Over 34 irresistible minutes, Summer of Hate has as many barbed, house-party hooks as nihilistic blasts.

Asobi Seksu do something My Bloody Valentine can't--leave Shields behind.

The beats are subtle, but solid, better suited to a small, late-night party than a major disturbance. [Mar 2008, p.104]

It's the band's most diverse album yet—and, diversity being their strength, it's also their most accomplished.

Should these two musicians choose to continue their professional reengagement (and here's hoping they do), jettisoning the vocalists and second-rate John Cooper Clarke monologues in favor of the noisy anti-pop skank they helped invent might yet yield wondrous results. Less talk, more skronk.

High Flying Birds isn't a total knockout, but it should keep Liam sleeping with at least one Beady Eye open.

At home with a variety of tonal colors, Alpers is a basement Björk, stacking her multitracked voice until it hits the ceiling.

Upbeat sentiment is scarce, yet there's barely a downcast moment -- no insignificant trick -- and somewhere Alex Chilton nods his approval.

On the beautifully airy Original Colors, the ambient pair seem weary of making a good impression.

Johnny Whitney has made an art of singing like a deliriously deaf 12-year-old, but the debut of his new trio with Blood Brothers bandmate/guitarist Cody Votolato and ex–Pretty Girls Make Graves guitarist Jay Clark (now on drums) plays like a preteen daydream.

Snip a few of the duds and maybe Future Brown would be one of the most consistently interesting and understandably weird debuts of the year.

Even when they're shouting, they do so in a particularly musical and distinctive way, and although their smash is one of five This Is… songs the duo had no hand in writing, they nevertheless suggest a consistent sense of authorship through the intensity of their shared ecstasies and frustrations.

Every space on More hums with blip-skipping bonus beats, phone-sex coos, and backing vocals boingin' like bungee cords. [March 2001, p.148]

Once you've heard the undoctored edition of Bert Jansch's heartbreaking "Needle of Death," a harrowing tale of self-destruction by heroin predating Young's own "The Needle and the Damage Done," the noisier approach feels like needless gimmickry that diminishes, rather than enhances, one of his strongest sets in a long time.

"I know it sounds strange," chirps mullet-rockin' Yo-Landi Vi$$er in "Rich Bitch," "but I used to count change." In fact, that's one of the more credible claims on this South African rave-rap crew's delightfully low-rent debut.

It's an overly gauzy, booming-echo epic that doesn't leave much trace after it's over.

If the Black Keys sped up a little, their stodginess might feel more songful. [Oct 2006, p.94]

Bear[s] the mark of Big Star. [Jul 2006, p.85]

with songs as strong as bluesy snarler 'Great Scott!,' the gospel-leaning 'Fear,' and stomp-along 'Tired of Being Good,' the musical debts are easier to forgive, if not ignore.

Julie Budet chirps exclusively in French, which helps her Auto-Tuned singsong remain vaguely mysterious, even if her childlike melodies are far simpler than the subtly finessed synths.

Little Broken Hearts is exciting because it explores the darkest corners of betrayal, bad love, and jealousy with enough vitality to propel Jones out of the bloodless purgatory of brunch music.

Western Xterminator ventures further from the '90s opiate-blues legacy of Trux, sounding more exploratory than RTX's debut. [Mar 2007, p.98]

Despite Shelter From The Ash's transcendent drones and trippy, Eastern-inspired guitar figures...[Chasny's] vocals too often kill the buzz. [Dec 2007, p.125]

Slower tempos and fewer yuks mean less fun, but tougher backing vocals pump the essential estrogen.

RJD2's collaboration with Philly singer Aaron Livingston bears the qualities that have divided the instrumental hip-hop producer's fans since the 2006 misfire The Third Hand -- most prominently, jazz-rock ellipses and thin, expressive vocals (Livingston's are only slightly better than RJ's own efforts).

Despite plenty of practice as a contributor to Rick Ross' Maybach Music Group compilation series Self Made, Meek's label debut lacks viable singles.

MGK is a talented rapper, but here, on his major label album, he sounds hollow.

It sure does prove that Bob Dylan isn't bigger than rock and roll--while also proving that rock and roll needs ace songwriters more than many current rock and rollers think.