In the end, we can’t ignore that The Hives’ best moments are those borrowed (or just plain pilfered) from punk acts that preceded them.

She sounds like she’s adopting characters and singing their songs, rather than her own. And, for a record with the name Autobiography, it seems like no bigger criticism could be leveled.

In the end, that's the best gift the Furnaces have to offer, the simple power of their own joyful racket and clatter, the pure holy hell they always seem to raise.

Thankfully, the music overpowers DeLaughter’s weak voice.

On many of the songs here, the accompaniment sounds like an afterthought, adding to the bedroom-recording atmosphere.

As a listening experience, The Tipping Point is a decent album, a rough transition at best and a stumble at worst.

There are entirely too many nods to the past for this album to be a fresh start, yet it refuses to slip comfortably into place in their catalogue.

With The Cover Up, IATWTC does a better job of ripping off New Order, while often drawing from trance.

The Heat compares favorably to PJ Harvey’s Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea, offering the same NYCentric references (“9-11 baby boom”), gruff, understated guitar work and narrative aptitude. These are Malin’s stories from the city and they don’t disappoint.

For as honest and beguiling as Foster's almost feminine falsetto might be, the themes being touched upon and, more importantly, the way in which Forster dabs at them so simply... causes this otherwise fine artistic expression to be slandered significantly.

There are moments of brilliance, no doubt, scattered handsomely throughout this album, but the overall effect is one of frustration, and not simply the frustration associated with great musicians struggling to come up with interesting ideas, but the frustration we all experience with music as a whole.

Music that’s easier to admire than love.

Ultimately we can’t get a bead on Brandy precisely because she hasn’t yet figured it out herself.... Which is exactly what makes Afrodisiac such a fascinating exercise.

His intention here was to create something unpolished and free of studio edits, acting as contrast to Shadows. His result, unfortunately, reeks of squandered potential.

On almost every level, Jeff Tweedy and Co. have concocted the perfect follow-up to an epochal, career-defining record--taking greater risks and yielding deeper rewards--and finding more challenging ways to channel pain that just won’t quit.

While not entirely successful throughout, it still contains enough majestic moments of sheer aural bliss to qualify as one of the most beautifully melodic down tempo-instrumental albums you are likely to hear this year.

For all its surprises, Creature Comforts marks one of the first times Black Dice has sounded like a band in transition, and consequently lacks much of the serendipitous splendor of their previous efforts.

Goswell deserves praise for putting together a solid album that could appeal to both fans of her previous work and others.

The evidence now seems indisputable that Wilson is completely, totally, finally spent as a creative force—as it is, we’re treading dangerously close to “How many failed collaborators does it take to produce a half-decent Brian Wilson album?” territory (answer: you can’t count that high).

He has captured a sound that few current artists challenge, and none have mastered to such a degree. Quite simply, Ta det Lugnt is one of the best releases of this year.

They sound old. They sound past it. They sound, and this is one word that nobody would have ever thought could be used to describe the Beasties, irrelevant.

Ideally [Fall records will] feature two things: semi-incomprehensible (yet strangely prophetic) ramblings from the eternally tetchy Mark E. Smith, and a band who sound as if their music is perpetually falling down the stairs. The Real New Fall LP delivers on both counts. To much rejoicing.

So even if, like me, you find the lyrics and Elton John-style coda to “Superfool” annoying, you’ll probably also find yourself singing along; this is the sort of record whose vices, if you give it a chance, slowly become virtues.

This album’s appeal is so superficial that those who don’t cotton to guys trying to look pretty while the bombs drop should avoid this entirely.

Sonic Nurse, if not proof of a band bursting with fresh ideas, is at least fresh-sounding.

Everything on Winds Take No Shape is done with such mechanic precision that there’s little room for any sparks to ignite this mythic fire.

Ms. Yamagata has moved beyond the slightly jazzy overtones of her debut EP to grandiose, ready-for-radio singer/songwriter pop for the ages.

For the first time it sounds like Royal City is stuck.

A retreat from overt tale-telling makes these songs less immediate and localized but potentially more personal, both for Jim and his listeners, as he strips away the surreality and specificity and renders his murky ruminations more universally resonant.

Newman has created a record bearing all the traits that make him such an engaging musical personality in the first place: elliptical wordplay, unusual delivery, and obscenely catchy songs.

I hate to say it, but she might have finally overextended her ambition, resulting in an uneven, discomfiting album.

The effort that Cogleton and his band have put into God Bless Your Black Heart is impossible to ignore.

In a time when The Darkness is successfully parodying cock-rock, members of Velvet Revolver are still earnestly carrying the torch. Whether you think that’s noble or laughable will probably determine your opinion of this album.

