Let's Stay Friends almost captures the band's sweaty, live weirdness on record, and it leaves enough breathing room for their wicked smarts to shimmy up through the hip-shaking indie punk. [Oct 2007, p.106]

Unlike her major-label LPs, this is a stringently stripped-down, dark-side-of-the-mountain album that's near impossible to cozy up with. [Oct 2001, p.131]

It’s more of a mixed bag.

The Hold Steady are mellowing, and it doesn't really suit them.

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]

He’s not really in a fun mood, and the music follows. The lushness has diminished, and the work evokes increasing comparisons to ‘70s singer-songwriters like Randy Newman and Harry Nilsson, who hid their acidic commentary within sturdy pop structures.

Almost every track on The Impossible Kid is indistinguishable from the next, blending together in a way that converts the man’s talent into his fatal flaw, due in part to the forgettable beats.

There are interesting moments... but too often they're smothered in a formless buzz of guitar, samples, voilin, harmonica--you name it. [Jul 2006, p.87]

Flashes of fun appear--dig the glam-Sabbath stomp of 'Inconvenience'--but most of Dark could use more color.

Philippe Zdar handles most vocals, sneering through the propulsive dance-punk single 'Toop Toop' but failing to sustain the drones that dominate this overlong disc's second half.

Here, tunes about racism, consumer culture, and the evils of TV hit their marks, then hit them again and again and again.

[Patterson Hood] cedes too much of the spotlight to competent but less distinctive mates Mike Cooley and Shonna Tucker. [Feb 2008, p.92]

The more down-the-middle SVIIB shows that these postscripts aren’t always special, but we’re grateful for the closing chapter nonetheless.

For now, we’re stuck with a record that’s both intentionally and unintentionally frustrating: A record about self-loathing where the actual remorse is absent, where its creator would insist that’s the point.

Amedeo Pace's wailing, overemotive tenor invites the mess of Blonde Radiohead jokes the band will inevitably receive. [Apr 2007, p.86]

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]

They're still not so great at turning their majesitc heft and pushy paradiddles into memorable songs with hooks. [Oct 2006, p.100]

The harder the music hammers, the flatter the lyrics get. The more the band holds back, the stronger the songs become. Consequently, there's half of a great album here. [May 2007, p.83]

The vocals can still dilate your pupils, but her melodies (on "Ruler," "The Package Is Wrapped") deserve equal attention, as Stern bids to become one of the few finger-tappers who's also a songwriter.

Cool It Down, is less of a step forward, or in any meaningful direction, and more of a twirl in place. It’s a pleasant and polished listen, more palatable than its predecessor, with glimpses of the band’s top gear. But fans anticipating some return to the frenzy of “Tick,” “Man” or “Pin” will keep waiting.

In small doses these acoustic dirges and country-rock laments--played at tempos that make Crazy Horse sound like Slayer--pass by indistinctly, but over time, the slow-blooming guitar solos and age-old folkie melodies of tracks like 'Bowery' and 'Trouble in Mind' reveal their sturdy, dignified strengths.

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

The songs are about love and sex, but a hint of nihilism still lingers in Wolf's melodramatic vibrato. [May 2007, p.91]

For the first half of the album, this tested formula works as well as ever.... Moone runs out of flavor, however, when the Apples trade colorful and ebullient for derivative and listless.

Not many of the expansive, leisurely songs on Asleep In The Back stick in the memory once they've ended, but they swoon nicely. [Mar 2002, p.127]

Ripped is about three- or four-minute songcraft--never the highlight of their resume. [Jul 2006, p.88]

The result boasts an admirably moody menace, but lacks the debut's darkly comic drive.

The collision of rhetoric and intentions result in both colorless abstractions like piano ballad and first single "Where Are We Now," and grand melodrama like "You Feel So Lonely You Could Die."

Her solo debut slightly tones down the Knife's electro innovation but turns up the creepy affect, making lyrically tender tracks like 'Concrete Walls' and hallucinatory sketches like 'When I Grow Up' into reverse Rorschachs.

Brandi Carlile works too hard on By The Way I Forgive You, and though sometimes this results in songs haunted by mourning, it also leads to songs that collapse into bathos.

