The hour-long Love & Distortion never loses steam; it delivers on its title, and is unique enough to avoid lyrical banality.

Green Imagination succeeds because it rarely seems obvious or disingenuous, even as it indulges in copious quantities of shamelessly retro fun.

Let There Be Morning isn't designed to bowl you over with its size and scope; rather, it's a quietly compelling, lushly orchestrated affair that slowly but surely melts its way into your heart.

Remove "Girls" and "Wonder Woman" from Blowback and you'd have a solid album.

His machinegun flow is as cerebral as ever, but too much of the album's production slides by in a dignified haze of twinkling clips and clacks, devoid of real grime or grizzled substance.

Admittedly, not all of Cloud's most ambitious tracks work ou.... But in the end, it's Garnier's ambition, combined with his talent and professionalism, that make this an album worth seeking out.

Gimmie Trouble reminds us that Adult. don't sound like anyone else... Not even themselves.

Most of Loewenstein's work here simply puts a happier spin on Sub Pop's raw, rough-edged rock formula -- the sort of thing Kurt Cobain might have written if Prozac was free.

Gomez do nothing to rethink or reinvigorate their earlier recordings; in fact, when Out West's renditions are compared to the originals, the live versions sound dull and lifeless.

The low points are easier to spot than the highs, which tend to peak at a low elevation.

The album is never anything more or less than it pretends to be. It offers a good time, and it delivers. As a soundtrack to mindless partying, it is first-rate.

In the end, Tree City's quality makes its carbon-copy nature all the more frustrating.

Shrill, sharp, twitchy compositions that can be as abrasive as they are compelling.

After a while, the songs begin to sound the same, and while Martey's vocals are consistently strong, the fact that she almost always sings in the same range robs them of much of their effect.

This spruced-up EP is devoid of the rampant stylistic deviations that have ruled their later work, instead trading upon simple acoustic song structures and soulful vocal leads that recall the strummy days of I Hope Your Heart is not Brittle.

At nearly two hours long, Church Gone Wild/Chirpin Hard is anything but a precise masterstroke. It is, however, a flawed, majestic account of what can happen when a band splits down the middle to compose on their own terms, with no artistic differences and no coalescing of ideals.

In terms of pure power-pop delight, Velocity of Sound is hard to beat -- it's one of those records that taps directly into your musical pleasure center and jabs repeatedly at the best bits.

A fascinatingly cinematic, image-laden and claustrophobic album that feels like the someone else's nightmare.

The tunes just circle like SUVs in a parking lot; there are traces of a head of steam, of a nod towards explosive tune-structures, but it seems the ball is dropped at the last minute in favour of a holding-pattern approach -- the familiar bassline and chorused keys. It's a letdown.

EMOH is a bit rambling, and could stand to lose a song or two so as to not detract from the its power, but considering Barlow's sometimes egregious prolificacy, these 14 songs are about as polished as he gets.

While there's nothing too stunning to be found on Three-Four, there's also nothing really sub-par.

Rarely is so-called "difficult music" so rewarding, and rarely is it so simple.

Revolutions is pretty breathtaking.

There's a fragile beauty inherent in Printz's slapdash slop-hop that belies the duo's goofy profile and bodes well for their future endeavors.

There's definitely nothing earth-shattering here... but there's nothing that's going to alienate the fanbase, either.

If "We Are A&C" was the album's low point, the album would be in great shape -- but there are a few half-hearted tracks that stake a more legitimate claim to that dubious honor.

For a band that regularly draws comparisons to Beta Band and Pavement, Vehicles & Animals is all too pedestrian.

Finely crafted, if modestly affecting, froth-pop that bubbles over with dreary sexual overtones and loads of youthful paranoia.

There's not quite enough to justify the addition of another album to the Blondie catalogue.

The passion that once seeped from the group now appears manufactured.

It's not necessarily a welcome change, as drugged-up, dubbed-out majesty has always been Fearless's stock-in-trade, but there's something oddly captivating about these dusky grooves and forlorn moods that makes it difficult to view the project as a failure.

