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.