Well, pray the restaurant and lounge crowd is ready for a scruffy fellow traveler who can sing about "Cocaine and bourbon / Pinball and pool" without prompting any check requests.

The Slip is primo death funk, with Reznor seething seductively about skies fading to black over grinding soundscapes that perfectly split the difference between computer-music clarity and live-band grit.

Craft can be a cage, and come the eleventeenth pleasant chord progression and workmanlike melody, the album's title may portend the listener's immediate future.

This deceptively named British band's second album revisits the terrific uproar of its debut only briefly before jumping headlong into more expansive, proggier territory.

Kissing goodbye to the obsolete racial and gender roles that pop, hip-hop, or indie rock still demand, Youngblood and pals throw a thrillingly subversive victory party to lift the country out of eight years of anguish.

The quintet mostly stays on message, doling out unpretentious poolside jams that recall ESG, Liquid Liquid, and the Human League.

Though Fate's sepia sweetness and the band's ever-improving instrumental ingenuity (see 'em live!) can't mask a vaguely troubling lack of original ideas, Dr. Dog wears the vintage look amiably well.

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.

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]

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.

Though singer Bobby Gillespie's lyrics are still rife with anti-establishment paranoia, songs such as 'The Glory of Love' and the title track are colorful, catchy, and informed by a cautious optimism born of hard-earned perspective and a surprising maturity.

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

Scuffed-up and brainy, Object 47 finds Wire still beguiling after all these years.

Buoyant voices erupt in urgent chants, while xylophones, thumb pianos, and percussion create a swirling, hallucinatory web of sound equal to the freakiest psychedelia. [Oct 2008, p.114]

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."

In a scant 30-plus minutes, Modern Guilt modestly proves that it's still restlessness, both artistic and personal, that drives the only living boy in Los Angeles.

It's another solid collection that echoes his day job from an artful distance.

LP3 is as wildly organic as instrumental electronica gets without becoming another genre (or five) altogether.

Bassist Jared Warren and second drummer Coady Willis (a.k.a. Big Business) return as the perfect-fit rhythm section for lifers Buzz Osborne and Dale Crover, who are still communicating in their own avant-boogie metal language like twins separated at birth.

Here, she's captured twice in concert feverishly reading her phantasmagoric memorial to friend and artist Robert Mapplethorpe with the accompaniment of fellow savant Kevin Shields, the reclusive My Bloody Valentine leader who matches the ebb and flow of her morphing prose with thunderstorms of guitar sustain that weep and roar empathetically.

This debut from electro rocker Simon Lord (Simian) and Big Beat vet Theo "DJ Touché" Keating (the Wiseguys) has a sinister allure when Keating's dark, steely disco productions are paired with Lord's whiny, desperate alto ("I Want Nothing," "I Don't Know").

Only in the fire-hydrant-ready title cut, where an around-the-way girl reminisces about bodegas in Bed-Stuy, does Coppola seem like more than a confessional folkie playing funky dress-up.

With guest vocalists crooning over synth wiggles seemingly lifted from Aphex Twin's "Richard D. James Album," the Iranian expat's first record in eight years is as tuneful as it is brazen.

Omaha-based multi-instrumentalist Joe Knapp spent three years making Someone Else's Déjà Vu, and the album is another reminder that lush studio-reliant soft and prog rock of the late '70s can still offer legitimate inspiration.

After five dark, swift albums, they tread fretfully toward maturity and make it seem like walking into the light. [July 2008, p.92]

Earlimart's sixth full-length doesn't break new ground -- those Elliott Smith comparisons will keep on coming -- or approach the sublime sexiness of fellow Los Angelenos Rilo Kiley. But it's an undeniably solid set of droney hooks.

DJ/Producer Andrew Butler mixes the poetic Apollonian aspects of queer culture with the Dionysian party represented by left-field disco and hypnotic early house, and crafts an unsettlung masterpiece that yearns and churns and ultimately pulls the rug from under your dancing feet. [June 2008, p.116]

The enthralling Real Animal presents a concise overview of the man's art and life, encompassing the punk fury of the Nuns, the country-rock twang of Rank and File, the rootsy guitar assault of True Believers, and the late-era tortured, string-quintet balladry that showcases his unbearably sad voice.

The Watson Twins' songwriting isn't quite as memorable as their singing; too many of the tunes fade into open-mic background fare.

Yes, the RZA is a legendary eccentric, but Digi Snacks is too impossibly weird.

Indistinct lyrics and plodding dynamics confine most of the songs to "just okay" status, but a few arresting tracks seem destined for a yet-to-be-built rock Valhalla.

It's all blatantly unsubtle, but also raucously fun.

