Sexsmith isn't pushing the musical envelope as intensely as he has on past efforts, and while his songwriting is as delicate and graceful as ever, there's simply nothing here that he hasn't done better or with more flair elsewhere.

Cripple Crow does a wonderful job expressing the range of Devendra Banhart’s musical interests, uneven though the actual payoff may be.

Killing Joke doesn't supersede the previous self-titled incarnation so much as it refines the band's legacy and sound without sacrificing an ounce of fury. The result is a real keeper.

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.

And not unlike the uncertain characters populating their songs, the band members have yet to stake out a distinctive musical identity, borrowing a little too liberally from their Southern Rock roots without adding anything original to the mythology.

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.

The charms of No, You C'mon are much more readily apparent: the songs themselves are more concrete, more dynamic.

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

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

Doesn’t sport as many memorable tunes as 2002’s Lapalco.

More than anything else, This is Not a Test! is a fun listen: Missy obviously enjoys poking fun at herself, and doesn't shy away from promoting a sexually empowered female persona.

While The Trials of Van Occupanther may never be more than a cult favorite, those seeking to till peculiarly American musical soil will undoubtedly reap a rewarding and plentiful harvest.

As with many concept albums, the concept itself gets buried beneath the show-off virtuosity, the band's ringing need to not only impress but bedazzle the listener.

Hardly an essential addition to the Mogwai catalogue (diehards excluded, of course).

Atomic Bomb is a reduction of U2's most definable characteristics into a very basic formula: impassioned vocals lent extra gravity by Bono's wavering voice; guitars that chime like bells; thick, meaty rhythm section workouts; slowly seductive hooks that build to triumphant, emotional, endorphin-releasing choruses. And on that level, it succeeds admirably.

There's no mistaking McKay's talent as a songwriter, even if, as on "The Dog Song," she still falls too easily prey to cloying preciousness.

But if Uh Huh Her doesn't rise to the level of Harvey's best work, it does possess a grim, unvarnished beauty; a beauty that, while it might repel a few of the fans she gained with Stories, capably rewards devotees of her earlier, unburnished and uncompromising works.

The hooks are much more muted than on the band’s debut Oh, Inverted World, and overall Wincing the Night Away assumes a less assertive stance than sophomore standout Chutes Too Narrow.

It's about as far from daring as a band can get, offering the stale and familiar torpor Top of the Pops traffics in.

An energetic, musically ambitious pop-rock record that employs its expanded vistas in the service of animating punk's well-worn thematic underpinnings.

i is a well-crafted work with its share of strong moments, even if its impressive attention to craft holds the listener back from emotional investment.

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

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.

The cumulative effect of Trust Not is a wearying one.

It's a deeper, more rewarding listen, rivaling End of Amnesia for Ward's strongest release to date.

Musically, the Walkmen are not only tighter, but also more purposeful.

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.

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.

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

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.

Guero is all over the map but the majority of its detours simply aren’t worth the trip.

A noisy, stamping, querulous assault on the senses that could have certainly benefited from more than a little editing.

Feels stuck in a holding pattern.... A misfire from a talented band.

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.

Earthquake Glue nonetheless contains the band's best work since the energized Isolation Drills and edges out last year's Universal Truths And Cycles in the memorable hooks department.

Discover a Lovelier You is a modest triumph, and certainly not indicative of the group’s best work.

It's the magnetic push and pull of its different sonic layers and shifting moods that really defines the record (for better and worse), and rewards repeated listens.

A restless, questing work.

As tough a slog as the backend of Part 1 is, it's Part 2 that truly reveals just how rushed, haphazard and ill-formed Adams' stab at morose mope-rock is.

In sticking close to home, Vanderslice has crafted his finest album yet.

The back end of the album trundles along, failing to rival the opening energy or offer anything as interesting as the non-anthemic detours.

Comfort of Strangers is a more confident record than 2002’s Daybreaker, exhibiting an economy of craft and unvarnished execution that might glide by less attentive ears but rewards the keen consumer with a warmth and depth worthy of the artist who created Central Reservation.

It’s one thing to strive for the primal truth of a particular sound; it’s another to vainly bludgeon a thoroughly pulverized style in search of unsullied beats.

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.

Tyrannosaurus Hives should add up to more than simply a tighter record with gaudier production values. That it doesn't could spell trouble for a band eager to avoid being sent back down to the minor leagues.

Clearly, what we’re dealing with here isn’t a new Modest Mouse, but one with a few new, calculated tricks.

A Healthy Distrust reinforces Sage Francis’ standing as one of the most verbally gifted rappers currently in the game, but it lacks the cohesive flow of Personal Journals and complains about a host of worldly ills without offering much in the way of a positive solution.

