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

Magic and Medicine reveals a tightness of strong structure and definition of purpose (still all things '60s, but more folkie than psychedelic) lacking on the group's debut.

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.

In terms of sheer ambition -- and the realization that if you're going to use strings, you might as well go completely over the top with them -- The Arcade Fire is a promising, unapologetically melodramatic sure bet.

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.

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.

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.

Finn’s examination of restless youth and wasted nights might not be as incisive nor as relevant as he clearly wants them to be, but there’s little question The Hold Steady has never sounded tighter.

Allison Moorer abandons the glossy textures and pop friendly hooks of her last album Miss Fortune for a grittier, more lived-in sound on The Duel.

A whatever-sticks debut with meritorious replay value.

Missteps aside, Magic Time delivers that familiar blanket on a chill winter’s day vibe, and Morrison fans will thankfully bury themselves under it.

It's a pleasant surprise for those who feared that the group's glory days were long gone.

Another almost-but-not-quite entry in a catalog full of near-miss gems.

Room on Fire is the sound of a tighter, more focused band.

The Runners Four is simply another interesting collection of tunes from a group that refuses to curtail its trespasses across musical boundaries.

The band's formula for its high-energy, rock-dance mélange is quite simple; take youthful exuberance (average age: 19), add an exceptionally-tight rhythm section, and let the superfluous, over-indulgent jams flow, as they most certainly do over the course of ten songs and just over 55 minutes on this most promising debut.

Chutes Too Narrow proves the Shins have more on their minds than singing the perfect harmony or writing the ultimate couplet, and it's that deeper sense of introspection that makes it a keeper.

Stylistically, In Case We Die is like a Jackson Pollock drip painting, chaotic and bustling.

Instant 0 finds Stereolab upbeat and sounding more vibrant than it has in years.

Shifts into a cruise-control comfort zone, blissfully coasting on what has come before.

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.

You want back-to-basics? This is it.

Happiness in Magazines is the sound of a former sideman confidently flexing his muscles for anyone who's interested. More people should be.

The Understanding is one of those bold sophomore efforts that will most likely split fans of the duo into two camps, with the Air/Boards of Canada downbeaters lamenting the new direction and the dance-oriented, Basement Jaxx set reveling in the unexpected vibrancy of Röyksopp’s present sound.

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.

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.

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

A more shaded, musically expressive version of the continuing story of [Karen] O.

Mostly he just wants to make big, fun, Bowie-esque declamations or work out a nervy punk jones.

Ghost remains one of the more chaotic and interesting outfits working today, and Hypnotic Underworld proves another worthy addition to the group's idiosyncratic catalog.

This is a subtle, whispered scream of a work, one that demands nothing of a consumer’s time but pays decent dividends for those willing to make the investment.

Perhaps an unrefined but fiery bar band would have been better suited to accompany such nakedly raw material.

Possibly Hatfield's best work since her solo debut.

Ultimately, those enamored with Walker's infrequent but peculiarly expressive post-'70s work (from Climate of Hunter on) will find much to enjoy here.

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.

Blue Eyed in the Red Room doesn’t quite congeal, primarily because Hollon’s two collaborative efforts are the most impressive moments. Reverse the 8:2 ratio of instrumental to vocal cuts, and we might be talking a long-striding keeper.

Another solid addition to Jurado’s commendable catalog.

Separation Sunday isn’t quite on par with Almost Killed Me, primarily because it won’t stun listeners with its freshness.

Buffs the rough edges of Words & Sounds, Vol. 1 but sacrifices some of that record's spirited adventurousness.

The second half lacks the spirited kick of the first.

The musical stretches Spearhead makes go a long way toward making Everyone Deserves Music a memorable, even highly recommended affair, but the sanding down of Franti's rougher edges just prevents it from being an essential album. Spearhead fans deserve more consistently inspiring fare than they get here.

Face the Truth is paradoxically the most intriguing Malkmus album and the weakest of his post-Pavement career.

The Furnaces refuse to play it commonplace... which is both their greatest strength and most frustrating weakness.

Because of the Times... reveals a band growing musically and revealing the requisite growing pains.

The concentrated unity of form and content that elevated sterling sophomore effort Bows & Arrows has been replaced by a footloose approach to songwriting and style that fails to mesh.

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.

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”).

This is just well-executed, fun rock 'n' roll.

It's his most consistently rewarding effort in recent memory.

Too much of... Out of the Vein struggles to scratch its way into your memory banks, hobbled by its own melodic shortcomings.

Like a deliriously evanescent pep rally from the Outer Limits.

Untilted lives up to its title, finding Booth and Brown unbowed in their belief that clinical repetition and street-smart hip-hop beats can coexist in the universe. But it’s a big universe, and there are times when locking onto the exact coordinates Autechre’s transmitting from can be a long, cold and lonely chore.

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

In the Reins will please fans of both Beam and Calexico, and perhaps bring crossover business to each.

The warmest, most life-affirming album of his still-budding career.

Sleep/Holiday finds Gorky's sticking to its idiosyncratic pop guns.

