Despite utilizing the same basic indie-pop template utilized to agreeable effect on its previous three albums, Death Cab for Cutie lays an outright goose egg with the bland, tepid Transatlanticism.

Multiply sacrifices cohesion in its quest for stylistic diversity, but it’s a bravura tour through the smooth sounds and hot jams of yesteryear.

A whatever-sticks debut with meritorious replay value.

Cast of Thousands is populated by a motley crew of fringe-dwellers, outsiders and no-accounts, looking for a warm place to drink and like-minded company to occupy the waking hours -- and Guy Garvey is the right man to tell their tales.

Gibb’s passionate vocals and direct, literate lyrics work best when he’s confronting issues that concern him (like organized religion, for instance), as opposed to wallowing in less confrontational topics (as when he frolics happily on the beach with “Boys Of Melody”).

They've slowed down the tempo a little and cleaned up the sound a lot.

Taken as a whole, Inches is a fantastic collection, achieving what other full-length Les Savy Fav albums have not: Delivering a wholly satisfying listening experience.

This promising notion of marrying the overly pensive, doomed-romantic Billy persona with orchestral-sized studio ambitions is a wash, the cumulative effect being undeniably gorgeous, in a rainy-day internalized apocalypse kind of way.

Her Majesty rewards repeated listenings, ultimately revealing itself to be a deeper, subtler work than Castaways.

School of the Flower is as pretty as its titular place of higher learning intimates and as substantive as bongsmoke.

That Out of Season leaves an imprint, and a powerfully lasting one at that, is a testament to Gibbons’ carefully sculpted lyrics and her vocal interpretation of same, combined with Webb’s unobtrusive but no less vital studio work.

A few throwaways... keep Theory from attaining the rarified heights of earlier efforts. But in the final count, it’s just nice to hear this criminally underappreciated outfit sounding so sharp and revitalized.

Apologies to the Queen Mary gets by more on energy than chops.

Faking the Books is a small forward step rather than a dramatic leap for Lali Puna -- which, all things considered, is still a step in the right direction.

Before, it sounded like Animal Collective sought only to please themselves. Sung Tongs sounds like a concession to the rest of us, and that's not a very exciting prospect from such a unique and potentially great band.

Good News could well be looked back on as the band's rite of passage, filled with energetic but reckless noisemakers and more studied, stylistically adventurous tracks.

Be won’t win many points for daring, but in terms of user-friendly hip-hop charged by a refreshingly positive undercurrent, it more than hits its hard-to-miss mark.

Though trite lyrics too often undermine strong instrumentation, Shine a Light is a promising sophomore effort from a group that clearly has the chops to blaze even brighter.

Think Tank, then, is neither the best Blur album nor the worst; rather, it's a unique creature, guaranteed to be the oddball in the band's catalogue.

Frenzied throwaways like “Modern Art” and vapid observations like “popular culture no longer applies to me,” from “Bad Weekend,” keep Bang Bang Rock and Roll from attaining that rarified feel of unveiling something truly special.

Grinderman might actually be Cave’s sappy hopeless romantic testament. That he accomplishes it without orchestral arrangements and mopey strings is truly impressive.

At its best when working under the three-minute mark, the Scottish four-piece still has nothing relevant to say, but has managed to serve up a tighter collection than its crazily hyped debut.

Sunset Tree is Darnielle’s finest hour.

Intense, invigorating and beguiling.

A high-energy smash-and-grab debut.

No one expects an album full of songs about death to be fun, but overall this set feels more ponderous than it should.

Red Devil Dawn reveals the ex-Archers Of Loaf leader gaining momentum with his latest incarnation, which bodes quite well for future releases.

The group has lost some of the accessibility of You Forgot it in People, which wore its heart on its sleeve with fewer emotional contradictions, but has maintained the same emotional neediness at the previous album's heart.

Woman King is an ideal transition record for Beam, interweaving colorful new threads into a familiar pattern and hinting at powerful and majestic songcraft to come on his next full-length.

Nino Rojo may not appeal to the "freak-folk" crowd that so heartily embraced Rejoicing and its shambling predecessor Oh Me Oh My..., but Banhart effectively displays a willingness to broaden his musical horizons that will undoubtedly serve him well on subsequent releases.

Granted, the world isn’t exactly better off since since the last Gorillaz album, but that doesn’t mean we need to be reminded of it by a loose collaborative outfit that will never be mistaken for the Clash when it comes to political or social consciousness.

