Real to Reel is otherwise lacking in the kind of tension that's required to produce an album that's more than the sum of its talented parts.

Editors have acquired a sense of urgency and emotion they lacked on "The Back Room." [Aug 2007, p.98]

Crossing the garage rock of early Strokes with the dance rock of Franz Ferdinand a decade too late, this suburban Los Angeles trio makes a tired idea sound viable by sheer force of postadolescent will.

Too often on the Antlers' second full-length, their washed-out melodies suggest powerfully memorable hooks that never fully materialize or cohere.

The rest of the album buries otherwise thrilling moments. [Oct 2007, p.108]

Here, perhaps his most deft rhythm section (Clutch drummer Jean-Paul Gaster and Rezin bassist Jon Blank) acts as a liberating army -- trad doom, hardcore tempos, mathematic instrumentals, and a Fugazi lope ("Wild Blue Yonder") coexist perfectly with his famously piercing, rounded guitar tone. It's change any hesher could believe in.

Expectations is an insistent but uneven album that points toward greater musical ambitions than it achieves. The sound is pleasantly aquatic and soft-edged but fussy and overwrought, as though its architects were worried that too much downtime might spur listeners to click away.

Boasting enough sugary banjos, glockenspiels, and handclaps to give a Teletubby diabetes, The Boy Least Likely To animate their softly sung indie twang with nonstop hooks, bright production, and gently acknowledged adult anxieties. Beneath lyrics celebrating balloons and whiskers lie bittersweet longings.

The group's final album (they broke up in October) still punches like a champ, with sharp bursts of intelligent energy.

The real story of this breathtaking follow-up... is Romeo Stodart's transformation from merely a good songwritier to an outstanding one. [Feb 2007, p.85]

The harpoons that Paul hurls at the industry's blubber have lost their edge. [June 2003, p.105]

The only friction here is between Lord's kewpie chirp and Nick Saloman's guardedly bitter lyrics. [Apr 2004, p.94]

Her vocals are both pitch-perfect and emotionally resonant. [Apr 2007, p.96]

On this debut full-length, already a U.K. No. 1, she glides through blippy anthems ("Starry Eyed"), pumping disco ("Animal"), and delicate grooves ("Lights") with a pixie-ish voice that's one notch sweeter than Metric's Emily Haines.

Too often [Woomble] is an impotent voice struggling to cut through the clutter. [Apr 2007, p.88]

In lieu of dynamics, [bassist Thomas] Mayhew's pull-out method keeps the album engaging. [Mar 2007, p.99]

His latest is dedicated to "the spirit of the summer night sky," and that's an accurate, if slightly cornball, description of these six impressionistic guitar instrumentals.

[It] never rests in one spot. [Feb 2007, p.87]

This is a troubling record. There are some stellar moments, but it's mostly just troubling. [Jul 2004, p.105]

staying true to their party platform (sex, God, kissing, etc.), songwriters Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee remain the Ramones of sunbeam, patty-cake pop--even if they sound less like awkward twentysomethings singing about cats and bikes, and more like the countless post-'90s alterna-rockers who owe them gratitude.

Bridges' country-fried drawl gets wonky (see the shuffling "Blue Car"), but when the pieces come together -- as on laid-back, folksy charmers like "Everything but Love" and "Maybe I Missed the Point" -- the result is as comfortable and unpretentious as the Dude's bathrobe.

The songs appear to take chances--sweeping chord changes, symphonic progressions, darts into electronic sound--but there's little at stake.

All signs pointed to Shiny and Oh So Bright (full title: Shiny and Oh So Bright, Vol. 1 / LP: No Past. No Future. No Sun.) as an authoritative step back on track.

Some of the tracks sound pretty tossed-off, but it's nice to hear such a brainy bunch not overthinking things. [Feb 2007, p.86]

The emo-punk angst is cut with little of the band's trademark wit or ingenuity: Most of the songs plod bloodlessly to an inevitable, pointless climax of noise, sour humor, and teen nihilism.

Mumbly, scratchy-voiced Pete Quirk is more self-assured than on 2007’s Invitation Songs, championing optimism and determination in the face of trouble, powered by sharp folk and country-blues guitars, plus no-frills percussion.

The overly smooth production undercuts his righteous fury, suggesting the group harbors dreams of a Green Day-style commercial breakthrough.

