Remarkably, the songs on Avalanche are nearly as good as the ones on Illinois, although with surprising synth bursts and craggy guitar noise that were sandpapered off of its predecessor. [Aug 2006, p.79]

Their creepy, absorbing third album brims with the brittle pop practiced by everyone from Sparks to Arcade Fire. [Nov. 2007, p.125]

Kensington Heights is a mixed bag of aesthetically correct placeholders. [May 2008, p[.98]

Milky Ways is a clear upgrade, with better songwriting lending structure to his adventurous genre-hopping.

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

There's enough promise here to rattle more cages soon. [Jun 2007, p.94]

Rise Against's strident anti-ignorance messages have coursed through several albums of tightly wound, good-intentions punk.

Schmersal's guitar artfully complements the melodies, instead of screeching to compete with them. [Nov 2007, p.118]

Regardless of the catalyst, Chelsea Light Moving is an entirely successful test of Moore’s post-breakup mettle.

Deeper than anything she's delivered before, Aaliyah's a hard record; almost never does a song roll over and beg to be loved. This makes the yielding moments all the sweeter. [Aug 2001, p.130]

Always charmingly dour and deathlessly romantic. [Jul 2003, p.110]

Evokes Bjork as a Latina wallflower, sketching gossamer balladry with acoustic guitar and oddball synths. [Jun 2004, p.108]

The wonderful Street Songs of Love brightens slightly without losing intensity.

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.

Though his global messages aren't particularly deep, his skilled, spirited execution sets him apart from other peacenik troubadours. [Oct 2007, p.101]

The British trio's caffinated, smart-ass guitar pop only underscores that aura of snarky confidence. [May 2008, p.111]

The Devil's Walk creates a compelling mix of programming virtuosity, songcraft, and plaintive vocals, with spastic blips fluttering amid languid string washes, while a 
mechanical scrim obscures and accentuates the underlying emotions.

Sounds terrible, yet these guys attack tracks like "Sell Yourself" with so much pent-up energy that Shultz ends up selling his crackpot ideas.

The songs drag in the middle, choruses become interchangeable, and too many tracks end with the same electronic stuttering. [May 2007, p.84]

His supporting cast has stabilized around multi-instrumentalists Emmett Kelly and Shahzad Ismaily, but song structures dissolve altogether on Wolfroy Goes to Town.

Trading in easy recognition/gratification, the barrage grows as dizzyingly nostalgic as Oz's tornado. [Sep 2008, p.116]

Stapleton is looser, bolder and surer of himself, a recipe making this his best project yet.

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

Clearly, it’s also a druggy album, and the highs are high--noticeably on “L$D,” whose stunning production turns from submerged to soaring, the jiggy “Excuse Me,” and the sexy, aforementioned “Westside Highway,” which has A.L.L.A.’s only hummable hook. Despite those peaks, the overall tone is more despondent.

Depression Cherry’s particular non-specifics feel as full of breath and life as anything they’ve ever done--an album-length sigh as eloquent as a manifesto.

Like Seinfeld, as New York a document as Paul's Boutique, Quack presents itself as a comedy about nothing. But Seinfeld's nihilism, as a portrait of the neuroses of a certain class in a certain era, at least represented a kind of ethos (pace Walter Sobchak). Duck Sauce's "brain farts," on the other hand, take refuge in the idea that if you stand for nothing, you can't be held accountable for anything.

The luminous All Things Will Unwind uses strings, brass, marimba, and mellotron, brilliantly showcasing her operatic, slightly scary voice in tricky songs that remain fresh after repeated plays.

In all respects, Strangers is about coming to terms with one’s situation, and what it lacks in blind hope it makes up for with thoughtful consideration. That care is what assures the record’s grace and splendor.

Polishing the snappy pop of their 2008 debut, the Philadelphia-based trio crafts thoughtful tunes about relationship angst and introspective wandering, though it's often hard to get past drummer Jesse Kristin's fidgety beats and Ben Thornewill's hyperactive piano.

District Line is essentially the same furiously melodic pop Mould played way back when. [Feb 2008, p.98]

These C-grade tracks ape RZA's trademark sound, but lack any sense of melody; and the album seems randomly cut-and-pasted. [Oct 2008, p.112]

When they work up a good buzz and growl ('Batcat') or hit a scrumptious riff ('The Sun Smells Too Loud'), Mogwai still take your breath away.

Snoop unleashed. [Feb 2003, p.100]

Savage Gold is of course far more than the sum of its parts, but those parts--Killing Joke, Deathspell Omega, later Death--make for an excellent starting point for the band's considerable combined talents to spring from.

