Mangy Love, his eighth album, now finds him on the Anti- label and like the title suggests, it shows divergent aspects of Cass, at his most subtle, resonant, and resplendent, and at others, his most maddeningly repetitive and scabby.

The racing tempos and Christian Hjelm's paranoid-sounding yelp push the songs to occasionally exhilarating heights, but beware the inevitable comedown. [Aug 2006, p.78]

Green Day’s 13th studio album set sees them step outside of their comfort zone, experimenting with a range of new sounds and styles. However, this leads to mixed results.

There are a few clunky dance tracks... but it's Madden's search for love in the L.A. wasteland that gives Revival a certain charm. [Mar 2007, p.86]

Divorced from their HBO series, the songs have room to stretch a little, only occasionally sacrificing context. [May 2008, p.98]

While it’s no We Global or even a We the Best Forever, it’s not without its own outrageous merits.

It's an LP that makes virtually no sense in the Pumpkins' chronology, but is a satisfying enough half-hour of Alternative Nation-era would-be-smashes.

Zac Pennington sounds a bit pubescent himself as he sputters the record's bizarre, hard-to-follow story, but the impeccable arrangements, wormy melodies, and jarring carnal imagery get the point across.

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.

Tobin vigorously assumes the avant-garde mantle. [Apr 2007, p.96]

Judging from the spirited but wildly inconsistent material on this trilogy's first two entries, a little quality control would've helped, perhaps funneling the best of the three albums into one solid offering.

These grooves shimmer brighter than anything he's done since 1999's disco-house monolith, 2Future4U. [Nov 2001, p.132]

He doesn't stray far from his main band's template. [Oct 2007, p.108]

A good time, if not a terribly memorable one.

Cool It Down, is less of a step forward, or in any meaningful direction, and more of a twirl in place. It’s a pleasant and polished listen, more palatable than its predecessor, with glimpses of the band’s top gear. But fans anticipating some return to the frenzy of “Tick,” “Man” or “Pin” will keep waiting.

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

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.

The Bay Area band increase their stylistic range, with flashes of psychedelia, and creatively druggy overtones to balnce out the epic pummeling. [Oct 2007, p.104]

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

Despite the album’s cornpone reflex and occasional meandering, guitar-diddling foray (“Muck Machine” should have been dragged to the trash folder), provisions has its Southern-fried charms.

Overall, Dimension has some solid moments and no outright duds, but it works better as the basis for a playlist than as a start-to-finish album.

It's alternately spotty and spot-on. [Jan 2007, p.94]

If nothing else, the music is aggressively okay (there's coiled-spring potential in the crackling, anxious "White Teeth Teens"). But its overall unspecialness undercuts Pure Heroine's devotion to playing both sides of Lorde's "only 16" coin.

It’s a better album than 2012’s conflicted, twilit Four, but Okereke’s new grace awaits an engine as powerful as the one enjoyed by his old gracelessness.

On their third album, these dizzying British metalcore chemists swing erratically in an effort to shake genre conventions, flirting with dystopic Max Headroom stutter, electro gloom, and tender indie-folk cuddles.

Lifeline is a commanding, unjammy take on gospel-influenced rock, featuring his most spiritual singing since 2004's Grammy-winning collaboration with the Blind Boys of Alabama.

On their third album, this San Francisco–based, Mark Kozelek–led bunch stumble over saccharine set-opener "Lost Verses" (which channels icky Young wannabes America with less success than Midlake) en route to a beautifully depressing array of funereal folk.

The results feel tossed-off at times, but Iggy still flashes his charm and humor.