It's as enlightened and as interesting as Ministry has been in years.

The band has revealed a seething, visceral, rocking side of their music.... a shimmering Album Of The Year contender.

A truly solid album.

An album riddled with unbreathable energy and high-strung despair.

It is simple, winding, hypnotic and beautiful, and it makes being human bearable for a while -- without in any way detracting from its essential tragedy.

Yes, then, Arab Strap are a terrific band, with possibilities that seem infinite. Still, I am certain that the songs on The Red Thread could have been better if the group had bypassed its trademark vocal style and actually played along with the lyrics, singing as if something in the lives of its characters were at stake.

Les Savy Fav is quite conscious of what you want, and they keenly deliver the goods on their latest batch of solid tunes.

Wonderland is the sound of a band embracing and then discarding its past in order to forge ahead into a new tomorrow.... Undoubtedly one of the group's finest recorded moments.

They hit all the right notes and create the right hooks for success, at least in theory, but for all the passion in Jake Snider's voice, he might as well be singing about the ham sandwich he ate for lunch.

One of the most playful end-of-the-world concept albums ever created.

Not Them, You brims with all the bravado and swagger that its title suggests.

There's nothing wrong with her performance -- it's just undistinguished.

How Animals Move is a strange and uneven but ultimately captivating effort by a talented musician/composer.

Teenage Fanclub has absorbed the Britpop successes and failures of the past decade and made an album that celebrates everything that can go right when musicians listen to far too many Beatles records.

Harmless and happy, with an underbelly of serious sadness, Keep it Together dares to be average, and comes out sounding and feeling pretty decent.

This is an odd album, weirdly compelling and madly frustrating.

Like their NYC peers Liars and the Rapture, HHH are adept at fusing dancefloor polemics with angular guitar atmospherics, yet their sound lacks the sweat-soaked sexual ardor that those groups flaunt so remorselessly.

England's Saloon combine the post punk rhythms of Stereolab with the poppiness of The Sundays, creating a melodically soothing murmur that, while derivative, is very enticing.

It's nowhere near as interesting as Ghost of Fashion or Your Favorite Music, but it has its own tranquil, slow-burning charm.

For all the divergent styles and blatant hero-worshipping to be found on High Society, the group never sounds derivative or misguided -- a rare feat, proving that despite numerous comparisons, Enon have indeed carved out their own fractured and unique musical identity.

Devoid of obvious weak points, Lost In Space sounds sad without ever becoming schmaltzy.

Intentionally or not, it creates a sort of natural, autumnal closure -- like a gorgeous, lazy, completely uncommitted fall afternoon delivered in three- to five-minute slices.

Truly unlike anything else you'll hear this year, hip-hop or otherwise.

If you've heard the group's last few albums, Milk Man won't seem like a notable refinement or a grand statement of purpose; they're just breaking the pop song mold, over and over again, and doing consistently inventive things with the fragments.

In spite of its apparent split personality, Skull Ring is a righteously bombastic affair, and easily the best Iggy record since Brick by Brick.

Only the dub-inflected excursion of "Pipe Bomb" and the Clash-style raver "Eyes Wide Open" manage to break from boredom and form long enough to feel somewhat genuine -- as long as you don't listen to any of the lyrics.

While Davis's performance draws from a broad and intriguing range of influences, she has the makings of a singer in a class of her own. And rather than allowing Davis's uniqueness to carry them, the other members of Denali clearly favor a similarly eclectic aesthetic, riddling their music with pleasant musical surprises.

Compelling listening.

If there's anything wrong with Life On Other Planets, it's that the band really isn't branching out at all -- and when you get to your fourth album, it's hard to sound as fresh and vital as you once did if you aren't trying anything new.

Holopaw's delicate, subdued second album lacks their debut's sharp peaks and valleys.

You'd think there wasn't much left to do with the roots-oriented rock formula, but Albatross proves that there's plenty of life and passion and intelligence left in the genre.

Broder gently provokes your senses with curious combinations of divergent instruments, creating a collection of progressive musical oddities that is entertaining as well as musically fascinating.

Underneath all those shiny, shiny flourishes and moddish overtones, though, is some seriously smart, witty music, for the most part.

