The result is a bigger, slicker record laced with potent "American Idiot"-style Bush-bashing, a handful of emo-heavy relationship ballads, and very few surprises. [Sep 2007, p.138]

Qui's huffing skree just doesn't have the immediacy of the Lizard's Zep thud. But Yow's ragged bellow has aged nicely into a wheezing croon. [Oct 2007, p.108]

Even when he's bumming, though, Walker still finds comfort in a good groove or a tart horn chart.

Some halfhearted rhymes linger, but contagiously energetic political jams such as 'Cold War' make it easy to forget that it's been three years since anyone heard of Le Tigre. [Sep 2007, p.136]

Lush, slo-mo, and mildly psychedelic. [Jul 2007, p.102]

Trash has its moments. [Mar 2008, p.106]

He may have kept his lyrical gift hidden, but he didn't lose it.

Cool people probably think this sort of utilitarian grab bag dumbs down Beck-like eclecticism. But maybe it didn't take such a genius to come up with it in the first place. [Jan 2001, p.109]

Kurt Wagner's conversational croak is, charitably put, an acquired taste. [Sep 2006, p.106]

Back from the brink of a long-promised implosion, the Vines sound like a band renewed on their first album since being booted from Capitol following dismal sales of 2006's muddled "Vision Valley."

Poptimist Michael Angelakos tried to hold onto his girlfriend with Passion Pit's first EP. That didn't work (blame the self-obsessed lyrics), but on his band's debut full-length, their squeaky indie-pop theatrics are more convincing.

Even with the occasional middling moments, it's hard to deny the band's clever, boisterous spirit. [May 2007, p.86]

The sonics find themselves not proving enough either. They’re free, to do what they want, any old time. And it costs them.

Turn to Gold will undoubtedly translate better blasting out of stage speakers, the medium most ideal for unfettered solos and melting six-strings--their riotous late-night debut could barely be contained behind a screen. On record thus far, though, Diarrhea Planet’s instrumental split-personality excess could use a dose of Imodium.

These airy confections of analog-synth purrs and Chicago brass and Laetitia Sadier's obliquely humanist lyrics are distinguishable from one another by tone palette more than by hooks or style. [Oct 2001, p.126]

Let Us Pray offers a familiar Scarface tableau, but Pusha and cast (including a demonic Tyler, the Creator on "Trouble on My Mind") paint his fantasies with requisite fervor.

Too often on tape, though, the album sags under its own weight.

Ultimately, Just a Souvenir is the awesome, but hardly mind-bending, spectacle of an electronica wizard buying a fuzz box.

Credit producer Butch Vig, too, who brings the trio closer to sonic Nirvana by coaxing out their snarls and then compressing and polishing them to maximum shininess.

With intervention from the boys of No Doubt and production help from Steve Albini, this sprawling album earns a fair hearing.

The Harsh Light of Day is being sold as a Great Album, which means ubersongcraft, which means the Beatles, and keep that pedigree coming. [Oct 2000, p.173]

While Damnesia makes a surprisingly strong showcase for the Trio's songwriting chops, they should've taken a few more chances.

It’s carefully and competently constructed, palatable but perilously short on whimsy.

His murmuring voice brings a believable everydude quality to witty tales of landlord troubles and great evenings out, but above all he's a love junkie.

Slim aims for the gut but usually ends up hitting the hips; either way, his relentlessly cloying lyrics ensure that Be Set Free is more suitable for soundtracks and square dances than headphones.

With Leisure Seizure, Vek doesn't retool his sound much -- slabs of jittery synths underpin his urgent yelps, which start to grate over 12 tracks.

1D’s swan song is hopelessly neither here nor there, appropriate to the drinking-age attention spans of an act whose solo careers beckon.

A melodic world of deliciously messy guitars, synthesizers, and piano. [Sep 2006, p.102]

The effect is like gauze with teeth--chill-out music that never stops looking over its shoulder. [Oct 2006, p.104]

By nature the album highlights their aesthetic differences, but at no point makes a strong argument for their separation. Still, it’s a bit of an awkward listen, with each of the three discs displaying obvious charms but none following through on its promise completely.

A few tracks seem unfinished, but Deerhunter's obsession with oblivion remains as intact as always.

The Night Marchers follow Rocket From The Crypt's tried-and-true strategy, intertwining punk, hard rock, and rockabilly, with lively if unsurprising results. [May 2008, p.104]

As it stands, with its insistence on aggressive polyrhythm and bumping bass, 2 of 2 is most certainly a funky record, but it's hardly a deeply soulful one. That's not a distinction without a difference.

Think the Postal Service gone yoga or an un-self-conscious James Taylor gone minimal techno. [Feb 2007, p.85]

The music itself sounds a little more factory-made than White may have intended.

