The Cribs' songs hold up even when slowed down, and they're able to paint outside old lines with the added shadings, nodding to Sonic Youth ("City of Bugs") and the Smiths again ("Save Your Secrets"), while still delivering plenty of their typical Britrock momentum.

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

Predictable and immaculately produced, these arena-shakers offer a familiar brand of Jersey cheese, but where Jon Bon Jovi once was kind of quixotic ('Livin' on a Prayer'), he's more contemplative than ever, turning out meditations like 'Live Before You Die' ("There'll come a day when you have to say hello to goodbye").

Straddling the line between street and pop, Attention: Deficit doesn't quite capture the pop zeitgeist. But it sheds light on Wale's evolving personality, and his circuitous story raps reward deep listening.

Produced by power-pop whiz Butch Walker and Fountains of Wayne's Adam Schlesinger, Alter the Ending contains no shortage of high-gloss thrills.

The result is a listenable, more conventional version of his primary band. Though refreshing in a solo-career context, we've heard most of this stuff before.

The effect is more Tokyo neon than Lower East Side leather. Surprisingly, the sonic leap forward intensifies Casablancas' greatest gift--melody.

Old-school Weezer fans won't like it, and neither will blog-rock acolytes. But that's the point. Raditude is the murderous revenge of the middlebrow.

Nirvana's headlining gig at the 1992 Reading Festival looms infamously large because of (a) that amazingly creepy photo of Kurt getting wheeled onto the stage looking like Norman Bates' mother, and (b) the show was a mind-blower--sloppy indie rock as stadium-filling psychedelic punk.

Tom Araya's shriek has grown ponderous, and not until rosary-ripping closer 'Not of This God' do the four mid-fortysomethings bypass their rigid polkacore hopscotch for a devastating groove.

The music doesn't always keep up with Bemis' self-absorbed lyrical jujitsu, but there's definite charm in the struggle.

Khan's trashy Sam Cooke and Bo Diddley impersonations are uncannier than ever, but it's Invisible Girl's ratio of 1960s tribute to 21st-century blaspheming that makes it his most immediately enjoyable work yet.

So, backed by melancholic, electronic-tinged production from Dnae Beats, Gab fashions inspired stories out of loquacious speed-raps, ruminating over humanity's foibles. It may not be transporting, but it's still impressively empathetic.

Their unholy fuzz feels less triumphant, and the Helmet impression in opener 'Sound Guardians' is some kind of weird. Still, Lightning Bolt's basement has never sounded bigger.

A big improvement over 2007's ho-hum "Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon," it's also the most consistently satisfying full-length he's made.

Heartache swells from these swooning folk-pop tunes, but the presence of both of the relationship's combatants ensures that they never drown in it.

Tegan and Sara's music may no longer be the stuff of teens, but its strength remains in how much it feels like two people talking.

From the way she sings, in big gulps and Teen Wolf growls, to the mystical art-rock ballads she bedazzles with sleigh bells, harps, and choirs, there's enough drama here for a Broadway musical. But her delivery is so raw that every mess feels genuine.

At times, the forlorn vibe can get oppressive--'Peacetime Resistance' goes one love-as-war metaphor too far--but overall, the album is a welcome return from these princes of the bummer.

E6 can't quite keep it up throughout, though they still sound delighted to mess with sounds both full-throttle ('You're Bored') and loungey ('My Idea of Fun').

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

For the first solo album under his nom de tune, Scott Kannberg eschews the catchy cacophony of his earlier bands--Pavement and Preston School of Industry--for breezily quirky '70s country-pop and late-'60s psychedelia that's two parts Lindsey Buckingham and one part Roky Erickson.

With nods to synth pop, electro, and funk, Sweden's Little Dragon fill their second album with bleeping keyboards and jazzy arpeggios, recalling both Howard Jones and Saint Etienne. But what sets Machine Dreams apart is frontwoman Yukimi Nagano's alternately yelping and cooing voice.

A dark lark, but worth a listen.

Almost every tune on Mo Beauty equals or betters those on CYHSY's lauded 2005 debut.

Embryonic finds these wild-eyed Okies sounding even more adventurous and less eager to please than at any time since 1997's four-CD experimental sonic goof, "Zaireeka."

Producer Parallel Thought supports the storytelling (and saves the duo from dissolving into navel-gazing) with sharp loops.

The "neon" in the name is both a hint and a misnomer: This Austin, Texas duo's debut emanates bright colors even while the glow is muted by lo-fi haze.