Devoid of Tanaka's usual unpredictability, Beautiful is bland, linear and frequently downright dull, with entirely too many six, seven and eight-minute songs running out of ideas long before the halfway mark.

Making the effort to unravel the tightly packed layers and unconventional (even by 'Lab standards) song structures can seem downright daunting, regardless of how long you've been following Sadier and how many of her EPs you've devoured.

If you think too hard about a record like this, you'll probably be ashamed to own it. Let's be honest: despite its Eastern rhythms, intricate melodies and exotic instrumentation, it's basically a yuppie sex record.

The remaining songs are uniformly well crafted, but they aren't necessarily going to please the people who come looking for more of the old "Jerk It Out" magic.

Mono singlehandedly redefines the concept of dynamics. They are very quiet, and then very loud. It will hurt your head.

There's far too much nondescript strumming and far too few meaningful hooks.

Many fans may be turned off by the abrupt shifts in pace and style, but engaged listening reveals an overarching sensibility that guides the project from beginning to end.

Sparta seem a bit too retro-focused for their own good.

There's a lot to admire on Jackinabox, although it's ultimately less than spectacular and even occasionally embarrassing.

Listening to frontmen Jason Hill and Brian Kareig chop-up every '60s and '70s rock 'n' roll cliché, remorselessly blending Iggy, Mick, Bowie, Marc Bolan and Johnny Rotten into a light, frothy frappé of sex, violence and coked-up come-ons is, at the very least, consistently amusing -- and even better, surprisingly tasty.

Opener "Glisten" is anybody's masterpiece.... This instrumental brings so much anticipation to the rest of this record, it's no wonder I'm partly disappointed with The Listener: Gelb can't and doesn't deliver a dozen more songs like "Glisten".

While the album's bouts of strangulated sexuality are initially stirring, this lack of melody eventually dooms Do Rabbits Wonder? to wallow in a torpid swamp of half-formed ideas and analog squall.

Rarely has rampant misogyny and self-hype sounded as fantastic as this.

If you like it fast and rough and dirty, this one's for you

His most diverse collection of songs to date.

The album, while competent, is thoroughly flawed.

Surgery is quite an impressive effort, sporting just the right combination of nods to their influences and carefully balanced instrumental execution.

This isn't really one of those cases where bands like Wire or Mission of Burma or Vashti Bunyan come back years later with stuff that ranks among their best, but it isn't bad, either -- not bad at all.

Peopled with starry-eyed lovers and draped in wistful melancholy, it brilliantly captures that lonely netherworld between love and loss.

Yes, this is a funny record, but it's not a comedy record; Har Mar has an acrobatic voice that rivals pretty much any male in R&B today, and he writes some genuinely catchy, sticky melodies that lots of other acts would kill for.

Imagine, if you will, The Creation, 13th Floor Elevators and Bruce Haack allowed to run wild in Abbey Road studios for two weeks, and you’ll have an insight into the Howl’s sound.

If the whole record could be as good as the first ten seconds of "Artificial Light", it would be great. But it isn't.

It's disappointing to hear them following trends rather than inspiring them.

A pretty and meticulously-crafted collection of songs.

It's all so beautifully simple, especially moody acoustic guitar/piano laments like "Fewer Words", that you almost miss how effective the arrangements are -- gorgeous, heartfelt melodies yield odes to a life that's consistently surprising and alive with optimism.

As you might expect, the sheer number of tracks means there's a sizeable dollop of filler.

While a few of the songs -- like BMG's team-up with Esthero for a cover of "White Rabbit" -- may generate momentary interest, they all sound a little too much like commercial radio fodder, their quirks depressingly predictable.

This is one tight little record.

Plenty of albums split the difference between gems and junk, but the biggest problem with Glass House is that it lacks any discernible anima; the band seems to be phoning in their performance from a comfy armchair somewhere in Milwaukee.