I’m Up is not a major work in Thug’s catalog. It’s brief and feels disconnected at the beginning and end, and for the most part doesn’t exercise his considerable chorus-crafting muscles. But it’s a fascinating creative time capsule, and feels like a welcome detour during a hugely prolific four-year period.

This new batch thrashes with abandon (“Punks”) and displays a remarkable leap in instrumental maturity with its airtight chord progressions and unhinged shrieks.

Mount Kimbie are letting their songs smolder into life’s discontent. That uncomfortable tension is The Sunset Violent’s beauty.

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.

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.

New Moon offers pleasures aplenty.

On Body Talk Pt. 1, Robyn confidently chronicles the heartbreak ("Dancing on My Own") and pleasure ("Dancehall Queen") of epic disco nights like she's ready to rule.

Eat Pray Thug is 11 songs in 40 minutes with the most emotional moment, "Flag Shopping," up soon at track five, paving the way for the intense trilogy that closes: "Al Q8a," "Suicide by Cop," and "Patriot Act."

Mostly the Keys just staple stuff to their good ol' R&B raunch and let 'er rip. [Apr 2008, p.92]

Rev's overbaked symphonics and space-case triumphalism have become completely indistinguishable from the Flaming Lips. [Jun 2005, p.108]

Even with all the name players involved, Albarn focuses the spotlight on the songs, which are terrific. [Jan 2007, p.92]

For an album whose most apparent traits are simplicity and broadness, Miracle Temple's best moments are pretty idiosyncratic.

These are the kind of go-with-the-flow countrified tunes that the Grateful Dead used to spin between epic jams, but with a more delicate acoustic touch. [Jul 2006, p.90]

A deliriously twerked, end-of-days house party. [Jul 2005, p.104]

Belle and Sebastian's latest full-length succeeds in pointing out societal injustices with just enough sweetness to lighten the bitter frustration lurking within. And yet, at times the endless flutes, synths, and strings risk of giving the listener a cavity.

Boss finds the duo still feral but also forlorn. [Oct 2007, p.106]

The grimy, blues-black nuggets [PJ Harvey] pounds into armor for Faithfull are song-for-song stronger than Harvey's own 2004 album, Uh Huh Her.... But Cave's songs are a little too pitch-perfect. [Jan 2005, p.96]

For Belong, they step up in class with producers Flood and Alan Moulder, who have overseen alt-classics from Depeche Mode's Violator to PJ Harvey's To Bring You My Love.

Definitely not as funny or crazy as they think they are, but problably more than they need to be. [Apr 2005, p.108]

On this solo-ish debut, though, he gives that funk factor full reign, recruiting pals Karen O and David Byrne to sing over synthed-up disco-rock that's brighter and bouncier than his main band's anxious throb. Maximum Balloon deflates when Sitek switches into avant-cabaret mode.

Sure to rule clubs and fashion runways from Milan to Monterrey. [Jan 2004, p.100]

Vanderslice's arrangements glide between loping acoustic strums, delicate picking, and stately piano chords, though for such a quiet affair, Kid Face has a surprisingly sturdy bottom end.

Even when you're not sure where they're going, you can't wait to see what happens when they get there. [Aug 2006, p.86]

Wilco (the album), the band's seventh studio effort, treats verse-chorus-verse basics like holy truths. The result is the rare rock album about acceptance. And it's fantastic.

They sound ready to take on Franz Ferdinand. [Aug 2006, p.76]

They're better at evoking turbulence than talking about it--efforts to cop '80s-pop vocals are overshadowed by the cascade and rumble of the instrumental long-players. [Apr 2005, p.102]

Favoring excessive computer and crowd noise over the pair's concise hooks, the relentlessly bombastic concert CD accompanying the DVD combusts as if it were one 66-minute, fireworks-spewing finale.

Long stretches of Circuital could even pass for an alternate version of Quadrophenia, albeit one heard as a distant echo with the volume turned down to deathly quiet. James sounds remarkably like Roger Daltrey at 
times, singing with an appealing, yearning catch in his voice.

Brooklyn's Crystal Stilts filter trembling surf guitar and tambourine shakes through echoing chambers of effects until their wistful, barely-there tunes seem to dramatically float out of murky, cavernous depths.

Like the film from which it borrows its title, Lady From Shanghai is an artfully awkward study in malaise.

Both jarring and hypnotic. [May 2006, p.91]

Sounds of a certain vintage, which can net a poignant, tragic-romantic classic ("The Weekend Dreams"), but occasionally overreaches.

