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."