While the band has adeptly navigated the waters of change, a few moments on Night on Fire are simply too slick for their own good.

Key ultimately demands direct attention; while some songs seem to call out for the openness of a long car ride, this is a headphone masterpiece.

Dirty Dancing is a thoughtful, darkly humorous album -- a consistently danceable mix of state of the art electronic music trends.

City is a noticeably fleshier beast than its predecessor; the album is lush and sophisticated with hooks aplenty.

Deathsentences' series of white-noise sculptures is certainly interesting, but the materials that accompany it will have a far more lasting effect upon your consciousness.

The Johns (Linnell and Flansburgh) are firing on all cylinders here, wrapping their suitably obscure and sometimes ethereal humor in the most capable songwriting of their careers.

You have to admire Hefner's artistic spirit -- but Dead Media is too flawed and derivative to earn serious praise.

If you set the more gratuitous avant-gardities aside, you're left with a fair amount of haunting, beautiful and challenging music.

A towering monument to Esthero's overpowering sense of self satisfaction, this mess overstays its welcome and abuses whatever attention you're willing to spend on it. In short, it's not a career highlight.

It's a well-thought out and solidly executed effort by an artist who hasn't allowed himself to become set in his ways.

The result is so refreshing original, it not only cements Gold Chains' position as one of today's best and brightest indie-tech gurus; it also says, coolly and effortlessly, that genre boundaries are "no big thang".

Russian Doll is defined by beautiful tones, imprecise boundaries, world-weary subject matter and a Phil Spectorian sheen that obscures as much as it illuminates.

Awake is a distinctly flawed album; much of what's here is precious or forced-sounding.

Seal IV... finds him retreading old ground and misguidedly attempting to claim new territory.

The quality is uniform, but below par.

The absence of memorable hooks and catchy choruses is obvious.

For a fractured album that spent several years in limbo, Amber Headlights does two things very well: it's an impressive introduction to Dulli's far-reaching musical talent, and a spiritual cleansing for the wry vocalist himself.

Aside from being tracked incorrectly (on my copy anyway) and not always being of the choicest sound quality, Sad Sappy Sucker shows that Modest Mouse’s rise to the pinnacle of indiedom started at the bottom, just like everybody else.

The brittle treble-heavy assault is replaced with clarity, greater exploration of texture and more "professional" recording.

Dangerous Dreams' late arrival was nearly enough to doom it to obscurity, but the disc's lack of new ideas puts the final nail in the coffin.

Julia and Lena's voices are nothing special, and their lyrics are still derivative -- suitable fodder for Charmed or a Rachel Leigh Cook movie, but not the sort of thing that makes a lasting impression.

You won't be sure whether you blacked out from a seizure, gave birth to twins or simply had one of the best musical experiences of your life.

Songs too slow to dance to and too annoyingly repetitive for passive listening.

However nice the guitar sounds, though, it's hard to ignore the fact that it's dressing up songs that would be a bit dull without it.

They might not have the lyrical substance necessary to be the new Manics, but Gay Dad's unpretentious take on modern glam makes snorting coke while wearing striped hot-pants and sprinkling stardust on passers by sound like a hell of a lot of fun.

The aggressive stance taken on some of the songs brings an unwelcome "Is this Orgy?" feel to the affair.... If Gwenmars can produce more show-stoppers, and perhaps tone-down some of the aggresive stylings that creep in, they might become more than just a throwback.

This shit is boring.

Plays Music sounds like stuff you've heard before, but there's a special, vibrant joy between its notes.

If you'd never heard Gotham!, you might very well find much to like about Stealing of a Nation.

As recently as last year it looked like The Datsuns might be next in line to make arena-sized, super-popular rock the way Zeppelin, AC/DC and G'n'R did. They still might, but it's going to take better songs than these.

By returning to the drawing board they used to create Ego War, Dinsdale and Franks have created a bigger, better version of their all-inclusive dance-pop/hip-hop.