They apply a borrowed Steinway Grand and some retro synths to a mess of ideas, from the rockabilly-plus-tabla stomp of 'The Time' to the Arcade Fire mimicry of 'Antonia Jane.' But they really shine on epic, Bat for Lashes-type ballads like 'Never Seen' and 'Waiting on the Sun to Rise.'

It's an album designed for playing late at night; even peppier tracks like the popping-piston "Burn The Pages" and the jittery "Hostage" have a darkness to them. That darkness might not make Sia the world's hugest pop star, but it sure makes her one of its more compelling ones.

Ultimate Care II is reliably dream-like, the sort of album you never quite hear in the same way twice; passages jut out or fly under the radar.

It's their most instantly accessible effort after "Bark," with a dozen catchy tunes packed inside 47 easy, breezy minutes.

At its wildest moments, this synthesized Gensho sounds like the universe throwing up in its own mouth.

While the band itself might still be metal newcomers, their music goes down like an aged mead, and Void Worship is an early contender to be one of 2014's most satisfying drams of doom.

Los Campesinos! can't stop adorning their odes to existential grief with snappy handclaps, but the Welsh septet are still showing signs of growth on this third album.

This time they come dangerously close to conventional rock. [Nov 2005, p.101]

These songs [“Greedy,” “Into You” and “Touch It”], which unite a strong persona--haughty, insatiable, a little manic, really into you--with a vivid pocket version of one style or another, are the core of a swift, heedless pop album, albeit one struggling to emerge from the false notes (“Dangerous Woman”) and rote 2016 obligations (Future) of what’s probably an executive-mandated bagginess.

These New Puritans prove the model perfected by New Order ain't dying anytime soon. {Apr 2008, p.106]

The music doesn't always keep up with Bemis' self-absorbed lyrical jujitsu, but there's definite charm in the struggle.

An immaculate 38-minute lullaby for the not-working class, replete with tape hiss and timpani, sweetly brooding vocals, and otherworldly Hobbit-core. [5/2001, p.147]

Lee's take on the feminine id is like the music itself: smooth on the outside, savage within.

Psychopomp is a 25-minute-long dream-pop album that feels like much more: a sharp-edged exploration of how loneliness and longing form into brittle personal shields.

Apparently, you can go home again, and it's still plenty loud and comfortable.

This hybrid group -- two American indie vets and two Kenyan benga musicians--twist rock and African riffs into drum-head-tight grooves on their third album, a feast for multiethnic guitar nerds but also a lively mix that anyone can dance to.

While other possible sonic antecedents abound, the full album feels more roots than retro, old tools reclaimed to new ends.

Vexovoid is possibly the most inscrutable, evil-sounding thing to emerge from Australia since Mel Gibson.

Even when Electrelane ditch the cheer completely, they inspire more smiles than growls. [Jun 2007, p.92]

Laced with bariny raps, cooing backing vocals, and a keen attention to meloncholy melodic detail, Why? almost one-ups those heady precursors [Fountains of Wayne, Rentals]. [Apr 2008, p.106]

The tunes on Saint Cecilia--the patron saint of music, as any Art Garfunkel fan will tell you--were largely assembled from past albums’ cutting floors. The title track crawls towards wholeness on the lovely vocal meld of Grohl and Kweller.... Meanwhile, “Iron Rooster” is a bone-tired dragger that’s probably of recent vintage but could date back to Down on the Upside.

It’s tense throughout, but it’s also endearingly frisky, and the poppiest moments have a tendency of landing at just the right time to stave off any potential noise-rock monotony.

You're being pulled close, but thoughtlessly, reflexively. And you only feel further away.

Watch the Throne is far too good to condemn them thus, but not good enough to erase the possibility.

For her second album, she flexes more ambition, and the results are rewarding. [June 2008, p.110]

The emphasis put on the soundscapes for these songs--unprecedented for the singer/songwriter--results in her lyrics occasionally getting buried under the synth swooshes, but for the first time in a long time, the majority of Taylor's lyrics don't really demand your attention anyway.

The sound may be five years old, but Essence's insistence that jungle left something valuable behind back in '95 is a major part of its appeal. [Sept. 2000]

Varied and vulnerable. [Jun 2003, p.109]

Unfortunately, many of the underdeveloped rockers and plaintive ballads here are dance-floor-clearing duds. [Nov 2003, p.111]

A return to 1994's seduction strategies: pomade-greased riffs, subdermal bass, distorto samples, and free-associative rants about how Miami is cooler than Hollywood. [July 2002, p.112]

Even skeptics should find Bingham's second album, embellished with a bit more pop and politics, a convincing step beyond his promisingly earthy 2007 debut.

Lowe's sexagenarian years have real sparkle.