The approach Welch and partner David Rawlings bring to the material feels crafted for private enjoyment rather than public consumption, and the end result is not only Welch's most personal work to date but one of her most emotionally satisfying as well.

While there are unmistakable traces of that swampy, sweaty sound, particularly in the three-guitar sturm und twang of the title track, at other points the Truckers openly embrace their rock and punk roots, as if hoping to stomp that nettlesome Southern Rock label into the ground.

Unhurried, smooth and easy on the ears.

As with Carrabba's earlier work, though, the problem with A Mark is the utter lack of personalized context in which his heart-on-your-sleeve songs operate.

While such diversity isn't necessarily a bad thing, it does tend to break the rhythm of his albums.

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.

It's [Kim] Gordon's tracks that make the strongest impact.

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

Everything Ecstatic doesn’t come together as solidly as prior Four Tet releases, but it unquestionably contains the blueprint for far greater explorations to come.

We Shall All Be Healed emphatically proves that Darnielle can create compelling, dynamic music beyond the comfortable confines of his living room couch.

While the results aren’t exactly groundbreaking, they're undeniably loose, spirited and just plain fun.

Leo hits a few bull’s-eyes.

Even at a svelte 33 minutes, Chain Gang wears into a well-defined groove pretty quickly, and its breathy affectations too often congeal into pastiche, note-perfect homages lacking in depth.

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

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

A blithe, energetic and wholly likable album.

The results are competent, if unsurprising.

Shadow simply holds together better than recent Jurado efforts.

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

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.

The biggest upside to the release, however, is that now the intrepid Illinois enthusiast can cobble together one super playlist.

Throwing Muses, the 2003 incarnation, sounds as close as it ever has to the pre-House Tornado lineup some sixteen years back.

On the whole, Before The Dawn Heals Us is a more unified, singular vision than Dead Cities.

At times, Callahan's penchant for clever phrasings gets the better of him.

The Secret Migration is a beautiful-sounding record, but Deserter's Songs managed to sound spectacular and still work in adventurous detours.

With all due respect to Mr. Albini, perhaps it’s time Nastasia broadened her collaborative horizons.

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

No matter what vehicle Hersh utilizes as an outlet, it’s obvious her creative wave has yet to crest.

Bottom line: Some great beats propping up a not-so-tight band, making it sound much cooler than it actually is.

Despite obvious talent and wit, it fails to leave more than a marginal impression.

The earthbound, anxious and somewhat pissed-off attitude is what stands out and makes the strongest impression.

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.

This handsomely eclectic collection merits inclusion as an essential addition to Yo La Tengo's richly diverse catalogue.

When he strikes the right balance of mischievous charm, rapid-fire wit and genial bravado, Ludacris proves why he's at the top of his game. But Chicken -N- Beer too often flashes us threatening glimpses of a less-likable persona behind that avuncular veneer.

Unlike the groups' prior albums, Remember the Night Parties carries less heft due to its shimmering pop mindset.

Give Tobin credit for shaking things up, but Foley Room is more an example that proves he should stick to his strengths and go back to the vinyl-filled crates for material.

Get Lonely reveals an artist in full command of his craft.

Now, this wouldn't seem so bad, or filler-friendly, if !!! offered an advancement on "Giuliani." Alas, no.

Proponents of Mars Volta’s Frances the Mute will claim that anyone who doesn’t like the album simply can’t handle the lyrical depth and amazingly multi-layered musical complexity; critics who pan the release will claim it’s overlong, indulgent, and -- did we mention indulgent? The truth, as usual, falls somewhere in between.

I Can't Stop is impressively consistent: There's not a sub-par song in the bunch.

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

Rilo Kiley's most consistent and sharply executed release to date.

Ultimately, Vapor Trails rises above its own musical shackles, propelled by pleasantly memorable melodies and an aura of lyrical poignancy.

Rather than leaning on his appealingly gruff Neil Diamond pipes to articulate personal stories of drunkenness and hardscrabble redemption, Bachmann takes a more imaginative approach here.

Much of The Cure slogs along at the same churning, monotonous pace, and Smith, rambling in a croak-shout variation of his normal singing voice, does the material few favors.

Bereft of the force of ideas, the swelling of potential, it largely settles for a pleasant, high-calorie buzz of guitar heroics and sonic familiarity.

The moody “Together” reveal[s] what’s possible when White and Benson join forces. If only collaborations in this vein had been given greater consideration, the Raconteurs might have had something truly revelatory beyond a whimsical side project.

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.

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.

In terms of sheer Freddie Mercury bravado and guitar-shredding, genre-jumping prog-rock pomposity, this stirring record is indeed (forgive me) something of a revelation.