Synthetica manufactures dependable, big-hearted joy straight through, whether it's slightly gloomy or coquettish or just flat-out pop fun.

Daniel's bump-and-grind synth lines are all campy humor. [Mar 2005, p.92]

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

Lady Gaga certainly wasn't born this way, but she's making a convincing case that she's evolving into our most surreally brilliant pop star.

Basically the same thing--improved. [May 2005, p.101]

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

All hands sound fully engaged on their first album since 2006, which opens and closes with glorious echoes of X's overdriven guitars and yowling male-female harmonies.

Warrior is likable enough, but not only can't it match its predecessor, it's not nearly as exhilarating or disruptive as what fellow slizzered California trashdancer Dev or assorted K-poppers have done in the past two years with basically the same raw materials.

Where Craft Spells' previous release felt a bit lackadaisical, the more self-aware Nausea, with its themes of growth echoed in its synth crescendos, sports ambition.

All those disparate styles and references should logically clash, yet here they flow seamlessly. By Franz standards, it's relaxed. Believe it or not, it's also compact and concise.

Multicultural, cosmopolitan, intellectual dance music: Ibiza meets punk, dub goes tango, trance gets smart. [Oct 2006, p.95]

Each track on this Canadian quartet's second full-length opens with some clever reshuffling of precise drum pecks, TV-hum synths, Strokes-like guitar, and David Monks' reedy, wry vocals. Three minutes later, you're left with the mildly pleasing, indistinct memory of yelped choruses, mathy breakdowns, and mid-tempo breeziness.

The production (from Ski Beatz, 88-Keys, others) adds florid, melodramatic choruses to jazzy boom-bap tracks, blunting the impact of Kweli's dogged street intellectualism.

Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace is another quality entry in a fantastically average career.

The weird miracle is how natural singers Scott Paterson and Adele Bethel sound harmonizing (well, singing together) over subdermal synth buzz.

Bragg gets the balance of message and music just about right. [May 2008, p.94]

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

Because every Eels disc feels like a breakup album, this overt and actual one may at first seem redundant, or worse....But this also may be his most universal work, and it's heartfelt and true

How scary/ridiculous the lyrics are is a matter of personal taste (or lack thereof), but it'd help if the production were more Scandinavian and less like, well, the Rocket from the Crypt rip-off band that singer/guitarist J.D. Cronise was in before he devoted his life to "Paranoid."

Are the Verve back? Maybe. Definitely.

The best Pretenders record since 1994's Last of the Independents. [Dec 2002, p.141]

They're all pretty good, actually, especially "When It's Over"... [Aug 2001, p.129]

The first half of this double EP was recorded with a 19-piece Oaxacan band, who pull the songs away from Condon's reflexive melancholy; but next to their pomp, his sparse bedroom electronics on Holland (under the name Realpeople) feel a tad thin.

It's a minor miracle that these Swedish vets' 24-song sixth album clocks in at 94 filler-free minutes, stuffed with late-'60s guitar romps ranging from slow-burn psychedelia to up-tempo struts, and more deliberate mood pieces.

What elevates their debut beyond your average twee-punk rager is the gentle psych dabblings.

The result is a patchwork approach to nostalgia, cherry-picking sounds from dance music's collective memory and rearranging them into something that's more than the sum of its parts.

Uneven but fascinating. [May 2006, p.92]

Raise the Dead works best when power takes a backseat to pop. [May 2008, p.106]

The title track gusts in more forcefully, but on the duo's best songs, they harmonize like Simon & Garfunkel shutting their eyes against approaching shades of winter.

What aren't here are coherently shaped songs, or hooks, or riffs, or melodies that stick.

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

Just seven of the 15 songs here break three minutes, which is smart, as Sniper turns rubbery bass lines and thin synths into goth-flavored bubblegum pop.

Even when the concept stumbles, parts of Vide Noir are pretty enjoyable listening anyway, like the flecks of psychedelic guitar across the title track and the filigree detail and sensual current of “Moonbeam.”

