[The] most unexpectedly superb album so far this year.

Polysics is not cute. It is rock and/or roll.

Mostly, this record is yet another reason to wish that people with real talent would stop throwing it away.

What makes the Subways stand apart with their brand of angst-ridden, razor garage-rock guile is that they truly sound like teenagers.

A predictable, oversimplified, boring mess.

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

Unexceptional and devoid of charm, The Tourniquet is, on the whole, disposable.

There's still plenty about the group to satisfy long-time fans, and there's a wealth of quality and innovation to win them some new ones.

Most of these tracks stumble around Dick Valentine's wacky lyrics, and the limited karaoke-style production only cheapens the equation.

It's a much warmer album than her most recent album, 2002's Daybreaker, and it's perhaps her most complete album yet.

Ultimately, however, The Minus 5 is the indie-rock equivalent of Ocean's Twelve. Everyone involved is clearly having a blast, and the result for the audience is often infectious. But just as often it is distancing, like watching footage of someone else's birthday party.

For all the bravado of its title, Destroy Rock & Roll is in fact a neat, listenable trip.

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.

Aceyalone can't do it by himself, and by finding a kindred musical spirit in RJD2, he manages to make an album as expansive as his talent continually hints at.

Simplicity works here, and even though the album may not have a clear direction, the array of song topics is catchy enough to make this alt-rock/indie/country/folk experience work.

Donuts is a big black pot of sonics, comparable only to Madlib's 2002 effort, Blunted in the Bombshelter, the difference being that this is all original material.

This is a brief, refreshing escape from the trend-channeling that seems to have replaced genuineness.

Mostly, the record displays a jump closer to American hip-hop in both production styles and rhyming, and the urgency that was so palpable on the first installment is gone.

Despite its handful of down moments that are either too thickly house influenced or too slow and off the mark, Generation shows that the Audio Bullys’ brand of dance music has staying power.

Many of these new forms shift her into the role of a band leader - a role that, maybe, could solidify her as the "voice of a generation" that overzealous press releases have claimed her to be.

Dipping into heavier rock elements can make emotional lyrics seem misplaced at times - it almost seems like the band is intentionally aiming to present a man's record - but even the album's rare moments with jagged guitar are tastefully executed.

When the songs are spare nothing feels left out, and when they're grandiosely band-heavy not one harmony or piano fill comes off as pilled on.

I'll keep conceding to Jenny Lewis's voice any day. It's amazing. It could bring the rafters of any church down. But the material it takes up on Rabbit Fur Coat is boring.

This is a solid listen regardless of whether or not it's breaking any new ground.

In both material and performance, From a Compound Eye quickly reveals itself to be classic Pollard.

For Screening Purposes Only is rock without a filter.

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

The guitar work is clean and atmospheric, the vocals light and poppy and the rhythms playful to reflective, but we've been here before.

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.

His tried-and-true lo-fi routine is still there, and die-hard Pipe fans will probably gobble up this release, but these thirteen smoggy ballads are like that week-old liter of Grape Fanta: you know, flat.

Not quite poppy and not quite moody, there's just not enough feeling in any direction to really make it stick.

A majority of the tracks lack in everything but production value.

A disappointingly amateurish performance.

Some of the tracks still don't feel like they offer enough.

Sounds like a band mashing all the current trends and ending up with nothing.

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.

Sia's voice can be affected, and when the songwriting sags and the production becomes more generic toward the middle of the album, she struggles to keep the listener's attention.

From the band we never expected to evolve, there is enough sweeping ambition to have knocked us on our heels - if only the members had learned the art of discretion.

Despite the three or four keepers, 29 suggests that Adams is still struggling to nail down his musical identity.

Where Love and Life limped from song to song, The Breakthrough zips confidently through its sixteen tracks.

Foxx shows some real talent on this album, and he doesn't embarrass himself - except for when he embarrasses himself.

Plays more like a gimmick than a remix album.

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

Coming on Strong is one smooth record; even with all the glitch, all the bleeps and bloops, and all of the genre bending, it never leaves any residue behind.

A wonderfully crafted album built on songwriting that is witty and potent.

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

It’s promising indeed when an album that most artists would be happy to have as their pièce de résistance still shows plenty of room for growth.

Though not a particularly groundbreaking or remarkable album among post-rock instrumental compositions, A Colores is solid and has a lot of movement, the rhythms and melodies rolling tempestuously between the speaker channels.

A perfect summation of everything that was great about this band.

At its best, Recording a Tape still sounds like little more than the product of a few precocious marching-band dropouts, an empty warehouse, and good intentions.

Unfortunately, the dichotomy between the chaotic glee of Akron/Family’s set and Gira’s more traditional leanings diminishes the album’s luster.

Even without the quirky, theatrical pop she offered in the 1980s, she has held up beautifully after her long hiatus from recording, creating a record that is very much her own.

Scab Dates does an adequate job of capturing what is best experienced in the flesh.

A bewildering kaleidoscopic whirlwind that retains edginess and remains splendid all at once.

It plays more like an album reminiscent of the days when hip-hop was something to catch a head nod instead of breaking new ground or shaking the dance floor.

Turns out Isaac Brock is just too damn weird to be imitable.

