Endless Now was recorded in the same upstate church where Dinosaur Jr. made 1993's Where You Been, and it sounds like a happy refugee from that alt-rock era, all battering drums and youthful, melodic confusion.

The gentler E distances himself from his lycanthropic alter ego, searching for Ms. Right backed by a familiar arsenal of winsome melodies and elegant string arrangements.

Nixing the sappy bits that dampened his debut, he rewrites the hooks from your parents' favorite Bon Jovi/Belinda Carlisle hits into earnest proclamations of teenage eccentricity, then waves his jazz hands in naysayers' faces.

The songs here may be marginally less interesting than his best, but it's comforting to know that he can ratchet down the passion without losing it entirely. [Nov 2006, p.98]

Guru is as bluntly eloquent as ever. [Sep 2003, p.115]

A fresh, literate blast of nuanced screamers and mid-tempo heart purging. [Aug 2003, p.119]

II feels like the dance-music equivalent of a compost heap: warm, organic, funky, but a tad squishy.

The Bronx native's tenth LP is consumed by legacy: his lengthy career, his harrowing life, and his craft.

Early EPs were lumped in with math and prog bands, but those impulses recede on this debut full-length: Clearly there's some showing off on "Carrying the Wet Wood," with intricately intertwined fretwork and drumming, but it's all in service of sing-alongs, tied together by Dave Davison's pinched, inimitable voice.

Hints of folksy revelry may abound, but the dynamics are strictly library-level, and the lyrical focus is decidedly inward.

Little Me reveals a variety of textures over time, and when you can decode the lyrics, memorable scenes emerge.

There’s next to no tempo to speak of, and they assiduously cultivate a studied monotony, but one can’t escape the sense that this slab is, secretly, the ultimate grower.

Sholi deftly incorporates eerie groans, math-rock guitars, la-la sing-alongs, and frenetic drum lines.

Pleasure's ten tracks of gorgeously distorted, lo-fi pop glides languidly enough for '90s slowcore, but with woozy rhythms, lovelorn lyrics, and reverb-saturated textures that feel timeless.

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

This band has never made an out-and-out bad album, but now it has made an uninspired one.

Each new album (arriving as it does with the requisitely pompous title: Absolution, Black Holes and Revelations, The Resistance) finds Muse attempting to out-blitz OK Computer and Kid A in terms of overly serious Englishmen weeping for modern civilization and its myriad alienations. Which simply makes The 2nd Law's 50-plus minutes of 21st-century-art-rock-meets-sappy-popera business as usual.

The Ruffinas are far better the less seriously they take themselves. [Mar 2008, p.97]

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

Trades Parachutes-era wistfulness for Kid A-style gloom. [Mar 2007, p.88]

AFI may not be breaking new ground, but they never forget who listens hardest.

The blunt-tipped guitar chop on the title tune, glassy music boxes and slurping synths of “Give Peace a Damn,” and the more-Stones-than-country “Honky Tonk Rules” are all genuine surprises that no other legacy act is giving up.

Infusing their music with real personality and humor, sexiness and humility, they've neatly transcended the air-quote graveyard. [Apr 2005, p.105]

Plundering the 1980s for inspiration (shock!), 27-year- old New Zealander Pip Brown emerges with a confection of synth-infused, mammoth-chorused tunes that sound surprisingly and thrillingly fresh.

While Temple's hermaphroditic alto endures the costume changes, the songs often don't, and the couple of undeniably great tracks -- like the rigid, kinetic "Collector" -- get lost in the parade of influences.

He tries hepcat jazz-piano bop and balladry with pitiful results. [May 2006, p.91]

Its disorienting aspects actually make it a compelling full-length experience, locking you into a maze of drum and echo.

Eve has moved her Ruff Ryders to the back half, scored some marquee-value collaborators, and found two guys who can mimic Swizz Beatz well enough to fill the spaces around Mr. Beatz's four tracks without too many seams showing. [5/2001, p.141]

Like running full-tilt through a fun house with smoke machines, tinsel-covered ceilings and a super-size disco ball. [Aug 2004, p.108]

If you're going to crossbreed Built To Spill and the Flaming Lips, then you might as well have fun doing it. [Jul 2004, p.110]

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.

Offering a slightly subtler take on the style-shuffling of 2009′s Heartbeat Radio, Lerche somehow never loses cohesion.

Rich Forever, the mixtape teaser for his forthcoming God Forgives, I Don't, is quite successful at doing nothing new at all.