While the lyrics to 'On the Rise' never explicitly address the se-duction of addiction, the pretty drone that cuts through the jangly melody nails it exactly. [Aug 2007, p.104]

Planet Earth is a consistent, exhilarating winner from our reigning genius. [Sep 2007, p.121]

Four [is] the most consisting-sounding Direction album yet.

Each of her previous three records has its charms... The Green World is no exception. [Oct. 2000, p.182]

Exciter is basically a vehicle for Martin Gore's increasingly formulaic songs... [June 2001, p.155]

This is the album Metallica lifers have been waiting for: an inspired return to the complex savagery of old. [Jul 2003, p.109]

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]

More often than not, X's hooks, tunes and Minogue's bubblegum-perfect hum achieve candy-coated ecstasy. [Mar 2008, p.106]

Getting away from his brother really does seem to make Liam happy.

A Place to Bury Strangers is one of those bands like Clinic; they've never made a bad album even if normal listeners have decided they only need one or two of them. Transfixiation might not be one of those two, but the abnormals have more fun.

It's reliably beautiful, if staid. [Dec 2007, p.124]

This horribly named duo's towering pop songs are buried so deep in reverberating juju that it's sometimes hard to follow them.

The quintet conjures the Mars Volta doing Zeppelin karaoke over two-bit Mr. Bungle. [Feb 2007, p.84]

Despair rules on this Liverpool threesome's crackling debut, wrapping loneliness in spiffy power pop.

The handclap stomp of "Miss You" explodes at just the right moment, while the house-music piano of "How Deep Is Your Love?" proves the boys' club credentials remain intact.

Kiss Land plays like a more considered, better-mastered continuation of Echoes of Silence, not anything dramatically different.

The results are fairly stunning. [Nov 2007, p.125]

Odds are Konk's been-there, done-that sentiments will inspire a Kula Shaker-sized blip. [May 2008, p.100]

It's only when Pterodactyl embrace their underlying pop core and ratchet up the jangle--see the breezy "The Break" or the '60s sunburst "Searchers"--that Spills Out makes an effective splash.

"African Velvet"? "Eat My Beat"? Gauche titling aside, Jean-Benoit Dunckel and Nicolas Godin offer no shake-ups on Love 2. Instead, more than a decade into their career, the duo have nearly perfected their wistfully melodic synth- and vocoder-driven easy-listening jams.

A blatant stab for radio... [Aug 2001, p.134]

On Voyage to India, Arie is just another girl on the neosoul train. [Jan 2003, p.98]

His remix of Azzido Da Bass's "Dooms Night" was the big hit, but really, it could have been any of these unpretentious but hardly brain-dead tracks. [1/2001, p.119]

Glow tries so hard to keep the mood pneumatic that it starts to feel over-stuffed, even at just 55 minutes long.

He's more grounded... and his evasive, abstract beats underpin his vocals less randomly. [Dec 2004, p.124]

Her confidently unsteady voice has a refreshing energy, serving as a cohesive, quivering throughline for her intentionally nomadic debut, The Fool.

The album flounders during their attempts at arty funk. [Jan 2007, p.92]

Defying logic, the famously productive Robert Pollard is getting even more prolific with age.

This new EP with his New Romantic band finds even more ways to surprise.

Rice seeks 24/7 momentousness here. [Jan 2007, p.92]

Maybe the entire album is a meme itself, a grand existential joke critiquing the all-conquering rise of Internet culture by parodying its overwhelming randomness. Whatever it is, though, it's a bad rap record.

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

Healy's wounded sneer makes you long for his misty croon. [Dec 2003, p.128]

Working with Good Charlotte producer Eric Valentine, the Rejects trick out their hook-jammed anthems with sweet strings, zippy disco beats, and the occasional bit of Gary Glitter bleacher stomp.

Rocks with a woozy pothead-punk swagger. [May 2006, p.91]

An outrageously overblown pop-metal extravaganza, Chinese Democracy feels like a perfect epitaph for all the absurdity and nonsense of the George W. Bush era--one final blowout before Principal Obama takes our idiocy away.

But what that album [Knowle West Boy] had in abundance--loud guitars, noisy electronics, new ideas--this comparatively minimal one lacks.