Their chops aren't superhuman, and groupie-trouble ballads drown Cormac Neeson's high wail. But when they up the tempos, they kick it.

“Outlaws” is a surprising Revolution Radio standout, recalling some of the delicate, Queen-influenced moments from My Chemical Romance’s The Black Parade—sensitive music that feels large. The rest of the record varies.

On the band's sixth album, they're most comfortable in the spot where Guided by Voices ("Any Other Day") bump into 
the Kinks ("What Faces 
the Sheet") -- slightly psychedelic and frequently sticky, breezily charming and pleasantly woozy.

Little Dark Age is pleasant enough, but it’s hard to look past a glaring dearth of ideas.

Canning's murmuring vocals are more intriguing than engaging, so the album's most memorable qualities are hidden in songs that just tend to drift off.

It mostly works: Shave a couple of the non-Conor tracks and it'd sit comfortably with his best.

His proud croon and the band's surging folk rock mean the emotional effect is closer to rebirth than suicide, but by the time the fourth song to feature a metaphorical drowning rolls around, the string parts start to matter more than the sentiments, which was probably not the intent.

Wiley only occassionally departs from the script. [Oct 2007, p.112]

Is a Woman finds Lambchop turning into America's Tindersticks, replacing songcraft with baroque digressions. [Mar 2002, p.134]

Repentless was never going to be Lulu, though the lack of surprises amongst diminishing returns is almost as bad.

Despite Shelter From The Ash's transcendent drones and trippy, Eastern-inspired guitar figures...[Chasny's] vocals too often kill the buzz. [Dec 2007, p.125]

Connecting blue-haired symphony subscribers to indie-rock bedheads, the twentysomething New York composer is all over the place with his second disc. [Aug 2008, p.106]

The ideal major-label debut for the age of modern-rock insecurity -- think Everclear minus the arrogance. [5/2001, p.141]

Even though the lyrics stay hippy-dippy, there are hard-earned moments of musical release.

Funny how so much controversy can spring up over an album that is, musically, not all that noteworthy.... what could have been a brilliant statement, instead elevates Eminem to the rarified air of true platinum rappers: ie, those that drop outstanding rhymes over frustratingly mediocre beats.

Ghosts' flowing, synth-backed melodies are a vast improvement on 2006's hammy In Our Bedroom After the War, if not 2004's near-perfect Set Yourself on Fire. Cute isn't what Stars aim for, but it's often what they achieve.

Bingham made Junky Star with Crazy Heart collaborator T-Bone Burnett, but the A-list producer mostly resists applying his trademark chamber-roots atmosphere.

Snaith now claims he's taking time to composae songs, rather than winging it out in the studio, and these sticky-pop confections are the result, full of lithe vocals, swooping keyboards, distant drums, and assorted benign flashbacks. [Sep 2007, p.124]

While his unapologetically Dylan-esque vocals grate on weaker tunes, gems like the softly rollicking 'Time is a Lion' allow Henry to step out with a quiet roar. [Oct 2007, p.104]

Melodically, Jakob could've dug a little deeper here, even if he was consciously avoiding radio-ready 'One Headlight' territory. But Seeing Things does manage a few unexpected moments of timeless grace.

It’s more of a mixed bag.

Lazaretto's experimentation sounds ambivalent, its songs fractured and distracted.

Too often on the Antlers' second full-length, their washed-out melodies suggest powerfully memorable hooks that never fully materialize or cohere.

If the Black Keys sped up a little, their stodginess might feel more songful. [Oct 2006, p.94]

Bettencourt's howling power-glam riffs pair well enough with Farrell's alley-cat wail. [Jun 2007, p.95]

Frontman Adam Olenius lobs his bon mots over tunes that borrow from Beck, the Velvet Underground, Bright Eyes, and the Cure. But when Olenius waxes roantic and serves up yet another ace, it's hard to complain. [Oct 2007, p.110]

Though Dilla's rapping is never more than competent, Ruff Draft is still a platform for the versatility of his eccentric genius. [Apr 2007, p.88]

Men's Needs isn't nearly as unique as Jarman thinks, but his tunecraft is often as sharp as his wit. [Aug 2007, p.100]

On the band's seventh studio album, Incubus fully embrace surf-bum balladry.

Here, though, watery, joke-free confessionals like "This Is Home" and "After Midnight" sound comparatively adrift.

Peñate sometimes goes astray--'So Near' finds him breezily slinging dopey cliches (“Love is not a game”). Fortunately, his natural exuberance carries the day.

The Montreal group has never sounded so desperate or epic as on their fifth album's four earth-scorching, quarter-hour compositions.

