Ropechain is sometimes frustrating bordering on indulgent, but it also depicts, without censorship, Adamson’s unique process and point of view.

For those interested in a group that still finds ways to take Krautrock down several roads, Circles more than succeeds.

God Forgives, I Don't is slick, large, and sounds like wealth.

In reality, Technicolor Health is a remarkably eclectic, dynamic album even in its use of rather obvious launching points.

The fact that Warm Slime doesn't quite measure up to the band's lofty previous releases is hardly the point. Thee Oh Sees are already careening down another road at 100 miles per hour, and you best keep up.

It is totally listenable and, to relay a personal anecdote, sounded highly appropriate at a recent social gathering.

Broken Ear Record... seems to embrace a certain sense of pop influence, albeit far beneath the manic din of sonic exploration for which the band is known.

Vanity Is Forever is understated and bare, an oxygen-deprived world with only super-sized synths and O'Connor's bleak narratives.

While Fantasm Planes aims to capture the ante-versions of Iradelphic songs as drifting minimalist collages, it's a tough sell after such a fully realized album.

Interpol's third LP sounds more or less like the last two, and that's its biggest problem.

Male Bonding have stayed on course, but their sound remains as virile as it was.

Hombre Lobo: 12 Songs of Desire is another record that hones and refines what it means to be Eels. Mark Oliver Everett continues his daring and heart-baring, and we continue to be the better for it.

"Cartoon Motion" was a nice moment for Mika, but this second album does not improve or advance what he did before. In fact, he seems to have regressed through his venture into childhood on The Boy Who Knew Too Much.

The conceit of The Dirtbombs covering dance music is genius.

If you don’t mind the lack of edge or grunginess--which is to say, if you like your danger safe--bring extra artillery. You could spend serious time deconstructing this album.

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

Rockwell is a promising debut, and she’ll be wise to stick to the road less traveled on future excursions.

Odyssey is a little late and a touch weaker than its previous counterpart.

We can quibble about intent and expression, but in the end you will have to succumb to the heart, body and soul, and your brain might be left behind.

Even in a crowded field this summer, chockfull of musical juggernaunts releasing albums, Pigeons will likely catch people's attention. And those people will be glad it did.

Parish is having fun on this album, and the musicians he’s bonded with enjoy the ride as well.

Ultimately, Harris appears to have simply swapped one formula for another, and if there’s to be a Funk Wav Bounces Vol. 2 he will need to discover at least a few new tricks. ... [But] there are encouraging signs here that the Harris of old hasn’t been entirely lost for good.

You can't knock the songs, but it's hard to swallow whole.

Most of the songs on Ester are like partially frozen ice cubes tossed into a drink on a warm day: they work for a little while, but they never turn into something truly solid, and end up dissolving pretty quickly.

Immaculate production and carefully conceived themes are sure to make your nerd-tent a lot bigger, but is the space worth it if you push out even one well-penned ditty?

Dance Mother leaves many unanswered questions. But a safe bet is that Telepathe have more tricks up their sleeves.

Unlike the Ranconteurs' sophomore slump, Sea of Cowards doesn't suffer from lack of inspiration. It's simply a matter of a lackluster songwriting effort as the product of deserved success, which in some respects is a worse misstep.

If the sound of being eaten alive is something you would like to hear, by all means, shake a leg to Burned Mind.