The more conventional tracks prevent the album from reaching a true fever pitch, but even they are elevated by Maria's primal wail.

Wild Young Hearts shows a young band still unsure of what to do with itself (Brit-pop, Motown, electroclash, something else?) but sure that its lead singer is pretty great. And for now, that’s working well enough.

The fun is gone. On The Invisible Deck, the Rogers Sisters sound like just another band.

While collaborator conductor Aldo Sisillo's orchestrations deserve a healthy dollop of credit for the overall sonic success of the album, Patton's voice is clearly the centerpiece.

It's these odd melanges that clench together into perfect hooks that make Ministry of Love as promising as it is.

Just Like the Fambly Cat sounds like a Grandaddy album, but only in that it rehashes everything the band has already done.

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.

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.

Beautiful front to back, it's still an album that never quite asserts itself.

B continues to acquit himself admirably on purely technical terms, wrapping a slow, slithering tongue around the quick stabs of his guitar.

They're a tight fit: Ant likes to experiment, and Ali's nimble enough to keep up and make it work.

On what has been for the most part an impeccably executed commercial rap album, TI again reminds us what he’s really capable of.

He'll probably still be relegated to afternoon festival slots and in hard to find reaches of your local record store, but Pop Negro is another delightful record that pushes the boundaries between music and countries.

Even if they are more refined, they may still sound very much like what Blackshaw has given us before.

The third album of the formula, the lovely-titled Heart On, shows that the Eagles of Death Metal have reached their limits, but not without a noble effort to keep on rockin’.

As a group of former heartthrobs with something to prove, Duran Duran are both a product of its time and a band with its eye on the future -- and they've finally managed to capture the titular sense of Now.

In and Out of Control is still hindered by what has sunk every Raveonettes album from being great; there’s a sinking feeling upon multiple listens that you’re just listening to one long song.

The album may have its bumps, but the unassuming charm these guys have always brought to their records comes through more often than not.

With no clear-cut standout like "Nice Train" or "Dolphin Center," the record fights to find its footing on slacker-rock ground and never quite gets there.

The Dears left Arts & Crafts and cut their least entertaining album yet, Missiles, deciding to release it through the more populist confines of Dangerbird.

Impeach My Bush is Peaches' best effort yet.

It essentially exposes Doherty’s biggest weaknesses: his trite lyrics, his less than perfect voice, and his inability to sound interested in anything he’s doing not under the title "Libertines."

It's deeply dreamy pop, not unlike Beach House (with whom Lanterns share a UK label in Bella Union) or Mazzy Star, though their songwriting isn't quite up to snuff with either of those.

Dear God, I Hate Myself packs enough of a wallop that it is worth sitting through some dross to get at the choice bits, which, as is the case with any of the best work by Xiu Xiu, are uncomfortable, uncompromising, and easily hummable.

Because the songs refuse to make their musical strictures ends unto themselves, because a good sense of melody can make a bunch of analog synthesizers feel as familiar as your mom’s meatloaf, because Bazan’s lyrics celebrate the commonplace so convincingly, the Headphones manage to sound as real -- in fact, as ordinary -- as any ol’ rock band.

Svanangen has a wholly human presence on Loney, Noir, easy to invest in and equally easy to reap rewards from.

No matter what band he's playing with, Froberg has always had a great ear for guitar tones, and here, he and second guitarist/vocalist Sohrab Habibion whittle down their instruments into scythes, dialing down their more surfy tendencies in favor of guitars that lurk during the verses and slice only at the most opportune moments for maximum impact.

They have that kind of hypnotic quality, a combination of strength and texture that sounds calm at every turn, which is what makes it so surprisingly volatile in its effect.