While it may not match the exuberant authority of a band at the height of its powers, set by Millions Now Living eight years ago, it does manage to prove itself worthy, in its own way, of the distinct creative voice that high-water mark captured so well.

On My Way lacks the spastic spontaneity of Sha Sha, and falls short in the lyrical department.

Good News could well be looked back on as the band's rite of passage, filled with energetic but reckless noisemakers and more studied, stylistically adventurous tracks.

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.

Snow Patrol's most direct and aggressive album yet, a clear and decisive bid for the kind of wide mainstream appeal enjoyed by the Coldplays of the world.

In its reverential tone and the sheer joy expressed by Clapton and the all-star collection of session men joining him, the album proves utterly incongruous with the form it champions.

The Hiss is certainly one of the most promising of the current wave of rock revivalists; it's easy to see why this disc is already a hit in the U.K.

What sets him apart from other, more gifted MCs is the refreshing degree of naked self-examination and social commentary he brings to the table.

The album dies far more often than it flies, mistaking a crazy-quilt musical approach for creativity, and wrongly miscalculating the strengths of its anemic vocalist.

Long before it's time to part, Till Death sags under a heavy sense of déjà vu that hinders even its interesting moments.

A warm, gently beautiful album that rewards the patient listener.

Madlib creatively melds electronic and jazzy elements, entertaining voiceovers akin to the kind heard on Batman or Superman cartoons, and snippets of Sun Ra to fashion a wildly diverse yet coherently executed tableaux of brainy, original noise-art.

Venice doesn't hold together as well as Endless Summer, but it still proves another fascinating, creatively gallant album from one of the more vital artists currently operating in the world of electronica.

Fall Back Open builds its Brian Eno-esque architecture into a warm, vulnerable document of searching and fear of connection, resulting in a pleasantly engaging and subtly memorable offering.

Although it threatens to flicker out in spots, Pawn Shoppe Heart mostly blazes with an intensity that avoids sounding contrived or dated.

Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes extends and refines both the lyrical smarts and programmatically adventurous nature of Young Liars.

Franz Ferdinand's music possesses an intriguing, passive-aggressive kind of wasted elegance that never quite pays off.

Fans of Simple Things, Zero 7's debut effort, won't hear anything new or different, but considering that Falls makes for lovely background music, it should satisfy those fans just fine.

Though it might not be the most easily digestible subject matter, it melds thought and execution as well as any concept album in recent memory.

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

Musically, Fabulous Muscles is Xiu Xiu's finest hour.

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

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

There are moments when Feels Like Home feels too maudlin ("Humble Me") or overly subdued ("Carnival Town"), but it's a generally winning collection of finely polished (albeit innocuous) gems.

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.

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.

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.

Even if you slipped the album into your player without the slightest preconceived notion of who Courtney Love is or was, Sweetheart wouldn't be able to help but strike you as a document of sheer desperation, of a frantic need for approval. Worse, it's the audible sound of a talent in serious decline.