The duo are most enjoyable when they just surrender to sweaty delirium on 'Summer Song.'

Although critics of Morrissey's solo career have justifiably argued that his post-Bona Drag ensembles haven't met the Smiths' lofty bar, World Peace Is None of Your Business is the first Morrissey album that's often stronger musically than it is lyrically.

It’s hard to overstate how exceptional Ti Amo is: every song is complete in its own way, and while there’s perhaps the slightest softening of focus near the end, it never starts to coast on its sultry aesthetic.

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

On the Dead Weather's second album, they harness this icy alpha-dog tension into a distorted call-and-response aggression that's now greater than its parts, a rudely heavy swath of rock'n'roll authority.

Soundgarden made an album here, with all sorts of internal connections and deliberate emotional ebbs and flows.

Truth subverts metal's natural will to power with dreamy, ambient passages that are never as sublime as the band clearly thinks they are. [Dec 2006, p.98]

The Donnas... have zeroed in on their true obsession: obsession. [Dec 2004, p.117]

Armstrong, bassist Mike Dirnt, and drummer Tré Cool push Idiot's conceits even further on 21st Century Breakdown, a slick, class-obsessed, 70-minute, 18-song, three-act cycle that trades Bush-era indignation for Obama-era resignation.

The production smudges the songs into fuzzy watercolors, and Orton's twangy burr can't always cut through. [Sep 2002, p.128]

If the idea of an indie-rock Captain & Tennille appeals, there's a berth for you on their love boat. [Nov 2003, p.114]

Jammed with cheesy effects, weak orchestration, and paper-thin vocals, this is a mix that nobody would dream of Californicating to. [Apr 2004, p.94]

May be Photek's best record yet. [Nov. 2000, p.206]

This time around, it's as if the script has been reshot by Michael Bay--glossy and viscerally stimulating--and we're watching a coming attraction for a film that never starts. [Feb 2007, p.88]

If 'Called' and 'Dancing on Our Graves' try too hard to conjure the spooky vibe of ancient American roots music, the persistent acoustic guitars produce waves of modern static tension.

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.

While producer Budo creates melancholy set pieces--from the funereal piano of "Bloody Poetry" to the soulful organ grinding of "Heartbreak Hotel"--Grieves shines as a friendly, thoughtful voice, gladly ready to share secrets.

Walk Through Exits Only might not be a comeback in the way we're used to hearing one, but damn if it doesn't feel like comeuppance.

What a Time to Be Alive is not the best album of 2015, but it is the album that best defines 2015 so far.

Nice as F**k are not a “girl group”; they’re a Spoon that owes two dozen quarters to a washing machine.

The relatively trim Buoys winds up feeling as minor as 2018’s A Day With the Homies EP, despite being twice as long and bearing far higher expectations.

Agreeably chunky guitar pop. [Nov 2006, p.102]

Minor Love still packs some Jonathan Richman–esque quirk, as Green croons in a Lou Reed deadpan about goblins, flatulence, and other concerns over solidly constructed lo-fi tunes.

Despite fairly rote lyrics, Buck's ferocious flow can turn even the most cliched hood yarn into a fire-and-brimstone sermon. [Apr 2007, p.97]

The bulk of Unorthodox Jukebox benefits from presenting Bruno Mars as he truly imagines himself: a big belter with an ear for pop hooks, sure, but one unafraid to dive into murkier waters.

Asya... has an immediate confidence, rolling through tricky time changes like Tori Amos' plucky little sister. [Jul 2006, p.87]

Her... most streamlined effort yet. [Sep 2006, p.104]

A primer on British folk-revival icon Shirley Collins is the disc's most sparkling moment. [May 2008, p.103]

Frontman Aaron Aites counters the otherworldly ambience with straightforward strains of classic indie rock (think Sebadoh and Pavement). That combination can be jarring, but mostly in pleasant ways.

Caressed by gentle guitars and synths, her elegantly serene voice and airy melodies impart a sense of stubborn, reassuring endurance in the face of soul-crushing melancholy.

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.

