The songs are about love and sex, but a hint of nihilism still lingers in Wolf's melodramatic vibrato. [May 2007, p.91]

Sumner still has a knack for making dopey lyrics sound profound atop guileless Brit-rock jangle and electronic moodiness.

Deradoorian’s arrangements now feel less exploratory than rudderless, her harmonies more droning than direct.

While the rock workouts never transcend their bar-band tropes, on the ballads ("Turn Your Pretty Name Around," "Black Eyes"), Olson & Louris evince real sorrow and regret with little more than a carefully picked acoustic guitar and ghostly organ tracing the tracks of their tears.

Accordingly, In Light is best absorbed in small portions, allowing you to savor the seriously catchy melodies and uplifting vibes.

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]

Showcases skittering electronics framed by grounded, dynamic percussion. [Apr 2007, p.88]

Red of Tooth and Claw, like 2006's grumpier "In Bocca Al Lupo," runs low on contemporary touchstones or appeal. Keep this on your great-grandparents' Victrola, though, for a rainy afternoon of rootsy escapism.

Fender Rhodes–heavy groove of 2006's self-titled breakthrough gives way to more discernible melodies and socially conscious lyrics (see "Oppressions Each"), buoyed by soulful horns and backup vocals.

Too bad inconsistent vocal performances from Prince Po to MED, tempt you to switch the dial on this hour-long jam. [Nov 2008, p.96]

Unfortunately, the newfound confidence doesn't extend to lyrics rife with nonspecific, mixed-metaphorical angst that smacks of the overwrought youth demo they've otherwise outgrown.

When the hooks of their surprisingly humble songcraft dull, Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. are mostly a spanglier version of the Spoon-fed types that flooded the Internet with serviceable but risk-free indie rock in the mid-2000s.

There's virtually no tension or drama in Keane's surpassingly pretty pop. [Jul 2006, p.90]

Let Me Come Home goes widescreen with a vengeance, trading in too much of the band's unhinged jig and bounce for a more generic-sounding epic soundtrack -- guitar and bass to the front, strings in the middle distance.

The title of Gomez's seventh studio album reflects the low-key, easy-flowing attitude these boyish Brits have maintained since winning the U.K.'s coveted Mercury Prize with their 1998 debut.

But too often, the Raconteurs' love of twisty, monolithic rock gives way to bombast that teeters between homage and parody.

Shotter's Nation is still clotted with half-realized melodies and gutter-poet grime. [Nov 2007, p.117]

Even the terrible parts of Born to Die are just so lovable, which bodes well for the actually great parts.

So, every sha la la-la and wo-o-wo-o still shines, as the brothers McDonald once crooned in Carpenters cover "Yesterday Once More" (which reached No. 45 hit on the charts in England!), or at least sort of shines: Cleaner production might've buried the vocals less.

The results don’t resemble the King’s hits nearly as much as Prince’s demos.

Both thrilling and baffling, the nine tracks prove that Vernon's appeal lies in his otherworldly sound, not in his broken heart.

DeBoer's political poesy lacks his predecessor's acerbic wit, and his singsong delivery is much less bracing than Sok's full-throated rant.

If the ranting occasionally suggests generic provocation for its own sake, Smith's fury, amplified by the pounding grooves, is oddly uplifting--in moderate doses.

The band retains the frenzied organ chug and indie-prog lurch of days past, and newish frontman Breck Brunson (who joined in 2006) is an impressively expressive yelper, but Ghost Games never skirts the border of sanity as much as it threatens to.

Iggy Pop's deadpan delivery on "He's Frank" sets the tone for an album that sometimes gets a little goofy, while the danceable "Toe Jam" pairs David Byrne with Dizzee Rascal (finally!). The lesser-known guests offer more misses than hits.

Though a handful of tracks sparkle, Under Ocean Blvd is a chore to ingest across its regularly lulling 77 minutes. ... Yes, Del Rey sings beautifully and will rightfully be recognized as a veritable voice of her generation — both in technique and disillusion — but here the cool distance she’s maintained between herself and listeners feels more expansive than ever.

Let's Stay Friends almost captures the band's sweaty, live weirdness on record, and it leaves enough breathing room for their wicked smarts to shimmy up through the hip-shaking indie punk. [Oct 2007, p.106]

The storytelling here isn't as sharp as on Common's previous albums. [Feb 2003, p.100]