Musically, his sixth Silver Jews album is a low-key treat, country-inflected folk rock goosed by melodies that conjure both the Velvet Underground ("Open Field") and Johnny Cash ("Candy Jail").

For all of Coldplay’s experimentation, though, there’s no doubting that Viva La Vida, with its sturdy melodies and universal themes--think love, war, and peace--is an album meant to connect with the masses.

On their sixth album, these ever-evolving German indie rockers stick with the electronic-tinged direction of 2003’s Neon Golden, but with a little less emotional heft.

It's an irresisitible, exhilarating mix that sounds like no band but Wolf Parade.

It's all quite mesmerizing, until you notice the overworked lyrics, which weakly describe heartbreak in terms of weather, stars, and, uh, hearts. [July 2008, p.100]

The rest of the album plods with formulaic, hormone-heavy Kelly Clarkson outtakes, or perhaps Liz Phair during her bleak, sparkly descent.

The raw-throated, harmonically rich ballads transcend the occasionally schmaltzy production [June 2008, p.119]

Yet here they are on their third full-length, and rather than calcify into indie-scene shtick, Tilly's music has gotten funnier and more vibrant.

Presided over by Molly Siegel--a fiery young Yoko Ono impersonator--the disc is precocious but never precious, combining a smart, Juno-esque appreciation of old-school punk that steers clear of mere revivalism.

She represents a highly commercial compromise between Amy Winehouse's genuine soul danger and James Blunt's sclocky pop safety. [July 2008, p.92]

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

Her sophomore disc hardly sounds like something dashed off between higher-profile gigs: Sardonic chamber-folk gems such as "Tower Song" and "You Cheated Me" (in which she tells a lover to "run your scared little ass down the block") offer lyrical and sonic detail for days.

Evil Urges is easily MMJ's most accomplished and ambitious record, masterfully sifting through genres.

Despite the invocation of those crusty legends [Guided by Voices], Business is no lo-fi throwback.

Psychology textbooks are less linguistically challenged and just as littered with cases of emotional breakdowns. [June 2008, p.114]

Here We Stand is tantalizing, but that's all. [July 2008, p.102]

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.

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

Thanks in part to an overly generous 73-minute running time, the reteaming rarely feels vital. [July 2008, p.100]

Sloan returns with this more digestible 13-song opus, but their essential blandness remains unchanged. [July 2008, p.104]

Flying Lotus' spaced-out visions are the album's trump card, a computerized mesh of hip-hop beats at dub-like tempos.

As before, the least substantial choruses often repeat the longest, but it's a shortcoming offset by archly charming verses flaunting byzantine puns and rhymes that prove the Maels are as ambitiously eccentric as ever.

This Is Not The World isn't quite the breathless playground once populated by robots and carnival kids, but 'Think Tonight' possesses a fist-pumping riff that's one piano short of an Andrew W.K. song. [July 2008, p.96]

A few moments of uncomplicated clarity (a stirringly memorable hook or clarion-call chorus) would elevate ExitingARM from brilliant mess to true pop genius.

Velocifero's grinding soundscapes (honed in part by Alessandro Cortini of Nine Inch Nails) are easy to admire.... Too bad there's rarely much of anything going on below the surface.

Another nuanced collection of mid-tempo '70s-pop-referencing tunes that document the lives of folks who manage only fleeting moments of happiness between protracted stretches of frustration.

Over 38 taut minutes, these New York kids reflect the mirror-ball gleam of primo INXS and "Emotional Rescue"–era Rolling Stones onto the lives of today's young, rich, and wasted.

At its best, Fleet Foxes is warm and cathartic, with all the hopefulness of a balmy summer night.

While Jonathan Meiburg’s uneasy high quaver has always generated the kind of simmering intensity that made Jeff Buckley so gripping and unnerving, canny tonal shifts give his introspective songs a bristling, heightened urgency.

But for every song with a strong concept, there's another that meanders through so-so rhymes without any memorable phrases or punch lines. [July 2008, p.92]

Things go slightly south with wedged-in jokes, but if you overlook those interruptions there's enough fuzzed-out fun and tender, Shins-like classicism to transcend any retro trappings. [July 2008, p.100]

The debut album from this London quartet, founded by laptop folkies Sam Genders and Stephen Cracknell, lulls you along with its sparsely melodic tinkering and blippy slow burn. [July 2008, p.92]

Lay It Down (with tasty guest spots from John Legend, Anthony Hamilton, and Corinne Bailey Rae) makes it clear that Green's devotion to the primacy of his music's groove has only deepened with age.

Songs in A&E, finds an eerie strength in quietude and mortality.

