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

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

It's all very commendable, but one wishes McGraw had taken a few more chances with the material, most of which is as lightweight and ultimately disposable as much of modern country.

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.

Droge delivers his melodies with an audible grin that lets us know he accepts these songs for the cheerful foot-tappers they are; nothing more, nothing less.

Unhurried, smooth and easy on the ears.

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

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.

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

An album that feels a bit self-conscious in its adult-contemporary skin.

More than 40 years of combined experience results in an album that works well as music for the road or for a party thrown by discriminating baby boomers.

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

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.

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

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.

A full three-fourths of the record feels more like the work of a band that hasn't yet staked out a sonic identity.

Feels doesn’t trump earlier, more intimate Animal Collective releases. It’s just louder and messier.

In streamlining the elements of B.R.M.C., it jettisons the wrong half of the equation, eschewing substance for angular, affected form.

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.

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.

The casual fan could do just as well building his own sequence from the 1970 original, Naked and the third Anthology disc.

Sting's most adventurous disc as a solo artist.

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

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

Fans of So Much for the City's warm, Beach Boys-esque charms may be disappointed with The Thrills' musical progression, but most should enjoy Bohemia's varied charms.

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 may not be the most exciting work you’re likely to hear this year, but as a lazy-afternoon chill-out record, it should have few peers.

Promising but safe.

Considering that Fillmore isn’t drawn from a single show, it’s baffling as to why the slower numbers are bunched together and the more exhilarating songs pushed nearly an hour into the listening experience. As a result, the album falls somewhere between Thin Lizzy and Zeppelin on the double live barometer.

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.

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.

While the upbeat message is laudable, the entire exercise could prove overly precious, not to mention repetitive, if not for a few tunes that help add much needed variety.

Sadly, the album's consistency is also its failing; you can only take so much softness... before you're just listening to elevator music, and after 19 tracks that's what this becomes.

The cumulative effect of Trust Not is a wearying one.

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.

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

There isn't much variety on the disc, which many will find a bit thin after repeated spins, but there's no doubting the band's clean, confident sound.

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

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

Clips and clatters, glitchy mechanics and breathy cooing have displaced the beautiful melodies that are Múm's strong suit.

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

Back to Me is a solid successor to Failer, though at some point Edwards is going to have to toss aside the sour-relationship crutch if she truly wants to distinguish herself from the rest of the country-rock crowd.

Mostly, it sounds like no more and a little less than one might expect (or hope for) from such a union: Scott Weiland singing over some relatively crunchy Slash guitar templates.

Yr Atal Genhedlaeth sounds like a one-off; a palette cleanser for the Furries’ frontman. It doesn’t rise to the level of Rhys’ work with his day job, but then again, it isn’t meant to.

Whiskey Tango Ghosts is a supremely intimate, homespun album, one that isn't meant to arrest the senses so much as it strives to assuage the pain of turning on the nightly news and being bombarded with grim tidings on a global scale.

As solid a listen as it may be, one can't help but yearn for a little bit more of the testosterone-charged hard-rock muscle that the band members' resumes evoke.

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.

While there's nothing approaching the memorable hook of Solace's "Into the Fire" or the stalking menace underlying Fumbling Towards Ecstasy's "Possession," Afterglow stays true to McLachlan's impeccably designed songcraft and keen sense of melody.

Once the contrivance of The Forgotten Arm’s vaguely sketched plot device crumbles, there are still solid tracks to be found.

Subtitulo certainly appears to be an accurate representation of where Josh Rouse is in his life: comfortable, confident, and beneath-the-radar contented. Good for him; bad for fans of Josh Rouse albums brimming over with great hooks.

A refreshing and revelatory palate-cleanser.

It's not earthshaking, but it manages a small cocktail of politics, jazz, and well-produced indie-rock that you can refer to as "jams" without feeling embarrassed.

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.

The sound of a band throwing itself relentlessly at the limitations of its genre.

On the whole Electrified offers too much syrup.

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.

It's not half-bad, providing you can get over the fact that the Earlies have yet to find a sound to call their own.

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.

College Dropout is a competent if overlong debut, which serves up solid but by no means groundbreaking production work a little too dependent on familiar hooks from '70s R&B staples.

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.

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

The Trouble With Being Myself is solidly produced, if too safely MOR to stand beside Gray's debut, and it doesn't exhibit anything close to The Id's sense of risk.

Ultimately Monsoon proves an easy, agreeable listen; soft rock for graying indie-rockers everywhere.

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

Stumble Into Grace's saving grace, naturally, is Harris's voice, possessed of a mature poignancy that transcends pedestrian production; it's far too genuine an instrument for the lackluster arrangements offered here.

Unsurprisingly, the track list is all over the map, stylistically, technologically and qualitatively.

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

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.

It's a stronger album that those from Heat's Interscope period, and while songs like "Party Mad" and "If It Ain't Got Rhythm" no longer sound new, they do have their own rewards.

Musically, this is as solid a hard-rock offering as fans of Motorhead and obscure Swedish crunch fans could ask for. Lyrically, however, Probot is a different story.

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

Out West’s main drawback is pacing; despite being drawn from a trio of sold-out shows at the Fillmore in San Francisco earlier this year, there’s little sense of momentum.

To be sure, Everything to Everyone certainly packs in the humorous moments that were largely lacking from the group's last album, 2000's Maroon. But it also shows principal songwriters Steven Page and Ed Robertson reflecting on weightier topics related to the band's double-edged popularity.

Taking the Long Way wraps its still-raw emotions in sweet satin sheets of breezy, middle-of-the-road pop. While there are still some country elements, the album mostly exists in that top-down netherworld of Sheryl Crow albums and Tom Petty's "Learning to Fly."

Eggs fails to engage with the unpredictable inventiveness of Swimming Hour, and lacks the skillful brevity of Weather Systems.

Eyes Open shows you the elements of a successful record, without the heart that ultimately makes it a success.

Body of Song is patchwork and spotty, dappled with a handful of sparkling additions to Mould’s estimable catalog.

It's that sobering confessional quality that gives the album an unexpected dose of depth and grace.

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

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 while it's appealing to hear Barlow sound so contented as he approaches middle age, Emoh can't help but lack in the emotional immediacy so typical of Barlow's earlier, non-eponymous work.

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

Garden Ruin’s arrangements simply don’t arrest the senses as forcefully as its intelligent and aggrieved wordplay merits.

Amputechture, with its obsessive exploration of religious fanaticism and the physical expression of devotional desire, is not an album wanting to be loved so much as feared and listened to with a sense of awe and taxed exasperation.

Split the Difference simply isn't very engaging.

A high-energy smash-and-grab debut.

Winchester Cathedral may be a transition album, or it may just contain a few curveballs to keep discerning listeners on their toes -- only Clinic knows for certain.

Trampin' is an improvement on Gung Ho, Smith's previous release, if only because she hasn't sounded this committed and politically charged in years.

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.

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.

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

+44's first effort is an enjoyable diversion, but it's not apt to stop anyone's heart.

An over-baked confection that falls well below its primary chef’s abilities.

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

Other than a few impressive moments... Push the Button proves less than inspiring.

Odditorium contains the best and worst aspects of the Dandy Warhols.

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.