The result is less an uncommonly danceable indie-rap disc than it is an uncommonly thoughtful groove album. [May 2008, p.100]

It's not that Chromeo's run out of ideas--they've been a one-idea band all along. But now they've got more of the world singing along, so their brand of fun suddenly means a little bit more.

Though still sunny and hooky, Leave No Trace lacks the enigmatic spark of its predecessor, especially now that the words are more readily understandable.

Noel Gallagher wrote two more tunes here, both excellent. Unfortunately, age has softened his heart, and he cedes the album's other half to his bandmates (including lead-singing brother Liam), who offer subpar material.

On her melodically powerful third studio album, she matures into the matriarch of her genre. [Dec 2007, p.120]

The record is crisply produced, with jittery, epic songs that just happen to be about getting older and maybe a little more cynical. [Nov 2007, p.125]

The Only Place delivers riveting drama in a rousing pop package, with Brion rescuing Best Coast from the fuzzed-out, lo-fi indie template, cleaning up their sound and enhancing the potential for mainstream appeal exponentially without diminishing their artistic credibility.

This disconnect between Jesus Piece's gambit and its execution, between Game's intention and the raps served up by his guests, results in the headliner being reduced to a mere spectator on too much of his own album.

Ween are still perved to the core.

Confused and lapsed Pumpkins fans have reasons to rejoice... this is a necessary, welcome return. Unfortunately, MACHINA does linger a bit too long on the softer side of things. But every time the tempo veers towards screeching to a halt, there's a well-timed boost of adrenal sound.

Rain Machine doesn’t have TVOTR’s Berlin Wall of Sound might, but it’s still an accomplished work.

Transpose the communal exuberance of Los Campesinos! to the U.S. and you've got this quintet, who prove that sunny, adolescent, pop-rock catchiness will never go out of style.

No one can say Black isn’t ambitious, and it’s nuanced too; easily Bentley’s most personal, affecting release yet.

Both the album’s most grating and gratifying moments sound like they could’ve emanated from a Hot Topic 15 years ago. There’s danger in that nostalgia, but when it’s good, it’s great. It’s a decidedly uncool record from a band that’s long since stopped caring about these things.

Romweber is still ruler of his own bossa nova rockabilly kingdom, skipping from surf-guitar rave-ups to spacey instrumentals to sepulchral balladry, with the occasional Xavier Cugat cover tossed in.

It meshes the two rappers’ sensibilities seamlessly, proving them kindred spirits all along.

Rich-guy gripes, Ying Yang booty boasts, and label-politics rundowns don't wear nearly as well as his amicable down-homey side. [Apr 2006, p.91]

Thier major label debut is drenched in the same warm sonic haze and bizarro imagery as Flaming Lips, but any weirdness comes in the service of the songs. [Nov 2008, p.98]

Fleetwood Mac connected with listeners because their perfect songs enclosed personal imperfections--they created an illusion of glossy best-coast living, then punctured that illusion with brutal truth. Hardly anyone on Just Tell Me That You Want Me summons that friction.

His slumbery Jonathan Richman-meets-Beck vocals make every song a potential slacker lullaby. [Mar 2007, p.97]

They say good artists borrow and great artists steal, but here Gonzalez does neither--his heart doesn’t seem to be in the heist anymore.

Like most comedy albums, this one loses its luster upon repeated hearings.

For "Shakin' All Over," White runs Jackson's goblin-queen croak through the analog fetishist's version of Auto-Tune, while "Rum and Coca Cola" rides the most lopsided punk-calypso groove since Kid Creole and the Coconuts.

For the Volta, more is always more, but rarely has a band with this much potential been so willing to squander its strengths.

Interpol sounds both strangely distant and overly familiar, like a band struggling to remember who they are.

The problem is that the rantier Bemis gets about poseurs, the more he forgets to write hooks for his invectives, which strive for Real Boy's Broadway-punk propulsive grace, but strain under the weight of unsingable lines.

Haze's attempt to appear undefinable and resist categorization (as Dirty Gold's conversational interludes attest) is a laudable pursuit, but it leaves the record unfocused.

Ultimately, Just a Souvenir is the awesome, but hardly mind-bending, spectacle of an electronica wizard buying a fuzz box.