This throwbackin’ threesome--an expanded version of frontman Guy Blakeslee’s subdued solo outing under the name Entrance--kills it when they stick to the classic power-trio formula.

This is oval-shaped music, circling around the tracks; it’s accomplished, but not particularly infectious.

Forward, it’s enticing--but in reverse, it’s sublime.

Felix Stallings Jr. bounces back by sampling, quoting, and paraphrasing other people’s rubbery tunes, and showcasing them in similarly elastic settings.

Devotees from Matisyahu's jam-scene days might balk, but fans of the Black Eyed Peas/Jack Johnson collabo "Gone Going" will rejoice.

There’s plenty of groan-inducing lyrical inanity, and one can only assume the reggae-rock abomination 'Beat on Repeat' was a misguided effort to branch out. Sometimes the middle of the road is the proper path.

Peñate sometimes goes astray--'So Near' finds him breezily slinging dopey cliches (“Love is not a game”). Fortunately, his natural exuberance carries the day.

Watch Me Fall is even more melodic. Reatard classes up the joint a bit, smearing organ, hard-strummed acoustic guitar, and strings on the unrequited-love epic 'I’m Watching You.'

Though Benson’s fourth solo album is less distinctive and more finessed than the work of his money gig, it still puts his secondhand fame in perspective.

Mumbly, scratchy-voiced Pete Quirk is more self-assured than on 2007’s Invitation Songs, championing optimism and determination in the face of trouble, powered by sharp folk and country-blues guitars, plus no-frills percussion.

Hospice is packed with lofty choruses and extended instrumental passages (the alternately elegiac and tedious 'Atrophy'). But with emotional drama in abundance (mostly from vocalist Peter Silberman’s fiery, tormented shouts), sonic indulgences like the astral guitar blasts on “Thirteen” offer genuine catharsis.

These soulful laments and menacing gospel rumbles don’t really demand attention but reward it handsomely.

While his guitar remains ulceric, songs such as 'The Ballad of Charley Harper' stew rather than combust.

Knopf’s unpredictable melodies and funky orchestral arrangements (played by 35 indie- rock acquaintances!) keep tracks like 'I Say Fever' and 'Always Right' lively, resulting in an album that leans more toward epic than emo.

The album’s blend of sonic gauze, earnest keening, electronic blooping, analog clatter, ethnic flavor, and nostalgic ’60s pop emits a rainbow glow that’s as comforting as it is comfortable.

When he injects melodic sunshine, as on the loping 'Action/Reaction,' For the White in Your Eyes nestles nicely between the Beach Boys and Fleet Foxes. But Makrigiannis mostly stays in stark, downcast mode.

His fourth album is a buzzing, overblown concept piece about psychic warfare, in which sheer force of will conquers icky stuff like depression and homophobia.

Hot Mess is flush with other stupid-smart highlights, including 'Pete Wentz Is the Only Reason We’re Famous.'

Maybe it's fitting that in the same year Wilco found a sense of humor, the glass of chief Bottle Rocket Brian Henneman is finally half-full.

Regardless, boppers as cheeky and infectious as these sound like sacraments in the church of lo-fi fun.

Their rhymes tend to feed off settling scores rather than giving pleasure, and as a result, this group debut favors punch lines over crafted songs. Still, the single 'The One,' which emits a stanky, rock-starry panache, could be an edgy crossover hit if such a thing still existed.

Japandroids have a point of view (young, male, infatuated with the promise of the present) and an M.O. (excellently fuzzed-out garage rock played as if at the apocalypse), but more impressively, they've mastered another secret to swaying the public: confidence without smugness.

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

Though modest, Skyscraper may prove to be an integral step in Interpol’s progression.

The result is spare and somber--just that windy Americana tenor against a squeaky acoustic guitar.

Hey, if the Spank Rock and M.I.A. collaborator wants to two-step around in just a tank top, rude bits to the wind, that’s her prerogative--but there are consequences, and that’s where I Love You struggles.

This folkie indie-pop band doesn't slam you with hooks on its fourth album--everything is catchy in a modest, reasonable way.

The eclecticism is refreshing on the jammy, Built to Spill-like 'Hi-Fi Goon,' but enjoying the sum of Creaturesque’s shifting parts can be a taxing proposition.