Though it might be a difficult listen in spots (especially for the rave-ier set), the disc definitely shows Jenkinson stretching his musical limbs, and it's a fascinating sight.

Taken as a group, Heroes to Zeros' slower songs are the musical equivalent of a month-long sinus infection: heavy on the repetition, sleepy detachment and sensory deprivation.

This is a solid (and yes, more polished) effort, not likely to disappoint their ardent fans, and I expect that it will draw many new listeners to the band's somber world.

The danger that Ladybug Transistor faces in working within this retro-country-folk-pop oeuvre -- above and beyond the fact that most people are conditioned not to listen to it -- is that it's difficult to rise above the level of pastiche.

Bell Orchestre don't always make good on their ambitions, but the results are often excellent, despite (and usually because of) their sloppiness.

Upon first listen, it seems easy to say that you've heard this before -- but if you take the time to let it sink in, it is obviously not the same band or sound as Belle and Sebastian.

A watered-down mix of big-budget tricks and studio sheen.

There are some bands who were just meant to be great pop acts -- pop in the George Michael sense, pop in the Fleetwood Mac sense. Phoenix make music that your mom would like, and it's not a bad thing.

The album consistently takes control of your emotions.

It's the sound of a man in perfect harmony with himself.

The album is solid, though hardly anything spectacular.

Bazooka Tooth not only gets better as the disc goes on -- the beats get thicker, the songs come together more fully and Rock stops proselytizing long enough to let your head bob and relax -- but it actually improves with repeated listens.

These are neither wimpy pop songs nor iron-fisted punk songs, but a shimmying amalgamation of DIY attitude and velvety songcraft, not altogether dissimilar to Learning to Crawl-era Pretenders.

Some moments are exciting, but overall it's a bit cluttered.

Plat du Jour is a more interesting an outing for remaining ambivalent in spite of itself.

You'll feel lost and totally submerged in a sublime experience that's timeless, exciting and free from boundaries.

The album is gorgeous and richly textured, but it seems as if McKay can't decide whether he wants to focus on groovy, downtempo space-pop or more experimental, melodramatic soundscapes.

It's blink-and-you’ll-miss-it running time and rather hefty price tag are the album’s only real drawbacks, proving that even after five years away, these kids can still write tunes that get stuck in your head for days.

It's quite a treat to hear the duo create such refreshingly original music with rock's "standard" instruments.

Without a doubt one of Callahan’s most inspired collection of songs to date.

They sound poppy and upbeat and melancholy all at once.

While the music behind the lyrics doesn't exactly bristle with innovation, it's the best blend of acoustic and electronic instruments I've heard.

Fans will appreciate Tour De France's high standard of unadorned synthesis, thematic melody and Autobahn minimalism, with epiphanic pleasure and not a little nostalgia.

The Silent League weave lush musical tapestries with a real humility at heart, preventing themselves from ever taking this orchestral deal too seriously, while remaining focused just enough to produce an album of stunning sonic quality.

All of these songs sound like her -- from any era or any album of her career. Her presence is too recognizable to be disguised by production or gimmickry.

Their strongest effort to date.

This straightforward pop bias makes the disc sound more like a greatest hits package than an album.

While it's not Everett's most focused effort, musically speaking, Shootenanny! triumphs by projecting an uncharacteristically jovial mood.

I Com proves that this talented singer/producer is as adept at making her own music as she is playing around with others'.

More sonically adventurous than its mainstream look suggests.

Shrewdly combines peculiar electronics with melody without ever letting either genre gain the upper hand.

If you skip the first track and stick mostly to the first two-thirds of the record, A Question of Temperature ranks as one of the most enjoyable albums of this still-young year.

Outstanding production, clever lyrics and catchy melodies should add up to the sort of record capable of making a serious splash. Unfortunately, Invisible Invasion demonstrates an unwavering adherence to established musical traditions.

The unpredictable song structures are fresh and innovative, too, twisting off in unexpected directions mere seconds before you can remember what they remind you of.

An album of rich melodies, aggressive percussive breaks and richly textured atmospheres that intelligently synthesize the whole of electronic music history.