So, every sha la la-la and wo-o-wo-o still shines, as the brothers McDonald once crooned in Carpenters cover "Yesterday Once More" (which reached No. 45 hit on the charts in England!), or at least sort of shines: Cleaner production might've buried the vocals less.

The Antlers still summon widescreen, dramatic moments when their moody tangents cohere, but too many songs sacrifice substance for prettiness, gliding by forgettably.

If the ranting occasionally suggests generic provocation for its own sake, Smith's fury, amplified by the pounding grooves, is oddly uplifting--in moderate doses.

The majority of cuts on Goon still feel like demos: languidly spaced chords, carefully measured arpeggiation, and hardly anything so gauche as a groove. The twinkle, such as it is, comes from the vocal.

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

Beaty and bouncy but less meaty, Palo Santo is for now an unsatisfying follow-up to a terrific debut.

The quartet's fervent debut, produced by DJ Erol Alkan, offers a fabulous simulation of '80s new wave, with burping, sputtering synths and sleazy, Bowie-inspired crooning from frontman Sam Eastgate.

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

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]

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.

With peaks and valleys, Stay Paid is patchwork, but Dilla's brilliance remains stunningly apparent.

More danceable (and vulgar) than previous releases.

Nas' heart is in the right place but his mind is somewhere else entirely. [March 2003, p.119]

It's a Wonderful Life comes off like a Magical Soft Mystery Bulletin. Yet, those iridescent orchestrations seem to be covering for the underdeveloped dirges that dominate the album. [Oct 2001, p.127]

Though Bonfires' pacing is erratic, the band keeps winsome romance close.

The production is as overwrought as the antiwar themes. [Apr 2007, p.88]

Mainly they noodle through indeterminate world-music jams that’d feel equally ignorable at mud festivals and at ethnic restaurants.

Tweedy's influence shows primarily on the two songs he wrote, especially the stoic title-track ballad. Yet the album's best moment belongs solely to Staples--a spare version of Randy Newman's "Losing You" that might well stand as definitive.

The inspired moments of sunny pop and weirdo noise seem effortless, but so does all the aimless jamming.

A noisy, cranky piece of work. [Jul 2007, p.91]

On their third album, this San Francisco–based, Mark Kozelek–led bunch stumble over saccharine set-opener "Lost Verses" (which channels icky Young wannabes America with less success than Midlake) en route to a beautifully depressing array of funereal folk.

For all its obvious wit and fizzy energy, Tones of Town ultimately feels self-congratulatory and a bit cold-hearted. [Feb 2007, p.83]

When they ease back on the overdriven electronic intensity, Street Horrsing works tribal, tracelike wonders. [Apr 2008, p.98]

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

Sometimes the album sounds backward when it isn't. Rarely does it sound like one person squeaking out notes in succession--more like a bunch of dudes filling a tape with improvisations, rewinding to the cool parts and haranguing some hapless studio engineer to razorblade it all together.

Their unholy fuzz feels less triumphant, and the Helmet impression in opener 'Sound Guardians' is some kind of weird. Still, Lightning Bolt's basement has never sounded bigger.

On their third album, these dizzying British metalcore chemists swing erratically in an effort to shake genre conventions, flirting with dystopic Max Headroom stutter, electro gloom, and tender indie-folk cuddles.

Though a handful of tracks sparkle, Under Ocean Blvd is a chore to ingest across its regularly lulling 77 minutes. ... Yes, Del Rey sings beautifully and will rightfully be recognized as a veritable voice of her generation — both in technique and disillusion — but here the cool distance she’s maintained between herself and listeners feels more expansive than ever.

His third album mostly shelves the wit and sui generis style-clash. [Jun 2005, p.108]

The storytelling here isn't as sharp as on Common's previous albums. [Feb 2003, p.100]

[It] documents Stevens' transformation from unremarkable folkie Jesus freak to unorthodox Christian mega-talent. [Dec 2006, p.101]

Dive is a pretty and sturdily crafted collection of techno maybe-memories-- hypnagogic pop for a very discerning Ikea shopper.

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

The Bay Area band increase their stylistic range, with flashes of psychedelia, and creatively druggy overtones to balnce out the epic pummeling. [Oct 2007, p.104]

The indie Tina Turner follows up her tightly wound 2005 comeback, "I've Got My Own Hell to Raise," in the company of Drive-By Truckers and Muscle Shoals vets, whose mannered blues shuffles unfortunately sound like they're backing a beer commercial.

