To compensate for the loss of [drummer Jerry Fuchs], the band gets by with help from former Outhud/!!! alchemist Justin Vandervolgen, who mixed the album to accentuate its disco grooves (see the title track), and Zombi's Steve Moore, who added synth arpeggiations to the epic arc of "Oaxaca."

Where Viva La Vida showcased Coldplay's sense of adventure, this one feels more eager to please; the sonic detail accrues with such speed that it's like Martin and his mates fear you'll bail if they don't grab you straightaway.

[Steele's] way-back machine is aimed precisely for 1985. [Aug 2006, p.85]

The result is seductive and understated, with familiar '60s touches. [Nov 2007, p.116]

While there's nothing quite as hugely hooky as Alright singles "Smile" and "lDN," the album feels more confidently complete.

Ditto's huge voice can't do soft, so it shoots skyward on 'ove Long Distance,' and coupled with a mechanical piano and canned beat, the band starts to sound a bit catatonic. But the rest of Music for Men is a tightly wound disco-punk conjugation.

Tracks like "VHS Sex," the complex yet laid-back "Glawio," and the robotic apotheosis of "Futureworld" send you hurtling back toward electronica's past perfection.

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.

At its best, Nobody reveals Beal as an old soul deploying the genre of old soul, not so much as an exercise in nostalgia as a surge protector to best contain his electroshock persona.

He's purely elegant throughout.

What makes Re-Engineering worthwhile is that the odd blooms Warwick coaxes from that soil are so pleasing to behold on their own terms. It's critical theory as easy listening that you can actually cut a rug to, if you're so inclined.

He refines his act. [May 2008, p.106]

The first Madonna record in years that feels as effortless as the dance-pop of her Ciccone youth. [Oct 2000, p.173]

Though sometimes courting sleepiness, the debut's barbershop harmonies, Hawaiian strumming, and lovesick melodies transform rock-club jadedness into an aesthetic fit for honeymoons, holidays, and other occasions where you savor small pleasures, even if they're quaintly recycled.

It's no Super Taranta!, but Hutz's minor-key odes to erotic revolution and cosmic evolution still pack a heady, sweaty punch.

His first Music Tapes album in nine years suggests an unhealthy obsession with Brian Wilson's "SMiLE," the wobbly-voiced outsider makes his own quaint magic.

All of these lyrical open wounds could be hard to stomach if not for the salve that Emre Turkmen and Mikey Goldsworthy’s head-spinning instrumentals provide.

Skying lacks the urgency of their raucous goth-punk debut Strange House, but the broadly hooky single "Still Life" could fill an arena nicely, and the band actually sound interested enough to entertain the possibility.

Apparently Citron is ready to leave the nest. When Beverly performs live she'll work with other players and Rose will be elsewhere, focusing on her solo music. That's too bad, as Careers makes a great argument for teamwork.

Unlike U2, whose left turns have felt like oblique strategies in the band's pompous struggle to redeem rock, R.E.M.'s stylistic shifts tend to feel like survival skills. Vaguely psychedelic, filled with hazy shades of woo or whatever, much of Reveal moves with the graceful drag of 1985's Fables of the Reconstruction, yet with more ebb and flux. [June 2001, p.143]

Despite expert camping, the title track, lodged like a splinter at the beginning of the sequence, strikes as too reliant on wintry rue. But when three-note fuzz guitar blasts answer each lyric in “Lazarus,” or Bowie harmonizes with himself on the nonsense lyric of “Girl Loves Me,” it’s hard to resist 40 years’ worth of craft resulting in so intriguing a record.

Kate Cooper's tales of awkward, broken love and chronic miscommunication don't seem ripe for selling sedans, but her reedy voice and zippy melodic guitar, plus drummer Damon Cox's imperfect harmonies, keep things from getting too depressing.

Though the album’s lyrics are occasionally vague, the moments of specificity induce raised eyebrows.

Their most mature record to date.

Isolation Drills' anthems are shamelessly charming, even bashfully moving. [June 2001, p.153]

The band's aims are more modest now: have fun, get people to sing along, share a common feeling or two. Hurley achieves those goals with something approaching dignity.

It lands in the same general ballpark as 2003's new-wave homage Rock N Roll, loose-limbed and manic, with Adams indulging his riff-rock-and-holler side.

This new batch thrashes with abandon (“Punks”) and displays a remarkable leap in instrumental maturity with its airtight chord progressions and unhinged shrieks.