An unpleasant change is clear in the first instant; Summers’ voice is pushed to the front of the mix, and the over-the-top choruses and limpid lyricism that comes through is enough to make you blush.

The music is still missing one crucial element—hooks. There really aren’t any of which to speak, and no amount of production skill and instrumental finesse is able to mask that.

Easily their most cohesive and satisfying full-length to date, Chapel shows that Weatherall still has a few tricks up his sleeve and isn’t afraid to use them.

This is a return to the Wu sound; in-house production, more Clan cameos and less material dictated by current trends commercial.

Frankly, the results are incredible.

On Sung Tongs, the group has deftly combined all the traces that ran through their earlier work into a vibrant and beautiful collage that flows as smoothly as Here Comes the Indian, with all the mood of Campfire Songs, and even more pop hooks than Spirit.

Hyper-concept pseudo-narratives aside, Devin Dazzle is, in a word, shocking, where shocking = rocking and rocking = danceable and danceable = nuts and nuts = 80s kitsch-sex-funk-house-new-wave-punk-disco.

A directionless mess that never makes an obvious commercial ploy, never reveals any new ideas and never implies any forethought or central intelligence, yet somehow demands attention throughout, revealing new layers and engaging moments with every listen.

Rather than show true sympathy by exploring the nuance of even the superficially simplest lives, Bazan makes drearily deterministic morons out of his supposed objects of pathos.

Under My Skin is a far more balanced album than Let Go, allowing Avril to stretch out a bit more and not suffer the troughs that typified any song that happened to follow a Matrix penned track.

They’ve now released their best album and the best pop inflected metal album since System of a Down's Toxicity.

The continual sense of aesthetic, structural and emotional conservatism constantly makes the listener feel short-changed, Singing Tom persistently pleading his own honesty and kindness and suitability and weakness.

Hotel Morgen finds To Rococo Rot with a modestly updated sound, the sort of slight seismic shift that may take millions of years to have its say. They understand what classical composers knew: the next symphony won’t bring utter revolution, but as long as it carries the emotional impact of your intent, it’s a grand success.

Athlete’s sound is a wondrous discovery for young teens just getting into “chart indie” or jocks who feel open minded for listening to something a little more complicated than Oasis. For anyone else really, Vehicles & Animals only offers up a smorgasboard of odd, inventive pop music that’s only odd and inventive enough to try and sound less like everything else.

On The End is Near, the group seems to follow the same pattern as before, but with less than appetizing results.

By track three, something awful is apparent.

It’s not mush, it’s just not quite as gleefully obvious as Mclusky Do Dallas was. But, by the same token, they’re not just treading the same ground.

Nice enough melodies and average tunes are repeatedly elevated by the superlative, rich and detailed production which makes Delays sound like a much better band than they actually are.

Much in the way Pete Rock or Kanye West reinterpret classic 70s soul for a new generation, Since We Last Spoke is RJD2’s trip through the AM dial 30 years ago, the songs of the period experienced anew.

This album is 80% total shite.

Patience is far too long to hold my attention, and nowhere near as consistent as either Older or Listen without Prejudice Vol.1, but there are moments here which surpass the strongest songs on either of those previous classics.

Now Here Is Nowhere stands as a very good album, delivering on most of September 000’s promises and proving that music not only existed in the early and mid 70s, but it rocked too.

In Split the Difference, Gomez has not lived up to, but surpassed, their initial success.

The crisper production gives the music an extra bite.... Paradoxically, though, the increased fidelity also reveals the band’s deficiency with musical dynamics, making a half-hour seem surprisingly long.

Kesto is an overwhelming, unbelievable adventure, but it's not for everyone.

Mike Skinner’s taken a big risk in doing this, but he’s found the bizarre and beautiful meeting point of The Specials, Danny Rampling and Serge Gainsbourg. A Grand Don’t Come For Free is a remarkable record.

Of course, anyone expecting a new Smiths album from this was always going to be disappointed. However, anyone expecting a good album from it is going to be disappointed as well.

Bright Like Neon Love may be too rock for the dance heads and too dance for the rockists, but for those without ideological hang-ups, it should be merely one of the most fun and exciting releases of the year.

A record of flippant, tossed-off, uninspired, only sporadically involving chamber pop that feels, dare I say, half-hearted.

Unfortunately, after this three-track novelty act, Fulfilled/Complete comes down to earth in a decided crater-dive.

If the original and inspiring Icarus Line take on itself had been continued from the beginning or, better yet, the record had been shortened, we’d have a masterpiece on our hands. As it is, a much better outing than Mono and a brilliant song in “Getting Bright at Night”.

There are few of the stop-in-your-tracks lines or extended metaphors of previous works.

While Tres Casas is a large step forward for Molina, and a better album than Segundo, paradoxically, it’s a less enjoyable one.