We Have Sound is one of those albums that rarely has a down moment, and it’s all thanks to Vek’s ability to bring his diverse tracks together.

Thrilling prospect though it may be, the result is a disaster.

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.

Half of the album is rambunctious and full, driving and manic; the other half charms us with melancholic lullabies fueled by a single sip from the purple bottle. The result: With Feels, Animal Collective has created its first pop masterpiece.

Campfire does little to surprise.

Even with its brief lapses, Hypermagic Mountain is Lightning Bolt’s most accomplished effort to date, one-upping 2003’s Wonderful Rainbow with a fresh sense of maturity.

[It] turns out to be a proper Silver Jews rock album, which is to say it has the feel of a drunk snapping into his second wind long enough to belt out a few.

Much of the album feels unfocused, as if Cale has become seduced by the smooth trickery of digital production at the expense of cogent songs built on icy melodies, slippery poetics and true invention -- three of Cale's enduring strengths sadly missing through much of the album's fifty-three minutes.

There is bad music here, to be sure, and although the intentions are good, they are expressed in the now-common nihilism of our generation, where nothing is sacred and everything is a joke.

The Beautiful New Born Children is the rawest of the Stokes mixed with the youthful punk energy of early Replacements.

An album that lacks the band’s trademark ebb and flow, Strange Geometry is just plain inferior to the Clientele’s previous work.

Whether they’re taking names or taking their sweet time, the Constantines pull no punches here.

The Mouse and the Mask’s levity is the antithesis of the dense Madvilliany, and it continues Doom’s steady march toward achieving legendary status.

The Runners Four may not come off as innovative as Reveille (2003) and Milk Man (2004) did, but the real innovation here is in making chaos sound so serene.

Cinder keeps things reserved, letting the sad-eyed melodies teeter around the room at a drunkard's pace.

He comes across as an unfocused sample artist who is too eager to show off all the cool stuff he can do.

Much of the record lacks the magnetism that the handful of highlights boasts.

Dios (Malos)’s buoyant yet sophisticated glow incites a plethora of feelings, but the album stands out above most of the band’s dreamy indie-rock counterparts because, undoubtedly, the members of the band are enjoying themselves.

Closing In consists of amateurish approximations of the music the duo wishes it were playing.

Celebration is as theatrical as it is guttural, with Ford’s voice bellowing above cabaret-style organs, sharp guitars and loose, spiraling drum riffs.

Thunder, Lightning, Strike is for people who love music that hits them over the head with the sheer enjoyment of the human ability to rock.

Not only have Brion’s strings been replaced by an indescribably awkward alt-rock guitar riff and a misplaced drum beat, but Apple’s vocals have lost all of their bite and passion. On Brion’s work, she seemed hungry, ready to get back into it all. Here she retains the emotion that such a talented singer can muster on a good day but none of the rawness that signifies her best work.

The record’s overwhelming scale cuts both ways. There are so many artists, voices and instruments begging to be heard that trimming is as much an injustice to the collective nature of the group as leaving in the excess is to the final product.

The album is just as solid as Franz Ferdinand’s 2004 eponymous debut, and it shows that the group clearly knows its sound -- maybe a little too well.

It’s rare for an album to transport you so fully onto its own terrain, and Witching Hour is a worthwhile retreat.

By trimming thirty minutes off their standard record’s length, the members of My Morning Jacket have paradoxically managed to broaden their sound, cutting the fat to give us ten songs that jive, moon-walk and cock-rock in equal measure.

Somebody’s Miracle is a collection of pleasantly catchy, if unremarkable, pop songs.

This is an unambitious album in the best way.

At this point in his career, Slug seems fully aware of his own routine, and he’s either embracing it with a cheeky self-confidence (read: he’s getting boring) or he’s run out of interesting things to say but still feels like he’s somehow controversial in his honesty.

Metric fails to touch on anything profound.

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

Albatross is a slow bloom of an album, as likely to frustrate those looking for immediacy as it is to reward those looking for substance in repeated listens.

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.

Xcel’s production doesn’t stray very far from its R&B and soul influences, but this time it comes without almost any samples, relying sometimes on players from a homebrewed funk band to create clearance-free beats instead. Unfortunately, this new recipe doesn’t always hit the mark, and songs such as “Black Diamonds and Pearls” sound more like smooth jazz than What’s Going On-era Marvin Gaye.

Throughout the album, Crow's vocal melodies are her most ambitious and memorable to date.

Aside from those two songs ["Florida" and "Pull The Curtains"], however, there aren't many highpoints.

Bianchi doesn’t seem to be traveling down any new paths.

Where many electronica artists choose to mine vintage soul and hip-hop, very few have looked to 1960s folk-rock and guitar-driven anthems for inspiration. The results are quite astounding - if unexpected - and the change is definitely welcome.

Shows off the group’s ability to transform into a neo-classic Brit-pop band, lush layers and dark undertones intact.

The Modest Mouse influence is apparent but in no way detrimental to Wolf Parade's sound.

With Calla’s song structures and melodies more concrete, though, Valle’s desolate imagery has begun to lose a bit of its mystery, and consequently, some of its appeal.

Less than half of the eighteen tracks are worthwhile additions to Sean Paul's catalogue.