.

Sometimes, the band forms something interesting and new from these starting points.

Your enjoyment of this album will depend on how open you are to cats meowing, telephone rings, and French spoken-word passages weaving in and out of the songs.

What Portastatic is able to achieve on Who Loves the Sun? without using vocal melodies is impressive.

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.

Put simply, this music is slow, the same slow soggy tempo the whole way through.

[Producer Paul] Epworth's accomplishment is obvious throughout the record. Having remixed some of today's indie-elite, infusing garage rock riffs with electro elements, he knows the importance of dance-floor accessibility and brings out all the shadows and contrasts that make Kick the accomplishment it is.

While not as hybrid as Abe Vigoda nor as melodic as Jay Reatard, these women kick out a place in the musical universe through sheer, happy, blasting audacity.

Rather than mature effectively, Electric Six has pretty much reached the end; at this point, the band is just cashing out.

All too often Shadow Temple falls short and is flat out boring when it should be actively engaging. It took Rama 14 years to rise to the throne and bring peace and harmony. The band members need to do more than this if they want to if they want to outperform their namesake.