Divorced from their HBO series, the songs have room to stretch a little, only occasionally sacrificing context. [May 2008, p.98]

On Chromatica, she seems too afraid or to removed from the Koons-loving side of herself to get too bizarre or to let the production dominate, two of Artpop’s best qualities. ... Chromatica functions as both stopgap escapism and yet another portrait of someone among us who’s trying to patch together her identity again.

We’re supposed to admire the fact that 30 years after their debut album, they haven’t moved an inch closer to definability.

The third album from New Jersey's Steel Train is a textbook example of how to use splashy arrangements and high-octane performances to enhance tepid material.

Much of 4 feels like beautifully baroque soundtrack music desperately seeking a movie about a rainy afternoon.

It’s hard to say if Homme and Pop are better served by the nine-track length or not. Post Pop Depression doesn’t feel particularly tight or focused, but neither dude is conceptual enough to really justify a larger sprawl.

Banhart brings the peace and love, but not the understanding. [Sep 2005, p.104]

Ultimately, the album succeeds despite the extra fuss, not because of it.

Wordy but somnambulant. [Sep 2006, p.112]

aybe listeners trapped in the depths of mourning or an exceedingly bad breakup might find hypnotic comfort here; others will likely admire the pretty vocals, fingerpicked guitar, and spectral atmosphere--then crave songs just a little more eventful.

The duo's tinny new-wave pop is spot-on. [May 2008, p.104]

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

The beats are so simplistic that their minimalist repetition occasionally teeters over into redundancy.

If there's a flaw on this Alabama duo's debut, it's predictability. T-Bone Burnett and Jack White serve as executive producer and mentor, respectively, with Laura and Lydia Rogers putting a sister-act spin on dusty Americana--bet you can hear it already.

They’re about the feeling--everything tween inside every grown adult, and thus they are still unmistakably Carly even as she tries on new sounds. When Dedication falters it’s in the latter half, where her producers seem to be trying to chase pop, or at least Spotify “airplay,” by making her sound like everyone else.

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.

Rausch’s ambitious structure is an incomplete but laudable step forward. If Narkopop was a belated capstone on the first era of Gas, Rausch might be the first real statement of a coming second phase. And its status as second-tier Voigt doesn’t necessarily portend dire things to come.

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

It's a given that Gutter, like the ex-Pulp sideman's five previous shimmering, sepia-toned solo albums, has moments of heartbreaking beauty. Too bad those moments are outnumbered by a reliance on secondhand lyrical conceits (songbirds, shipwrecks) and drifting arrangements.

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.

One Life Stand finds the boys settling down and growing a tad soft in the middle.

He finally gives his dark, dense instrumentals room to breathe on his fifth album. [Sep 2007, p.136]

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

On the good side, there’s the spacey disco-funk of “Palace of the Governors” and “Begin Countdown.” Describing Deerhoof songs frequently forces you to invent delirious fictional bands to compare them to; the latter of these two sounds like the Meters as covered by an ensemble of Teletubbies. On a handful of songs that litter the album’s second half, however–”Sea Moves,” “Singalong Junk,” “Kokoye”--the band searches at its borders for a new sound to bring back and doesn’t find anything very interesting.

If nothing else, the music is aggressively okay (there's coiled-spring potential in the crackling, anxious "White Teeth Teens"). But its overall unspecialness undercuts Pure Heroine's devotion to playing both sides of Lorde's "only 16" coin.

This LP sounds too close to unfocused jamming. [Apr 2007, p.95]

From the deep bellowing bass of Nat Baldwin to the horizon-racing ride cymbal of Brian McOmber, Mount Wittenberg Orca allows Bjork's singular diction to dovetail with the Dirty Projectors' quirky male-female vocalizing, floating weightlessly like a thousand ecstatic whooshes.

Geist keeps it coolly retro. [Nov 2008, p.91]

The duo are too consistently subdued, and without their usual spectacle, Seventh Tree veers perilously close to dull. [Mar 2008, p.102]

Deradoorian’s arrangements now feel less exploratory than rudderless, her harmonies more droning than direct.

What's so brilliant about ['Taiga'] is how Yoshimi finds spiritual connections between unlikely genres. [Oct 2006, p.102]

Scattered. [Jul 2007, p.95]