They capably cover everything from noisy freakouts ("Turn It Out") to electroclash chillouts ("Sexy Results"), and manage to hold it all together better than bands armed with triple the sonic arsenal.

Dressy Bessy's darkest record yet is also its strongest, if only because there's a little more grit and tears mixed into the familiar, rapidly-approaching-stale sunshine-and-happiness mix.

It's the band's most vital disc to date, and one of the year's most memorable listening experiences.

Low goes overboard at points, and detrimentally so... [but] the dissonance and harmonies mostly gel.

A promising debut from a band more clever than it is musically accomplished.

Bloc Party will almost certainly find success. Based on Silent Alarm, however, it won't be as innovators or firebrands, but as purveyors of familiar hooks, passionately delivered and smartly promoted.

Its musical adventurousness proves intoxicating.

Nothing here approaches the pop perfection of Romantic's "Letter From An Occupant," but songs like Newman's "The Laws Have Changed" and Bejar's spirited "Testament to Youth in Verse" nonetheless add weight to one of the year's strongest and unabashed pure-pop releases.

Springsteen sounds natural enough singing many of these songs, but we never forget that that's Bruce Springsteen -- Bruce "Born to Run," "Born in the USA" Springsteen -- singing these songs, and the necessary baggage that the rocker's voice brings with it raises unavoidable questions of intent.

Other than the minor quibble that there's not as many immediately bracing hooks as on past efforts, Universal Audio has very little to apologize for.

This isn’t a band looking to be loved so much as it desires a swift kick in the teeth.

Rather Ripped is a solid collection of songs smartly executed by a band secure in its legacy and refusing to go gently into that good rock night.

Venice doesn't hold together as well as Endless Summer, but it still proves another fascinating, creatively gallant album from one of the more vital artists currently operating in the world of electronica.

Perhaps the album's most remarkable feat is its utter lack of density: One never gets the sense that anything excessive or unnecessary was utilized in constructing its sonic brickworks.

Get Behind Me Satan lacks the confidently muscular (if sonically overreaching) ambition of Elephant, the raw, bruising intensity of White Blood Cells and the appealing hooks of De Stijl.

A triumph tempered by doubt, an accomplished collection of conflicted feelings and guarded optimism.

Picaresque features some of Meloy’s most assured songwriting... What makes Picaresque a great album, however, is the snug synthesis between the rest of the bandmates playing in relation to Meloy’s verbose lyrics.

The lyrics are urgent, but the delivery is complacent, and that makes for an odd (yet strangely rewarding) listening experience.

The arrangements are lovely, as always, but it’s Bird’s openness (as opposed to his inscrutability) that pays the greatest dividends on this exquisite, resonant work.

Ultimately, You in Reverse is more a refinement than an evolution of Built to Spill’s sound. Fortunately for those inclined to guitar rock, it’s a great sound.

It's as if, having played the crowd-pleasing rock card, Springsteen feels the need to validate himself as a "serious" artist, but has mistaken a certain affected intimacy of approach for thoughtfulness and dramatic substance.

Inspiring and masterful.

Fusing elements of Human League’s sophisticated new romantic aesthetic and Belle & Sebastian’s unapologetically arty preciousness, Montreal-based Stars deliver their most consistent effort with Set Yourself on Fire.

Damaged is quintessential Wagner: a ponderous, carved-wood gut-punch of a record that finds hope in the mundane details of everyday life, even as the big worldly picture comes crashing down with alarming force.

The Obliterati's first half makes 2004’s stellar comeback ONoffON seem tentative.

The material doesn’t resonate, however, and pales next to Ward’s prior effort, Transistor Radio.

Rubber Factory finds inspiration in decay, and signals a hopeful future for the Black Keys.

The range of styles is impressive, which trumps the lack of logical or elegant transitioning. Snaith may be showing off, but at least he’s backing it up with strong and memorable arrangements.

"One In Seven" is the best song on the London-based four-piece Engineers' self-titled long player.... The problem: "One In Seven" is the last song on the album. The ten tracks preceding it simply don’t measure up.

One of the stronger debuts released this year.

Sadly, Tanglewood Numbers just doesn’t sport enough memorable Bermanisms to make it a truly satisfying Silver Jews album.

An unflinchingly grim set.

At its best... the band more than justifies the hype.

1972 has less urgency than Rouse's inconsistent but promising debut, Dressed Up Like Nebraska, and save for the last two tracks doesn't approach the earnest, careworn sublimity exhibited on Under Cold Blue Stars. It is, however, one of his most polished releases.

