An entirely mediocre album that hints at a greatness that may lie beneath.

In its ambition, emotion, aggression and intelligence, Kick Up The Fire, And Let The Flames Break Loose is a work of sheer bloody genius.

If there’s a single quality that ties these songs together, it’s consistency of scope and sound.

Other than a few cliched song titles and lyrics (this is rock 'n' roll after all), Twilight of the Innocents actually demonstrates a refreshing maturity and breadth; sure it rocks, but never in a clumsy or callous manner.

A solid, atmospheric, singer-songwriter record.

A bit uneven.

Last Night sacrifices the unified statement of Someday for a more varied, deliriously fun lack of coherency.

Thankfully, the music overpowers DeLaughter’s weak voice.

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.

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.

It's crisper and clearer, but simultaneously thicker and murkier than before. The album isn't just dense, it's bloated—in the very best sense of the word.

The songs are still long, the rhythms are still organic, and in general Isis still sounds like Isis.

There is very little on Operate that sounds like anywhere Gomez have been before.

Brett Anderson has always been the weakest link, so pointing out weak rhymes and the frequent unconvincing moments (she’s upstaged by the background vocals on the highlight “It’s So Hard”) seems cruel.

Unlike cLOUDDEAD, every track on Oaklandazulasylum is, at least musically, accessible and inviting.

Yeah, she’s sticking with the formula that got her going six years ago, but when it actually works, why bother messing with it?

The Kills' sludgy punk-blues doesn't contain many pop melodies or catchy choruses.

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.

Seeing as this is only their third album, they can still get away with redundancy as long as it’s head-bobbing, genial and oh-so-cute. And it is.

Beginning with third track, "Lupus", a certain lifelessness starts to creep into The Equatorial Stars.

Spit-shine production, passionless instrumentation, (extremely) laid back grooves and laughably awful lyrics all conspire to do this once explosive band in.

I feel patronising calling it a rebirth, return to form or a self-rehabilitation from the brink. Let’s just call it evolution.

The strange thing about The Inspiration is how it's posited as an alternative to the much-bullied "conscious rap," and yet, it's among the least fun albums released this year.

The Lemonheads is full of, for better or worse, comfort music. It radiates a blunted nostalgic glow that seeps through the frequent musical languor.

Like his first record Straight Outta Cashville, Buck the World is a solid-to-great Southern rap genre exercise, graced with immaculate production and boasting an all-star supporting cast.

While charming, it’s still a little too forgettable to be really exciting on its own merits.

Bloated with ideas and parsimonious with tunes.

For those of you familiar with the band’s debut, 2004’s Tiger, My Friend, I can make this simple: The Only Thing I Ever Wanted is just as good.

Since We’ve Become Translucent’s greatest flaw -- its dumbed-downedness -- becomes apparent and sad as the album’s first half goes on.

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

It’s a little disjointed, more enigmatic, and more confounding than its predecessors: a gentle, mysterious giant of an album that could only have been created by a father.

In Our Bedroom After The War is Stars' most consistent, nuanced album, and says good things for the future, but Campbell and Millan won't write a perfect record until they learn what their songs need, and abandon the inevitable few tracks on which it's refused.

While the music is all over the place the vocals feel pinned down and flat.

A 21 minute 41 second short burst of booming, stylish rock alchemy.

This album is flat boring musically and sonically.

The top half of the album is stuffed to the gills with dry Pat Benatar rips and unexciting ballads.

The streamlined zoom and precision of So Jealous makes their previous work seem tentative by comparison.

All of the bands calling cards are present—they’re just scribbled down on the back of a phone bill, rather than printed out professionally then laminated.

Howl is surprisingly solid.

An astonishing act of rejuvenation and reclamation, the album may just be the group’s best to date, and solidly reestablishes Eleanor and Matthew as progenitors of brilliantly exciting, mind-scrambling pop.

To the casual observer there's really no need to get this album if you already own Is This It or Turn On The Bright Lights.

I’ll always give credit for trying something new, but I’d expect a bit more from Electrelane after the strength of their prior album.

Fire’s not something we’ll remember for long, but it is a surprisingly good album, with highlights that simply need to be heard.

Too many of the ideas seem incomplete, like sketches waiting to be fleshed out.

There’s really nothing to this record.

No dispute: Usher, Beyonce, Christina, Britney were just keeping the seat warm: The King’s back on his throne.

Beyoncé has a presence, a character which is totally unique to her, and B’Day’s utterly imbued with it.

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.

Nothing has really changed at all.

That Harrison was evidently too busy to produce the entirety of Touch suggests a missed opportunity for a more cohesive and potentially even better album.

At this point, Wilson looks like the most important new artist to hit country music since the Dixie Chicks.

Another fine batch of eloquent, classic sounding pop songs, with a little bit of mustard added to it as well.

The inferior quality of the covers belies the excellence of American IV’s originals.

In country music, it’s all about the chops--and Millan doesn’t have ‘em. Yet.

It’s the band’s throatiest, most pressing and urgent release to date.