Ultimately, The Tipping Point is an ironic title, given the fact that the Roots sound like a group recharging its batteries rather than triggering a momentous shift in how it approaches its music and the world at large.

It's certainly not the most bracing thing he's ever done, but it's hardly disposable pop dreck.

It’s just that combination of sincerity and an ability to emulate the sound of its heroes (and, in most cases, do so with more proficiency than those heroes themselves) that makes Permission to Land a fun, diverting trip through the (admittedly guilty) pleasures of a wildly excessive decade.

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.

Penn’s most unified sounding record.

Blink-182 is a challenging listen, although not for the reasons one usually associates with Blink-182.

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.

Heron King Blues may lack spark and consistency, but it's a decent (just not essential) addition to the Califone catalog.

It's a murky finish for such a bracing start, but when it works, Powder burns as brightly as the most affecting moments in Dulli's catalog.

Despite isolated moments of brilliance, Drum’s Not Dead fails to mesh.

I Com thus presents a new model for electroclash artists: it still exhibits some hallmarks of impersonal club music, but it also offers a (presumably genuine) glimpse inside the private diary of Miss Kittin.

Granted, there are still "classic" two-minute exercises in self-immolation (the bleak "Icarus Smicarus" and pulverizing "Lucky Jim" stand out), but nothing that exceeds -- or approaches -- Dallas' chaotic brew.

Mezmerize is on par with 2001’s Toxicity as SOAD’s best offering to date.

Quite simply, Drill a Hole is White's distinctive, Panhandle-troubadour vocals performed over the jazzy, late-night tones of a Joe Henry-assembled band.

A mixed bag of hit-or-miss pop-oriented tunes.

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

While two discs might have been more effective, the sheer overkill of this collection is par for the course for Cave and his supporting players.

Despite running out of gas down the stretch, Ben Kweller is still a validation of its creator’s burgeoning gifts.

Easy Living simply lacks the scope and gritty, lived-in detail that made Skinner’s first two efforts so appealing.

A dewy dream-pop affair that favors vaguely defined lyrical sketches of people, places and things over concrete foundations and specific arrangements.

True to form, there's a fair amount of unexploded duds mixed in with the direct hits.

Ultimately, Black Cherry lacks the unified flow of Felt Mountain, primarily because the band hasn't divorced itself completely from its past sound.

Pixel Revolt doesn’t reconcile the political and personal, and that may be the point. But it nonetheless makes for a frustratingly uneven listening experience.

It would have been nice if Kidwell had stuck to his white-schlep soul man routine throughout, instead of gesturing back to earlier electronic or acoustic-based instrumental work.

Despite taking few chances thematically or musically, the reincarnated Son Volt delivers a tight, nothing-wasted set.

Idlewild may still be figuring out exactly how to juggle its conflicting elements, but there are more than enough truly bright spots on Warnings/Promises to remind the listener of what the band is capable of when it fires on all cylinders -- and even when it doesn't.

This is a mature, reflective work (read: repeated spins are expected to reveal the deeper layers), the sound of a veteran group content with its cult status and simply playing to its strengths: Smartly crafted guitar-pop that will appeal to the faithful and perhaps add an adherent or two.

If it ultimately feels as if it's slightly less than its predecessor, that's because there's a sense of the band's acting out more in order to try and show how outrageous it can be.

Person Pitch is a paradoxically personal yet expansive work, a set that seems incredibly intimate to Lennox but universally open to a world of possibilities.

Fever to Tell... shows that this seeming one-trick pony is capable of more varied and interesting material than its members have previously exhibited.

The results are competent, if unsurprising.

The Life Pursuit isn't so much a conflicted Belle & Sebastian as it is the sound of a band continuing to evolve its sound without sacrificing its core identity. It's certainly not the best place for a newcomer to start, but it's an interesting (if not wholly satisfying) addition to the band's body of work.

Talkie Walkie isn't on a par with Moon Safari, and proves far less daring than 10,000 Hz Legend. But it manages to hold up, in its own punch-drunk, electronically unstable way.

The old masters have aged gracefully with the times: no longer following or leading the techno/electronic movement, but rather operating within their own realm of digitally manufactured bliss.

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

True, most albums lag in the second half, but the lag here is so noticeably at odds with the intelligent goofiness it follows as to almost negate it.

The majority of the vocals are so tweaked and treated, morphed and modulated as to simply lose any sense of the man himself.

PGMG is at its strongest when trafficking in one particular base emotion: Anger. It's when the band attempts to emote on a frequency dominated by the likes of Bright Eyes and Dashboard Confessional that the group gets into trouble.

If Spooked isn't Hitchcock's most visceral effort, its spare acoustics make it nonetheless a diverting and likeable listen.

Despite the intervening years, Quarry sounds cut from exactly the same cloth as the last couple of Morrissey albums, which is to say that at best, it represents a bit of a holding pattern and at worst, it continues the slow artistic decline begun with 1995's lackluster Southpaw Grammar.

While the record finds Earle at his most outspoken, it also finds him treading water stylistically, comfortably wearing down the same groove he's occupied since 1997's El Corazon.

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