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.