Scissor Sisters' debut is a brilliant ode to a musical era defined by vapid decadence and disposable dance tracks.

Despite being one of the weaker albums Wilco has released, A Ghost is Born is nonetheless the most fascinating.

Akron/Family has definite talent, but less forced naturalness, tighter song structures and greater emphasis on appealing harmonies could only help the group in its quest to conquer the known musical universe, or, at the very least, the corner organic foods mart.

If Aw C'mon pales in comparison, it's due to a pronounced downbeat atmosphere and an over-reliance on cutesy, clunky titles.

Unfortunately, when Clearlake misses the mark, it does so widely.

Obviously, the peerless craft and genuflecting reverence are beyond reproach; those desiring a more progressive form are out of luck.

Since We Last Spoke is more sonic retreat than bold reinvention, an intriguing, if not entirely triumphant, tip of the hat to the sound and spirit of the Year of the Dragon.

Far and away her most radio-friendly album to date.

The second half lacks the spirited kick of the first.

Superwolf is the sound of two artists on the same creative page, both bringing unique abilities to the table and elevating the other's talents as a result.

Musically, Fabulous Muscles is Xiu Xiu's finest hour.

Imagining an all-acoustic version of Martha Wainwright hints at the true potential lurking beneath the strings and high-calorie programmatic flourishes that, while undeniably pretty, detract unnecessarily from the eponymous focal point.

Despite losing creative momentum down the stretch, it’s still a remarkably affecting and mature record, proof that Chan Marshall kicks off the second act of her career in top form.

Fans of the New Pornographers will find Slow Wonder not quite as rocking (though "Miracle Drug" features some crackling guitar work), but possessed of just as many memorable hooks and choruses.

One of the most exciting discs in recent memory.

Awfully Deep is another strong release for Smith, and while it doesn’t sport the effortless flow of his debut or the rich variety of Run Come Save Me, its considered assessment of where he’s been and where he might be heading helps the album more than live up to its title.

Although it threatens to flicker out in spots, Pawn Shoppe Heart mostly blazes with an intensity that avoids sounding contrived or dated.

All Of A Sudden I Miss Everyone is not that perfect album that reinvents the genre, but it is a primer on everything good about it.

While the lyrics tend toward the generic and vapid... the primary appeal of Magic Numbers is the lovely harmonizing.

The best Hitchcock album of the new millennium: Less insistently jagged and catchy, but with a bit of sting wrapped in its more tasteful arrangements.

As regrettable as it is to trot out the old “strong first half, weak back half” reviewers’ cliche, the Constantines’ third release, Tournament of Hearts, cruelly forces the issue.

The Grind Date is the sound of a rejuvenated heavyweight who may have lost his belt but has in no way has conceded the fight.

A gifted, natural performer, Rice has had little problem connecting with audiences, filling O's quiet stretches with a likeable persona developed from his previous life busking on the streets of Europe.

A little less formula and more personal expression would have gone a long way toward making this one an essential addition to their discography.

Last Days of Wonder finds the Handsome Family hitting a comfortable stride.

Nashville validates the promise Rouse has exhibited since Dressed Up Like Nebraska, encompassing a gift for emotional detail and a fondness for simple, unadorned lyrics. It's an understated, impeccably played collection of heartfelt tunes about a time and place that can never be returned to.

Is Antics superior to Interpol's highly regarded debut, Turn On The Bright Lights? Well, yes, providing your criteria involve a tighter, less fussy sound and gimmick-free production.

It demands the right frame of mind, temperament and that ideal rainy-day traveling environment, in which nothing works out. When you're in the middle of such a moment, Hood's there to provide the soundtrack for your emotional nosedive.

Throughout, Madlib impressively manages to keep the proceedings from slipping into total chaos. Even so, there’s a frustrating sense of intentional subterfuge throughout.

There's definite promise here, if not the stunning masterpiece of popcraft that a sudden deluge of impressive notices might indicate.

The Beatles don't meet Jay-Z as equals; they're sliced and diced, the innate musicality of their work all but compromised into nothingness, into vaguely familiar square pegs crammed into the comparatively round holes of Jay-Z's original vocals.

The Boys are still presenting themselves as an emotionally sensitive duo, but the smoothness pulls the urgency out of some of their problems.

Incorporating the best moments of the band's previous two releases, Reconstruction Site offers a clear blueprint for future efforts, built on Samson's instinctual mingling of liberal-arts smarts, poignant sketches of perceptive reflection, and a melodic infrastructure of pop and rock gestures.