Their sophisticated studio treatments make every sound sparkle. [Aug 2006, p.84]

One jaded plod after another. [June 2001, p.155]

The two have widened and lightened their sound a bit from '99's Field Studies, with more, merrier guitars and varied selection of keys. [Oct 2001, p.134]

Nelly's caught between a rock and a hardass place--he's too edgy to comfortably collaborate with 'N Sync's Justin Timberlake but too corny to dig into the Neptunes' sleazily sinister beats on lead single "Hot In Herre." [Aug 2002, p.109]

The monster-chomp guitars and semiauto percussion are still in effect, but somebody spilled a little Pantene in the Pantera. [Jul 2004, p.108]

Except for standouts “Barbie Dreams,” “Good Form,” and “Chun-Li,” Queen is full of songs that Nicki has more or less done previously and in better ways. It’s not that Nicki has become a worse rapper (“Lara been Croft” jokes aside) or that the production is bad, it’s that everything here is only adequate--nothing pops, no chances are taken, and there isn’t any notable magic in these records.

Lovingly fastidious and packed with special effects.

Oyamada fuses a bristling spectrum of textures and rhythms. [May 2007, p.84]

Fifth Harmony’s talents do get their shine in spots of this front-loaded hodgepodge.

Alpinisms' sweeping, ethereal pop owes a stylistic debt to My Bloody Valentine and the Cocteau Twins, but the debut album by former Secret Machines guitarist Ben Curtis' new project reveals a range of influences and a sophisticated approach to arrangement that sets the trio well apart from less imaginative latter-day shoegazers.

The edge is smoothed down here, the bitterness outweighs the resignation, and strangely, the two sound stronger on their own. [Oct 2007, p.112]

Regardless of which indie celeb is on the mic or which recreational drug best suits the beat, each track hints at hedonism without hangovers.

At its best, We Fall treats its revolving door of guests less like a cavalcade of strangers than a band of familiar colleagues.

Finally, she’s embracing the responsibility to provide stone-cold tunes without pretense.

An odd gem in a catalog full of them, 1984 is a rewarding left turn from a band who’ve remained interesting for so long because they’re less likely to fall off than wander.

The tracks that are anchored by [Sia and Jose Gonzalez] have a soulful edge, but elsewhere the instrumentals drift aimlessly toward the hotel jazz bar. [Jul 2006, p.90]

Even at just 42 minutes, Tonight is relentless, yet the comedown is exquisite.

Ignore the mouth-breathing rock bangers, and Mockingbird is as comfortable as well-worn denim.

On his fifth full-length, this '60s-pop obsessive mostly ditches the balmy homemade chorales of his earlier work for folk-rock verities, crafting his tightest, fullest-sounding record yet.

The weight of Tucker and Roddick's reverb-drenched, synth-stuffed production is such that it's hard for their songs to consistently achieve the kind of liftoff that the pair desires.

While most of the music on Whip It On is somewhere in the vicinity of cool, the vocals sound like two people trying out for a Jesus and Mary Chain tribute band. [Jan 2003, p.101]

Traffics full-time in the kind of raw, godless punk rock that's relegated to a handful of cuts on Queens' albums. [Sep 2003, p.112]

Conjure[s] the glum glamour of prime Coldplay. [Apr 2003, p.107]

Tracking and self-editing issues have always plagued her Minajesty's projects, but never more so than on this one, an album that probably would've landed with bigger fanfare had Minaj not so loudly touted it as all but an instant classic all year long.

Both these records chronicle the physical and mental graffiti of figuring out how to emerge from some very large shadows, including his own, with nerve and power. [Jul 2005, p.96]

With Drive-By Truckers, singer-guitarist Jason Isbell learned to embrace some of those [Southern rock] cliches; on his gritty, vibrant second solo album, he begins to transcend them.

When it comes to trap raps, he's coined and refined a slick, successful musical formula that TM103, easily maintains.

Their wit keeps maturing, but TMBG's gentle weirdness is forever young.

Good records from the Descendents and Bad Religion in one year? Joe Strummer's ghost must be keeping close watch. [Jul 2004, p.110]

Howl is not exactly the group's Nebraska--BRMC dabble in too much "White Album" Beatlemania for that--but it's a general extension of that record. [Sep 2005, p.101]

Music this hard-partying can make for a tough morning after. [Oct 2006, p.105]

The fan service can only go so far, though. With each successive spin, the LP’s post-reunion giddiness recedes, revealing the overarching déja vu as a crutch.

A near-operatic concept record about fantasy and delusion. [Mar 2007, p.91]

There are traces of reverb and chicken-scratch guitar, but the band's drill-press instro-rock lacks thegenre's spacial dislocation and sense of thematic possibility. [Feb 2008, p.92]