If Oh Me Oh My was Devendra’s stunning introduction to the wide musical landscape, then Rejoicing in the Hands further marks his emergence as the most unique and important new voice in the music today.

Maybe if this album had been released in the mid-eighties I’d be falling all over myself to praise it, but these days there’s just too much stuff around that’s surpassed the music here in originality, drive and smarts.

Does Summer Make Good maintain the peak established by its predecessors? In a word: no. But that doesn’t mean it’s not good, because it is; it’s just not quite as magical as the others.

Review 1: <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1936&PHPSESSID=c34e5fbb0933de1389469828674b499e" TARGET="_blank">It&#146;s unfortunate that this band is so unsure of themselves, least of all lyrically.</A> [score=50]; Review 2: <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1937" TARGET="_blank">Heroes To Zeros strikes a balance between enervation, subtlety and creativity.</A> [score=80]

Musically, Holland could be considered the more eccentric and authentic second cousin of Norah Jones.

The problem with D12 isn&#146;t that all of them are crap, its just that they&#146;re not given enough room to breath and prove themselves to be better than average.

Recast[s] her matchless mountain holler and ever-sturdy songwriting genius in the milieu of gut-bucket blues riffs and blistering rock guitar, making Lynn sound not so much reinvigorated as reimagined, given a raucously purposeful, wildly authoritative new playground for her still-terrific proto-feminist (even in 2004) tropes.

Not only is the product musically conservative, chocked full of soul ballads and tame funk workouts, there's nary a trace of the devilish sense of risk that has permeated even his worst material.

Altogether, Ratatat is a great album, taking the sound Daft Punk constructed on Discovery and transforming it into a remarkably intricate, painstaking work of instrumental genius.

Inches succeeds, and then some, because the record simply doesn&#146;t sound like it&#146;s been collated together over a nine year period.

The Hold Steady, then, is not yet an outstanding band, but unlike its New York contemporaries, shows the sort of distinctive talent that suggests that one day, it might be.

They touch greatness at several points, if never truly digging their nails in and grabbing hold.

They’re a perfect opening band: professional and sufficiently appealing on a sonic level without risking upstaging the headliner with any distinct personality or emotional resonance.

Not just a great record, but a much-needed dose of country-rock reality.

As beautiful as many of these songs are in terms of immediacy, their lackluster instrumentation never allows them any lasting appeal.

The saddest part of all this useless audio-masturbation is that it completely masks the genuinely beautiful pop songs of which Anderson is so capable.

Too many tracks on It&#146;s All Around You don&#146;t quite measure up to the compositional quality or imagination of previous works.

The Sunday girl may be entering her autumn years, but she&#146;s still an absolute treasure.

Again is an opportunity missed by such distance as to become pointless and even irritating.

It&#146;s obvious that the group can write straight-ahead rock/pop songs, but only chooses to tease the listener with short glimpses of their ability in this regard.

They can&#146;t rap. Period.

A wonderful album stuffed full of sentiment, emotion and melody--and traverses the bridge between teenagerdom and adulthood with a moving and thrilling honesty.

Gone is pretty much everything they&#146;ve learned in the last eight years or so, ditching all the progress they&#146;ve made in favor of just making another Modest Mouse record. The results, needless to say, are disappointing.

One of those singular albums that is so richly dense, so unabashedly whimsical and so damned polished.

The fact that the music, vocals and melodies are stunning is just icing on the cake - a cake that is crumbling before your eyes.

It’s hard to fault an album for being too much of a good thing, but there it is. Songs like “Goliath”, “Glass Walls” and “Linus” just blend together. By the end you no longer look forward to another swooping, disheartened melody, you want variety of any kind.

Muse write... the same way Metallica write, i.e. just compiling bits of &#145;music&#146; then sticking them together, except they&#146;re more impressed with their fragments (though they&#146;re simpler and duller and even more remarkably similar to each other than Metallica&#146;s), so they make them go on longer and repeat them more times.

Panic Movement is far too samey and too much emphasis is put on the lyrics, which are not the Hiss' strong suit.

Those looking for the instant gratification of the first side of YFIIP--the “Almost Crimes”s, the “KC Accidental”s, the “Anthem”s--will be grossly disappointed. This is a collection for those of us who dug the album’s second side--meandering, experimental, but ultimately just as urgent and just as rewarding.

Despite the increased emphasis on production, like Blonde Redhead's entire catalogue, the chirping, child-like cords of lead vocalists Amedeo Pace and Kazu Makino act as the essential ingredient to the bands avant-garde concoction.

The biggest problem with the album is that most of the tracks feel like there should be a rap over them.

The whole album is put together so oddly, almost haphazardly, that this works better as a collection of moments than as a whole.