Once the annoying vocoder-rock of 'Tombstone' kicks in, you remember that alll dystopias start out with the best intentions. [June 2008, p.114]

Though Welcome doesn't quite congeal into an artistic statement--it's more like a collection of promising demos--Pants flips his shopworn styles with more panache than the average bedroom producer.

Barring "Blade Runner," the best pop art by a former adman. [June 2008, p.119]

Effectively reinventing their sound with these glooomy anthems, Booka Shade should still rock the superclubs with ease. But some may miss the clever duo known for the carefree pulse of singles. [July 2008, p.94]

The moody brass of 'Maundy Thursdays,' the loveless female narrator who opens 'June Evenings,' and the restless whispering in 'Never Content' are all touches that keep the billowing instrumental opulence tethered, affectingly, to humans on the ground.

Beyond the fact that her voice is deep enough for her to front Crash Test Dummies, there's nothing particularly compelling about Scarlett Johansson's singing.

The bedrock combination of redlined guitars and Mark Arm's adenoidal wail has only been rendered more caustic by two decades of watching lesser lights cash out. [June 2008, p.114]

Whenever it seems that Islands are losing you, Arm’s Way coughs up a moment so beautiful it might make your heart swell and burst into a bloody, disgusting mess.

Bun combines swagger with substance without losing a step. [June 2008, p.104]

No, Virginia compiles a clutch of new tunes, old demos, B-sides, and cast-offs from the previous album, but it scores biggest with an obsessed fan's accordion-powered rendition of the Psychedelic Furs' 'Pretty in Pink.'

Adorned with piano and synth, the ten songs on Re-Arrange Us are fuller, more elegant vessels for the duo’s warm, intricate melodies.

He sounds too lecherously happy to reach the emotional depth of his best work, but for lessons in proto-Brit-rock, he remains a top authority. [June 2008, p.119]

By recycling and loosening up "Two Thousand's" best elements--inventive instrumental passages, rich harmonies, across-the-board emoting--French Kicks get both poppier and deeper.

Thanks to frontman Tim Kinsell's pleasantly dispassionate delivery, an ambient coherence permeates the tunes, a quality that's both comforting and numbing. [July 2008, p.98]

The shadows come richly dark, and the brillance pierces. [May 2008, p.104]

Murray doesn't sound like he's going anywhere but straight home after last call. [June 2008, p.119]

While that may sound dangerously morose, Death Cab have become skilled with the light/dark juxtaposition.

Their seventh studio album bucks and chugs, balancing the quartet's original alt-country impetus with Rhett Miller's love of power pop. [June 2008, p.116]

Thing of the Past contains no original songs (although it's unlikely that anyone without a nasty crate-digging habit will recognize most of these tracks), but Vetiver are awfully well suited to the material, and Cabic's vocals--sweet, smooth, and golden--shine.

Fox gets tripped up by uninspired rap-reggae mashups, electro-pop beats better suited for Nelly Furtado, and rhymes that dwell on designer labels and raunchy sex. [Mar 2008, p.98]

Ghost drowns in Spacemen 3-like drone, feedback, and reverb until the tunes congeal into a deliberately muddy, impenetrable trance. [June 2008, p.104]

You start out rooting for Lucas when his ex keeps his Pretenders album. But the more mean-spirited he gets, the more his melodies fail him.

Fern Knight is a delightfully creepy homage to Celtic-Appalachian tradition, and a compelling subversion of traditional folk structure.

Full of playful swagger, the Kidz rarely let their emotional guard down.

Some newcomers might find Ecstatic Sunshine's loops tedious, but brain-melting repetition is the point. [June 2008, p.108]

Between the singer/songwriter's hectoring-preacher delivery and predictable surf-guitar-noir arrangements, the result is one dreary sermon.

Patrick Stickles screams and moans amid the swirling, lo-fi racket, and although he sounds a helluva lot like Conor Oberst, this is no Bright Eyes knockoff. The Airing of Grievances is more inviting, fraternal, and widely referential.

The up-tempo numbers are great fun, but the Puppets excel on the ballads, which they croon in lovely tight harmony. [May 2008, p.100]

Nouns evolves gradually, with 'Teen Creeps,' 'Sleeper Hold,' and 'Cappo' adding Superchunky pop riffs to their relentless punk vigor. [May 2008, p.109]

At his most relaxed, however, Fite still sounds like his head could explode. [July 2008, p.96]

Although they're purely instrumentalists, Matmos can too, with a charm that sets the laptop duo apart from lesser lights for whom chilly beats and icy synths are ends in themselves.

The title track is a garrulously burbling treat, but the piano-led whale song 'Seal Eyeing' reveals the group as comfy at the deep end of their sound pool.