Dr. Dog can capture the irreverence and fun of their influences, but the Dylan-esque rambling and McCartney-indebted harmonies ultimately click too briefly, only inducing nostalgia for the moments when Dr. Dog shines.

The songs are catchy and nuanced, and the rage that defined them a mere seven years ago comes across here as measured, simmering frustration.

Aside from its sheer heft, though, it's hard to imagine it converting anyone who doesn't already care.

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

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

Twenty years since their last album of new material, Gill and vocalist Jon King spit out splintered riffs and skewered tropes that approximate the band's peak on grabby party-starters ("Who Am I") and mesmerizing midtempo grooves ("A Fruitfly in the Beehive"). The rest are only slightly damaged goods.

Opener 'Another Likely Story' sets the mood, dovetailing chilly lunar textures with hushed vocal harmonies to often nap-worthy effect.

The album is full of catchy guitar rock anthems that recall their '90s alt-rock heyday but also showcases some of the maturity and experience they've gotten since then.

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.

It's pleasant, soothingly warm water, sure, but you probably won't want to soak for too long.

There are just enough bright spots to make this all worthwhile for those too old to wear BAPE.

Plays like a poppy salvo against [Broken Social Scene's] cerebral forays. [Oct 2005, p.138]

Nash's bluntness and detail make for a good spectacle. [Feb 2008, p.96]

Fang's edge is a bit more mosh-by-numbers than Hole's. [Dec 2003, p.129]

A dark, emotionally intense record, best experienced on headphones. [Jan 2004, p.97]

What could have been hipster reach is multiculti grasp of the sweetest kind. [Jun 2001, p.148]

A masterful blend of electronic genres. [Oct 2006, p.102]

Episodic is a steady, ten-track affair that doesn’t overstay its welcome, and it leaves on an anxious note.

Supergrass' Gaz Coombes and Danny Goffey deliver 12 blasts of stylistic tinkering that never subsume the songs' original intent: to rock.

The North Carolina native's third album unveils deceptively sharp tales of hearts in distress, implying fierce emotions just under the surface. [Mar 2008, p.106]

It swaggers like prime Replacements, though with far better polish. [Jan 2008, p.103]

With a hot guest list (Ciara, T.I.), this is bound to bump the clubs, but beyond that, it's clown time.

The Thrills have matured into pretty crafty tunesmiths. [Nov 2007, p.125]

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

To call some of these 26(!) word-and-riff bombs unfinished would be charitable; a few even seem unwanted.

Damn Right Rebel Proud, typically, raises less convincing hell than plenty of current mainstream Nashville product.

Instead of sounding like a half-baked aberration or a tedious, overlong experiment, Die Lit broadcasts a refreshing and well-developed aesthetic--one that feels like Carti’s specific achievement. Its appeal feels distinctly corporeal, like it’s inducing some swag-rap equivalent of ASMR through exploring a limited and tightly EQd collection of sounds.

Lewis' wordplay smartly unspools over the course of a song--with 'Breakin' Up,' she creates a 'Since U Been Gone' for grown-ups, and on '15,' narrates an Internet jailbait vignette without melodrama or moralizing. [Sep 2007, p.132]

The tropes in YG’s songs are West Coast traditional (women, realness, threats, repeat) but there’s a combination of veteran savvy and lane mastering that refreshes the more expected moments.

The Pale Emperor plods inoffensively from start to finish with moderate gloom and a similar level of hooks.

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

This is the work of noise nerds bent on finding beauty where others see nothing but a tangled mess. [Jul 2004, p.110]

If the studio stuff lacks punch, her live material pulls fresh meaning from her music's subtlety. [Feb 2002, p.110]

An L.A. album in all senses of the term -- pretty, temperate, and incredibly surface. [Aug 2001, p.138]

Nothing ventures beyond the tunefully middle-of-the-road, nor does any song manage the effortless historicity of good album rock. [Nov. 2000, p.206]

Shift[s] between singer/songwriter Rhett Miller's heartrending country and mojo-fueled power pop. [Sep 2004, p.120]

Brace the Wave doesn’t really crest above Barlow’s torrential output, it’s just another pre-frayed entry in a catalog of scratchy home recordings.