The combination of titanic chunk-chunk riffs, sleek lead guitar, and radio-ready harmonizing comes across as heroic. [Jun 2006, p.82]

Houglass blatantly resembles sedate, later-day Depeche. [Nov 2007, p.118]

Instead of a triumphant return to form, then, Innocence is more of a satisfying side conversation, a familiar face coming round to the back door and whiling the time away nicely till dark or dawn

For the first time, the ballads are as memorable as the dance cuts.

Field Manual rests slight vocals atop memorable instrumentation, with surprisingly unshimmery production. [Feb 2008, p.98]

With riffs this sugarshit sharp, who needs ideas? [May 2002, p.124]

A post-masterpiece puzzler where the kicks just keep getting harder to find, spread-eagle between pop limitations and artistic aspirations. [12/2000, p.214]

A workmanlike pop album, vocally immaculate and sonically au courant, but seldom more than functional.

A melodic world of deliciously messy guitars, synthesizers, and piano. [Sep 2006, p.102]

Its follow-up is where they relax--literally. [Nov 2007, p.126]

The trio are certainly equipped for the challenge, since they're already experienced purveyors of foreboding, romantic, minor-keyed dreaminess; but their dub-tinged candle-flicker sometimes trades haunting for drab.

With the drums intimately booming and the occasional zap of an analog synth snaking across the formalist woodenness, the blessed simplicity of the arrangements on No No No makes one cry out for a more adventurous artist to place in these settings.

Such an over-the-top approach could end in solemn self-parody. But Broken Records' refreshing playfulness and surprisingly light touch indicate they're really enjoying themselves.

Your enjoyment of Love Story will directly correlate with the amount that you enjoy Yelawolf’s singing, because boy howdy is there a lot of it here. If you respect Yelawolf’s progression as a musician and wish him luck on his journey to artistic self-actualization, you will be pleased.

Unlike the Bollywood rock house sound of Cornershop, Clinton shimmies with science, canned beats and funk cornerstones, creating a technology-savvy dance floor pitch. It's so full of disco it could make a glitter ball blush.... Instead of inventive, the album sounds slightly recycled.

Over blotto new-wave/industrial beats, they party hard and get lost on the way home. [May 2003, p.116]

England's exoticism is offset by plenty of tough and tender ballads, and even the most stridently worldbeat numbers are joyous, well-made, and never patronizing. [Apr 2002, p.117]

Gracefully melancholic electronica with too much soul to be relegated to sushi-restaurant background music. [Aug 2007, p.106]

The result of all this hemming and hawing is a captivating reminder of how much weirder this band is than its reputation.

On this debut, Lerner's gorgeous vocals, sunny melodies, and ultra-catchy choruses sound like a Fab Four fantasy trip as he logs extensive mileage in a rush of crisscrossing travelogue songs.

The second half of this album is far more earnest; and in related news, far less fun.

Three albums in, the Stills still sound ambitiously confused.

His fifth solo album, which is rife with clichéd storytelling, shows signs that another makeover might be in order.

Slim aims for the gut but usually ends up hitting the hips; either way, his relentlessly cloying lyrics ensure that Be Set Free is more suitable for soundtracks and square dances than headphones.

On his third solo effort, the G-Unit rapper is a connoisseur of cars, women, and guns, spinning tight spider webs of syllables that are often so patterned that they obscure individual strands.

Trouble Man is his first album since that second bid; it finds him finally returning to the lane that he abandoned somewhere around the time he included two Wyclef Jean songs on T.I. vs. Tip.

They refresh all their tricks, with stripped-down, energetic guitar plus little electronics. [Apr 2008, p.92]

The music may be just as strong, tight, and impeccable--this is a band that's been going at it for more than a quarter of a century, after all--but there's a lightness missing here, a lack of passion.

They're never slavish imitators, and when they goose the velocity--those comparisons gradually fade into classic, shimmery guitar pop. [Nov 2008, p.88]

With her bandmates providing roughed-up backing that's neither appropriate nor compelling, Persson comes off like a stylish girl with unnecessarily ratty hair. [Nov 2006, p.97]

Their most eccentric, diverse sounding record to date.

The typically droll Video Star includes a cowbell-enhanced rave-up ('Do You Mind'), a bit of Lady Gaga–ish electro-pop ('Last Days of Disco'), and one track named after Transformers ('Deceptacon'). It's a charm offensive with stars and stripes.

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

All in all, this is a well-written, smartly paced, tightly played, thematically cohesive, musically tidy piece of work. It's just that quite a lot of Camper fans probably never considered those qualities to be particularly appealing virtues.