Thunderheist is all about the quick dance-floor fix, but Isis imbues her characters with quick-witted wickedness, and producer Graham Zilla churns out Spartan synth tracks that have an undeniably funky buzz.

UGK 4 Life is a fitting capper to this Texas duo's storied career--nothing groundbreaking, just funky, rough-hewn, celebratory tracks.

Hills and Valleys, their third studio album since reuniting in the late '90s, holds zero surprises--mixing Tex-Mex bounce, outlaw twang, and folkie sincerity--but it feels utterly right, like your favorite greasy meal at the local diner.

Nothing here quite matches the effusive, quirky 'Montreal -40C' from 2006’s Trompe-l’oeil, but 'Luna' sounds like Animal Collective gone mainstream and 'Dragon de Glace' sambas with Air--both fine rues to traverse, oui?

The follow-up (without Chao) is a more straightforward Afro-pop record, with a few exceptions.

Her solo debut slightly tones down the Knife's electro innovation but turns up the creepy affect, making lyrically tender tracks like 'Concrete Walls' and hallucinatory sketches like 'When I Grow Up' into reverse Rorschachs.

In a narcotized haze of lounge blues, New Orleans jazz, gauzy retro soul, and understated guitar pop, he has made the most compelling record of his career.

Even at his most contemplative and nuanced, Deacon remains a DIY trickster at heart.

The Hazards of Love feels like a gambit, with the Decemberists betting that increased bombast and literary aspiration will make up for decreased attention to pop craft. It's a hazardous bet that yields spectacular sparks but ultimately asks for much more than it's willing to give.

Despite their wintry chill-out origins, Nordic keyboard pair Svein Berge and Torbjorn Brundtland create smooth, sunny sounds perfect for roller-skating on rainbows.

While the band still lack a truly distinctive vocalist, it's become clear that with their mastery of water, earth, and skye, Mastodon's music now feels as powerfully elemental as its subject matter.

The riffs have gotten sharper and more jagged as the punch lines have grown duller and less imaginative. Minus his smart-alecky cheek, it's increasingly difficult for McKeown to hold your interest.

Her fresh attitude eventually gets lost in a slew of downtrodden ballads that sink the album's second half. In other words, business as usual.

The pseudonym and title (a wink to Yo La's mostly-covers Fakebook) indicate how this lark, with oft-inaudible vocals, is meant to be held up against the band's canon.

The distinctiveness of these three weirdos and their democratic approach gives this unexpecedly harrowing album a remarkable cohesion.

While the album is more a series of word puzzles than a memoir, it does occasionally illuminate the man behind the mask.

While Jones' confidence as an MC has grown, his talent still lies more with songs of the streets than with songs of the sheets.

His quietly unsettling aura perfectly suits these childlike love songs.

Opener 'Ashes in the Snow' and 'The Battle to Heaven' invoke the CinemaScope bombast of Ennio Morricone, but even their added orchestral heft barely nudges Mono out of a windy, instrumental morass.

The group's final album (they broke up in October) still punches like a champ, with sharp bursts of intelligent energy.

Their debut begins with a rousing arena-rock anthem called 'Death' and then delivers detached variations on the same subject for the next nine tracks with a professionalism that's simultaneously compelling and creepy.

Oldham remains mostly untroubled on Beware, accompanied by an array of instruments--marimba, cornet, banjo, and flute swirl around placid country-tinged ruminations.

The result: an album exuding wall-punching energy, ugly noise, and raging nostalgia for stale bong water and sunburn.

Fist isn't quite a God punch, but it hits with legit impact.

She lacks the flexibility that jazz demands--she simply can't swing. But when she interprets material (from downbeat bards Randy Newman, Colin Meloy, and others) that matches the drug-ravaged wreckage of her vocal chords, she kills.

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.

Throughout, drummers Carl McGinley and Eric Hernandez play tight, tribal beats. The heat subsides at times, but it never breaks.

Too bad the performances are so lamely tossed-off. Borrell's quavering vocals feel showy and shallow, while the quartet's glossy guitar pop could come from any crew of faceless studio hacks.