Little Me reveals a variety of textures over time, and when you can decode the lyrics, memorable scenes emerge.

There’s next to no tempo to speak of, and they assiduously cultivate a studied monotony, but one can’t escape the sense that this slab is, secretly, the ultimate grower.

Sholi deftly incorporates eerie groans, math-rock guitars, la-la sing-alongs, and frenetic drum lines.

Pleasure's ten tracks of gorgeously distorted, lo-fi pop glides languidly enough for '90s slowcore, but with woozy rhythms, lovelorn lyrics, and reverb-saturated textures that feel timeless.

Repentless was never going to be Lulu, though the lack of surprises amongst diminishing returns is almost as bad.

This band has never made an out-and-out bad album, but now it has made an uninspired one.

Each new album (arriving as it does with the requisitely pompous title: Absolution, Black Holes and Revelations, The Resistance) finds Muse attempting to out-blitz OK Computer and Kid A in terms of overly serious Englishmen weeping for modern civilization and its myriad alienations. Which simply makes The 2nd Law's 50-plus minutes of 21st-century-art-rock-meets-sappy-popera business as usual.

The Ruffinas are far better the less seriously they take themselves. [Mar 2008, p.97]

After five dark, swift albums, they tread fretfully toward maturity and make it seem like walking into the light. [July 2008, p.92]

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

AFI may not be breaking new ground, but they never forget who listens hardest.

The blunt-tipped guitar chop on the title tune, glassy music boxes and slurping synths of “Give Peace a Damn,” and the more-Stones-than-country “Honky Tonk Rules” are all genuine surprises that no other legacy act is giving up.

Infusing their music with real personality and humor, sexiness and humility, they've neatly transcended the air-quote graveyard. [Apr 2005, p.105]

Plundering the 1980s for inspiration (shock!), 27-year- old New Zealander Pip Brown emerges with a confection of synth-infused, mammoth-chorused tunes that sound surprisingly and thrillingly fresh.

While Temple's hermaphroditic alto endures the costume changes, the songs often don't, and the couple of undeniably great tracks -- like the rigid, kinetic "Collector" -- get lost in the parade of influences.

He tries hepcat jazz-piano bop and balladry with pitiful results. [May 2006, p.91]

Its disorienting aspects actually make it a compelling full-length experience, locking you into a maze of drum and echo.

Eve has moved her Ruff Ryders to the back half, scored some marquee-value collaborators, and found two guys who can mimic Swizz Beatz well enough to fill the spaces around Mr. Beatz's four tracks without too many seams showing. [5/2001, p.141]

Like running full-tilt through a fun house with smoke machines, tinsel-covered ceilings and a super-size disco ball. [Aug 2004, p.108]

If you're going to crossbreed Built To Spill and the Flaming Lips, then you might as well have fun doing it. [Jul 2004, p.110]

Ghosts' flowing, synth-backed melodies are a vast improvement on 2006's hammy In Our Bedroom After the War, if not 2004's near-perfect Set Yourself on Fire. Cute isn't what Stars aim for, but it's often what they achieve.

Offering a slightly subtler take on the style-shuffling of 2009′s Heartbeat Radio, Lerche somehow never loses cohesion.

Rich Forever, the mixtape teaser for his forthcoming God Forgives, I Don't, is quite successful at doing nothing new at all.

The duo are most enjoyable when they just surrender to sweaty delirium on 'Summer Song.'

Although critics of Morrissey's solo career have justifiably argued that his post-Bona Drag ensembles haven't met the Smiths' lofty bar, World Peace Is None of Your Business is the first Morrissey album that's often stronger musically than it is lyrically.

It’s hard to overstate how exceptional Ti Amo is: every song is complete in its own way, and while there’s perhaps the slightest softening of focus near the end, it never starts to coast on its sultry aesthetic.

Goofy if not guileless, Telepathe seem intentionally designed as a guilty pleasure.

On the Dead Weather's second album, they harness this icy alpha-dog tension into a distorted call-and-response aggression that's now greater than its parts, a rudely heavy swath of rock'n'roll authority.