On Far Side Virtual, he makes a glowing, glossy album out of everyday digital detritus.

It's like an alt-rock adaptation of a John Cheever anthology. [Apr 2007, p.87]

He seems plenty happy to hone coulda-been Nirvana licks to perfection on Afraid of Heights, which, despite being an album of all-new material, still feels like the Incesticide of his canon.

It does eventually resolve into "I Heard You Say," a dash of wintry Mamas and Papas pop. Sadly, the trio regresses from there, simply shining up versions of the same old loose, punky love songs they've been hawking for years.

The beats by producers Black Milk, 9th Wonder, and Havoc are strictly no-frills, but just hot enough to keep these cranky yet lovable old MCs' joints from stiffening up.

Bliss isn't the Boss' bag. Without anything to push against, one of rock's most eloquent lyricists is in the awkward position of having little of interest to say.

From the girl in "Till He's Dead or Rises" who has "the fear of Jesus on her side" to the way in which "First Air of Autumn" is an identical twin to Brighter's superior "Perfect Timing," the album sounds like the kind of holding pattern release that causes fan-bleed.

His beat-poet spiel is more character-actorly than ever, but hyphenated-man is also more accessible than you'd think, thanks to Watt's skittery bass lines.

These songs [“Greedy,” “Into You” and “Touch It”], which unite a strong persona--haughty, insatiable, a little manic, really into you--with a vivid pocket version of one style or another, are the core of a swift, heedless pop album, albeit one struggling to emerge from the false notes (“Dangerous Woman”) and rote 2016 obligations (Future) of what’s probably an executive-mandated bagginess.

One Life Stand finds the boys settling down and growing a tad soft in the middle.

Sad-eyed generalists with a knack for cinematic spookiness, they aspire to Wolf Parade's adventurousness, but often descend into lumbering, Interpol-style self-seriousness.

While there's nothing here as dense and biting as the Ministry slams of Bush Sr. in the '90s, Jourgensen can still pile on the jackhammer beats and clever samples.

Some newcomers might find Ecstatic Sunshine's loops tedious, but brain-melting repetition is the point. [June 2008, p.108]

The problem with the fantasy of a major Khaled Album though, is that, like a summer blockbuster, Major Key is too front-loaded.

This is Barnhart's least discursive outing yet. As a result, it's also his most predictable. [Oct 2007, p.108]

these increasingly experimental Girls remain an appealingly peculiar party band. [Sept 2008, p.112]

When the band's clattering, it's great fun ("Why Not"), but leave the tongue-in-cheek (or is it?) spoken-word title track at home and release the rock instead.

Musical achievements that once came easily (if not accidentally) to Sebadoh must now be persistently willed; processes that once pointed toward self-discovery now only offer a familiar balm.

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.

Trades Parachutes-era wistfulness for Kid A-style gloom. [Mar 2007, p.88]

[It] threads seductive, chiming melodies through robotic, New Order-style rhythms. [May 2007, p.90]

Charles Thompson has fittingly made an album that sounds more like the Pixies than any of his previous solo efforts. [Oct 2007, p.96]

She's smart to dress her aching, powerful voice in something other than rhinestones. [Nov 2008, p.90]

Man From Another Time cuts a steady rolling groove that wears well, from the opening salvo of "Diddley Bo" (which turns the Bo Diddley backbeat sideways) to the closing cover of "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry."

Medicine County is more boisterous than 2008's Dirt Don't Hurt, but there's still something pleasantly lackadaisical about Golightly's delivery, and her songs never feel like they've been blindly co-opted.

Each track on this Canadian quartet's second full-length opens with some clever reshuffling of precise drum pecks, TV-hum synths, Strokes-like guitar, and David Monks' reedy, wry vocals. Three minutes later, you're left with the mildly pleasing, indistinct memory of yelped choruses, mathy breakdowns, and mid-tempo breeziness.

She remains singularly compelling and lovable as a celebrity, even if her records don't always match up to her outsized persona. Even at their worst, they only prove that the art is sometimes unworthy of the artist.

[It] scales back the Weimar guignol of 2003's The Golden Age of Grotesque in favor of classic industrial and glam. [Jul 2007, p.98]