This set of hissy practice tapes varies greatly in quality with the demented trashing of a Beatles melody on "The Masks" and the snotty sneer of "Can You Give Me a Thrill???" abutting stoned instrumentals and solo noodling.

At its best, Weird Revolution is danceable and degenerate... It's a tight package, but the holes start to show on the title track... [Oct 2001, p.132]

For all its languid rookie charms, In Heaven might be best remembered as the harbinger of a more consistent sequel.

Subtle... build their hybrid from a quarter century of pop and college radio, then animate it with a megawatt jolt of race/class anxiety. [Dec 2006, p.100]

The most arresting moments on Tears in the Club come when he is working with singers. ... The rest of Tears in the Club is instrumental, aside from the snatches of sampled vocals that Kingdom has long favored in his tracks, and the mix of formats renders the album a somewhat inconsistent listen.

Powered by rattling drums, simmering organ, and Stuart Staples' resonant baritone, the first half of Tindersticks' latest is a can't-miss proposition....Too bad the disc's second half descends into a morass of half-finished, melancholic curios that mostly go nowhere lowly.

of whether the dance-punk grooves and elusive, histrionic hooks resonate, Thorpe has a point he's determined to make: Even the most sensitive fop can be a hormonal horndog.

Too many perfectly good songs that never quite approach greatness. [Oct 2007, p.108]

Having long since traded abstraction for irascibility and wistfulness, Dylan still offers flashes of black humor (“Hell is my wife’s hometown”) over the ten songs, but the fatalism that’s marked much of his recent work is in short supply.

Positions is less captivating than Thank U, Next and Sweetener, both of which felt more complete and unskippable. But for an album no one knew was coming until two weeks ago, it’s more than adequate.

As long as Midnight Memories offers chorus after chorus of Gary Glitter-style fodderstompf, it sounds like the best boy-band album since No Strings Attached.

He can't really pull off Dylan-ish literariness, but when he's loose, he more than earns his corduroy vest and Kris Kristofferson beard.

Goofy if not guileless, Telepathe seem intentionally designed as a guilty pleasure.

The Israeli threesome's second full-length, though, provides fewer surprises, dutifully thundering through rage-rock history as singer Ami Shalev alternates between growl and yowl to communicate a life-is-short-might-as-well-bash message.

What gets stultifying over the course of 38 minutes can be invigorating in small, pep-talk size bursts.

He's relying on the same sad melodies. And they're still quite effective. [Oct 2006, p.96]

Occup[ies] a hushed netherworld between classical minimalists like Erik Satie and Timbaland (without the beats). [Mar 2007, p.86]

The sweetness of Strawberry Jam is savvily balanced by the sour, or at least the edgy. [Oct 2007, p.98]

The aspirations here are lofty, as always, if less reflective than your average NIN lament; the songs swell, bobble, and even leak from the seams under the pressure.

Best known as the distinctive voice of backpack hip-hop faves Jurassic 5, Chali 2na is sometimes reduced to a supporting role on his solo debut.

Thanks to Supergrass' long-standing dedication to the well-placed smirk, they never succumb to sappiness. [Apr 2008, p.100]

Ultimately, even in the record's clunkier moments, it's gratifying to hear Madonna leaning defiantly (and gleefully) into what many would consider to be the less savory elements of her personality.

Refreshing, breezy rhythms propel densely intermeshed guitars and Jeremy Bolen's incantatory vocals. [Dec 2006, p.96]

Here they effectively marry T. Rex's trash-glam melodicism to a relentless blue-eyed funk beat. [Feb 2008, p.95]

He still operates un the shadow of his semi-seminal indie rocjk outfit, due to an inconsistency that also plagues Forfeit/Fortune. [Nov 2008, p.89]

The Getaway is about as good as you can hope for from a band who will, without reservation, hang out in a car with late-night-TV cornball James Corden with lavalier mics forcibly affixed to their naked torsos (a bit of movie magic I’d be okay never having properly explained, frankly).

Despite plenty of practice as a contributor to Rick Ross' Maybach Music Group compilation series Self Made, Meek's label debut lacks viable singles.

Though he inexplicably apes Slayer once again ('I'm Alright'), the tempered ingenuity is an encouraging turn.

Felix Stallings Jr. bounces back by sampling, quoting, and paraphrasing other people’s rubbery tunes, and showcasing them in similarly elastic settings.

If you are over 25 and have been in a romantic relationship, Damage will not confront you with the unfamiliar, or make you suddenly realize you've never understood yourself like you do now. Still, some of it will comfort you when you've been depressed or confused by your life.

Mangy Love, his eighth album, now finds him on the Anti- label and like the title suggests, it shows divergent aspects of Cass, at his most subtle, resonant, and resplendent, and at others, his most maddeningly repetitive and scabby.