It may not be the best album of their career, but it's certainly the most interesting -- and a reliable cure for your indifference.

What's most fascinating about Welcome to the Monkey House is that, in the midst of copious drug usage, heavy drinking and god knows what else, the Dandy Warhols have emerged with an album so cleverly coherent that it simply couldn't have come from anywhere else.

A charming, if often bewildering, set of psychedelic junk-folk ditties.

Not content to rely on the same old drum machine patterns and tired beats, TRR and I-Sound have concocted a vast sonic brew that blends elements of hip-hop, jazz and techno into a seriously stinging cocktail.

Half Smiles of the Decomposed isn't quite the guns-blazing finale I always imagined the last GBV album would be, but it never becomes a limp-wristed approximation of the band in any of its previous guises.

It's a perfect summer record.

The Teaches of Peaches is as tacky and low-budget as a '70s porno flick...and just as much fun.

[Congleton's] studio wizardry shows in the bolder array of sounds he's plundered and the crispness with which they're delivered, while his improved songwriting shines through in bolder arrangements and a tighter instrumental focus.

Combining the acoustic and electronic worlds of pop, Faux Mouvement plays like a moody soundtrack for film noir.

Thankfully, the band's most endearing facets remain firmly intact -- namely, their timeless nature and complete disregard for the current musical zeitgeist.

It sticks with what Jimmy Eat World have always done, but it sounds better than anything that preceded it.

The band's greatest success is their ability to craft unassuming, enjoyable revival rock numbers with clever lyrics, recalling their musical forebears without ever descending to cliché.

Some listeners may find the results to be a little bland for their tastes.

Rejected Unknown is a musically rich, catchy-as-hell, sad-as-all-fucking-get-out journey.

While devoid of the manic energy and double-time rhythms that were almost the group's trademark, songs like "Sweet Marie" and "Tu-Whitt Tu-Whoo" maintain a fiercely rocking edge via slowly evolving song structures and explosive, crunch guitar-driven choruses.

Saying that the man knows his way around a hook is an understatement: he throws hooks around like an incandescent bulb does photons.

This is one of Cave's best album in years, if not an immediate candidate for a career highlight.

It's all very sweeping, operatic and inviting.

If you can't get enough Xiu Xiu, this album is definitely for you.

While there are plenty of MTV2-ready tunes, the record doesn't bear much repetition.

Though it's not the emotionally draining follow-up many were expecting, Seven's Travels succeeds. Its saving grace is the fact that Slug and Ant remain ignorant of, or choose to completely ignore, the hip-hop conventions that have handcuffed similar artists for almost a decade.

All the best songs here seem to launch from the point at which Technique left off; they have the same bounce, the same speed and many of the same hooks (especially in "Bert's Theme", "Kashmere" and "I've Got a Feeling") as that Hook-dominated New Order record.

What this strange cast of characters eventually creates is a groovy mish-mash of up/down tempo breaks, hip-pop sound collages and the odd bout of guitar-driven frenzy that, while nearly impossibly to dance to, manages to expose most other DJs as the talentless, not to mention painfully derivative crate-raiders they truly are.

Their songs routinely beg for a spoken message, to the point where their originals sound like dub versions.

From a new band, Get Ready would seem like an accomplished if uneven effort.

The short-but-sweet syrupiness of the past is gone, and the sound that has taken its place is heavier, mustier and a hell of a lot harder to swallow.

Perhaps their sloshing disintegration, whiplashing folk-crunch, honeyed melancholy and deliquescent time-lapse... never quite settle into a stable Gestalt, but the music hints at the presence of more looming somewhere behind it.

Though sampling has been done to death, the stealthiness which which Deakin and Franglen incorporate their borrowed material will be required study for wannabe producers and hop-headz; in that regard, it's on a par with the seminal Paul's Boutique.

Let Them Drink may not be as accessible to the mainstream as the band might have hoped, but The Capitol Years' updated blend of classic sounds is an addictive and refreshing change.

While the Big Chorus and post-hardcore theatricality are hardly disparate stylistic traits, it's odd that Rogue Wave would embrace them after establishing themselves as a nuanced pop outfit.