In the grand, elegiac 'Legacy,' singer Neil Tennant delivers what's either a farewell kiss or simply a cheeky end to the most thoroughly heartfelt chapter in the pair's 25-year story.

There's real drama in the band's sweeping crescendos and ringing guitar chords; there's something genuinely affecting in their newfound emo overtones.

The sharp riffs only occasionally add up to anything with a pulse, but the Pornos have always been bad mathematicians. Archaeology -- that's their subject.

This mysterious Swedish dream-pop band's music remains hazy--mucho echo, blurry harmonies, soft acoustic instrumentation buoyed by generous synth strings, and a bright white ambience suggesting both sunny Balearic beaches and blinding Scandinavian snowstorms. Yet its emotions are conversely vivid.

[BRMC] have never sounded more self-assured. [May 2007, p.84]

Paring down his tuneful new-wave pop to a bare-bones piano-bass-drum lineup might not been the best idea for Joe Jackson. [Feb 2008, p.94]

Never has she sounded freer than she does here, a self-styled villain biting the forbidden fruit of gossip and letting its juices run down her neck.

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.

On the follow-up to 2007's terrific Neptune City, Atkins trades that album's lush torch-song vibe for scrappier indie-garage arrangements that drain much of the drama and romance from her music.

Lykke Li’s songwriting is strong here, but the excess of electronic manipulation sometimes resembles a bedroom experiment.

Everyone from Lady Gaga to Muse chips in here with perhaps the strongest, most flavorful batch of tunes to reach an AI vet, and Lambert's polymorphous vocal skills unite dancefloor strut and hard-rock pomp in a convincing glam package.

Shards of Come With Me suggest Crow has more to offer the metal gods than the intermittently awesome sludgefests served up here.

The album isn’t perfect. The pensive closer “Childhood” is too precious in its “where did the time go” wonderings. Lead single “Edging” is a mediocre punk number even Green Day might have left behind, and “When We Were Young” is undercooked and appears to battle its own time signature. But it’s still the band’s best work in 20 years, and rocket fuel for this new chapter and whatever follows.

It lands in the same general ballpark as 2003's new-wave homage Rock N Roll, loose-limbed and manic, with Adams indulging his riff-rock-and-holler side.

Like a lot of young artists who've been flash-fried by the Internet, these guys also aren't so much great as they are getting better, using public interest to spur themselves on. Bossalinis is cleaner and more varied than their mixtapes, but this album is also long.

Less an electronica CD than a dub album without any original sources--and it's all the freer for it. [Oct 2001, p.128]

Often lives up to its title, but they ought to find a kind way to break it off with the horn section. [Jul 2003, p.110]

Its sound is bright, slick, and micromanaged.

Their more subdued follow-up doesn't dirty things up much, but it does give some character to the quartet's airtight groovemaking.

Tortoise have erased virtually all of their music’s familiar signifiers, opting now for stylistic mashes that fall into anonymity as often as they reach new, exciting places.

God Forgives is a comedown--sporadically introspective, occasionally rousing, and sort of without purpose.

Rather than trying to replicate their off-the-cuff studio performances onstage, Gordon and Nace treat the songs as rough outlines for further improvisation, to be colored in as the musicians please.

If it sounds about as much fun as, say, watching CNBC, rest assured, dude's got a tighter flow than Larry Kudlow.

He seems plenty happy to hone coulda-been Nirvana licks to perfection on Afraid of Heights, which, despite being an album of all-new material, still feels like the Incesticide of his canon.

Now even Gary Powell’s drums can’t give these sodden valentines the right kick.... The best Anthems recall a time when Doherty and Barât could still tickle each other.

Steadfastly chirping crescendos, whinnying breakbeat stampedes, and the odd evocative vocal.

All texture and no text. [May 2004, p.108]

Admire feels oddly reined in, a transitional record by a band not yet willing to completely let go of the past.