That penchant for swollen, cathedral­size arrangements--particularly on Coldplay­like cuts 'Late of Camera' and 'In a Look'--is a weakness, but hopefully, Enigk will learn to shake it off in favor of leaner renditions of his winning, winsome tunes.

After mucking about for more than a decade, spacey Norwegian producer Rune Lindbaek teams up with London disco pranksters the Idjut Boys to create this surprisingly focused debut, and the results are nothing less than total sun-soaked beatitude.

She's always juxtaposed the cruel and the kind, and here, the baroque arrangements are even more complex and her voice even prettier, with both only underlining the dark currents running through her songs.

Like most extreme acts, this trash-talking MC's strengths are best showcased in wham-bam singles. To sustain interest between fourth-album climaxes, the Berlin-based sleaze queen collaborates with London's Simian Mobile Disco.

A Scottish singer-songwriter with a number of spare and lovely folk albums, Alasdair Roberts goes for the mad prophetic gusto on the strange and visionary Spoils.

It mostly works: Shave a couple of the non-Conor tracks and it'd sit comfortably with his best.

Here they expand their primarily folky sound, importing rhythms from abroad and morphing electronic ticks and stutters into a field of chirping crickets.

The fact that the album's best moments are in the details--a fiery lick, a wailing vocal ad-lib--speaks to the singer-guitarist's recurring problems: secondhand song structures and little to say beyond self-helpy reiterations of lyrical beatitudes.

Sez So doesn't particularly benefit from the brighter light. It's all fun and harmless garage blooze--the bottom-heavy slow-burn 'My World' is a standout--but it's ultimately as trifling as their '73 debut was essential.

The surface-heavy results suggest painstakingly remixed outtakes.

The result boasts an admirably moody menace, but lacks the debut's darkly comic drive.

Though McBean, who also leads Vancouver spliff-rockers Black Mountain, invites a slew of guests with diverse musical associations (Jackie-O Motherfucker, Thee Silver Mt. Zion, Whiskeytown), the album still yawns with homogeneous campfire acoustics.

Songs are still suite-sized, but this is the toughest and catchiest Isis record since their 1999 debut full-length, "Celestial."

More ambitious than on past efforts, Watson slips through quiet night spaces, and like Sendak's Max, puts on his wolf suit, making mischief of one kind, then another, until Wooden Arms flares with his vibrant energy.

She renders a sad refrain from a lotto ad on 'State Numbers,' slags CSNY on 'The Lighter Side of...Hippies,' and howls that "a loving woman can have the Devil's face" on the acerbic 'Don't Talk in Your Sleep,' making this the duo's most shambolic effort to date.

On cuts like "How Do I Maintain Pt. 1," the rhythmic interplay gets weighed down by its own excess, but the more expansive clouds of synth exhaust in wordless bookends "Run" and "Reintegration Time" offer more rewarding highs.

Amid spoken-word interludes and I'd-like- to-buy-the-world-a-Coke-style choirs, only Lee's innate melodic gift saves him from total embarrassment.

Beguiling, gorgeous stuff--and smartly funny, too.

Having long since traded abstraction for irascibility and wistfulness, Dylan still offers flashes of black humor (“Hell is my wife’s hometown”) over the ten songs, but the fatalism that’s marked much of his recent work is in short supply.

Over 34 irresistible minutes, Summer of Hate has as many barbed, house-party hooks as nihilistic blasts.

Unfortunately, the newfound confidence doesn't extend to lyrics rife with nonspecific, mixed-metaphorical angst that smacks of the overwrought youth demo they've otherwise outgrown.

While there are still a couple of Jam-like snarlers on album two, the aping of Oasis’ more bloated days sinks things quickly.

In the grand, elegiac 'Legacy,' singer Neil Tennant delivers what's either a farewell kiss or simply a cheeky end to the most thoroughly heartfelt chapter in the pair's 25-year story.

Flashes of fun appear--dig the glam-Sabbath stomp of 'Inconvenience'--but most of Dark could use more color.

Tinted Windows' debut is even less left-field; these hook-crammed power-pop jams are safe and bouncy enough for Jo Bros fans and Stacy's mom alike.

Sounds of the Universe comes on a bit softer, with less industrial guitar clang and more of chief songwriter Martin Gore's dreamy atmospherics.

These Englishmen have learned impulse control. Frontman Eamon Hamilton's playful yelp has given way to a sturdier sound.

The erstwhile pixies preacher takes compliant care of Art Brut's ludicrous good name--rock-fanboy allusions and cheeky declaratives are well repped.