The album is not quite a match for The Facts of Life, then, but a more than adequate follow-up.

Overall, the impression generated by Tulsa for One Second is one of inoffensive pleasantness.

Tellingly, the consistently likable Guilt Show falters only when The Get Up Kids overextend their grasp and depart from their nearly infallible pop formula, as on the “experimental” claptrap of the album’s last two tracks.

Disparate though its individual elements may seem (and they certainly are), the sum of the parts is remarkably cohesive.

It's not a complete disaster--the songs are still there, shining proud and (far too) loud--but each listen brings a constant, aggravating reminder of the sloppy production.

Pencil Ne-Yo in as R&B rookie of the year--and don’t be surprised if no one trumps him before 2006 is gone.

This is the Prince album we wanted Musicology to be.

First Impressions of Earth is the first pretty good album of the year.

The middling adult contemporary slop, although awful, isn’t what ultimately drowns In Our Gun. That blame can fall squarely in the lap of misguided attempts at moody electronica, something the band has more successfully dabbled in previously.

The album has a smooth flow, using careful production and consistent guitar tones to blend the different musical influences and varied performances into a piece.

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

Always a wee bit more clever than anyone gave them credit for, the Keys are now a pretty good Zeppelin knockoff for the indie crowd, and little more.

Ultimately, The Day After is another middling album from a tremendously talented rapper who will never get the respect he deserves because he's all too eager to make compromised crossover records.

This record is the first time the Fucking Champs have actually managed to capture the actual emotional colors of their own banality, rather than trying to piss a whole two-minute solo all over the place.

Memory Almost Full is as good as an album as this devotee of frivolity can make in his mid-sixties.

Although clearly of more interest to rabid Cure nuts, Join the Dots is enough to bring joy (or, indeed, heartbreak) into anyone's life.

This is a solid, sturdy set of songs befitting their rootsy-but-not-exactly-honky-tonk settings.

Banhart's efforts to expand himself have left him woefully unable to play to his strengths in the rare occasions he bothers with them.

There’s just not much to get; these 9 tracks awkwardly move from one improvident moment to the next, collectively assembling a record that might elevate the mood of an extreme skiing video but does little to lift conciseness.

As mechanised as their rhythmic focus can be, there is flesh, bone, and brain beneath the near industrial barrage of beats.

Kotche delivers on all accounts, tastefully propelling the music into timelessness, nearly filling the shoes of his faves: The Band’s Levon Helm, Beefheart’s Drumbo.

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.

In Colour trades much of the punch from their first self-titled full-length for a more tender (is that even possible?) and reflective muse.

Stillmatic features the best rhymes from Nas since his debut, Illmatic, and possibly the best rhymes of the year, rivaled maybe only by Ghostface Killah’s Bulletproof Wallets. Nas rhymes wonderfully on every song, dropping knowledge like.

It’s a loud and cacophonous affair—where previous efforts doled out their noise in judicious restraint, Breaks responds to their need to unhinge their fractured pop.

If all you’re looking for is more Tobin material, then you’ve come to the right place. If you’re expecting anything more, you’d best look elsewhere.

A truly soulful pop album, at least for one disc, Back to Basics is one of 2006’s best when Linda Perry’s fingerprints aren’t present.

Bitter Tea is probably my favorite Fiery Furnaces album to date, but it isn’t without snags.

While Blue Album doesn’t break any moulds, match their best records from the mid 90s or (quite) end their career on a triumphant high, it will almost certainly find favour with old fans because it’s an undeniably good record, certainly their best since The Middle Of Nowhere and possibly even since In Sides.

New Young Pony Club claim they can give us what we want, but they haven’t got a clue what we need.

File under: very bad ideas.

Absolute Garbage makes a fine reminiscence, a gift from a party that was fun for its time but left a nasty hangover.

It can get very very dull.

A shame an NPR market supercilious of the mercenary likes of Sheryl Crow has forced her to record songs that Crow herself would consider models of autumnal acuity.

Hurricane Bar is totally contrived: too much “That Thing You Do” and not enough shot-from-below-the-hip bacchanalia to keep the fire stoked.

[It] continues with the middle-of-the-road, ambient pop approach that marked his last few efforts.

Vulcanized basslines, ice-burn synth washes, and helium-fused guitar lines again serve as his trademarks, and Nguyen has yet to shed his reliance on preset dub-lines to offset his lumpen beats. He may seem a bit more comfortable with English, but his lyrics have waned with his accent.

Hard Candy’s best moments... are fewer and further between than on previous albums.

Perhaps All City’s most pleasing triumph, for fans of Northern State’s earlier stuff, is that the colloquial character of the Hesta and co.’s voices is in no way diluted by the more polished music accompanying it.

This is probably the least fun of all his albums, but also among his most rewarding.

While sometimes Classics sees the group straying from their conceptual center, it’s never without Ratatat’s unmistakable identity and indelible gentle humor.

A richly executed and textural record—one of the best guitar-based albums of 2007 thus far.

Adding a set of young female characters to this drab mix only accentuates that a concept is needed to bolster the actual music.