Vernon’s music is stripped-down, uniformly quiet, and confessional, his clipped, cracked, Will Oldham-inspired lyrics not evidence of cabin delirium, but the work of an artist warmed by a creative glow that only pure isolation (read: freedom) can fully render.

With No Flashlight, Elvrum is shifting the focus of his music onto himself. It’s unclear whether this is the smartest move to make, in light of his obvious production mastery.

Finn is a decidedly great lead non-singer, and because of this, he has to rely on brainy, culture-referencing wordage as opposed to impressive melodic style or range. Fortunately, his banter rarely disappoints, even if it is a little repetitive at times.

It doesn’t always succeed, but it most definitely exceeds expectations.

[A] lean, effective debut.

The tenderfooted wandering of the We Are Him’s final third make it less compelling than its flagellating first half but have patience; Gira always gets there.

At times, as with Segundo, it’s tempting to just let Molina pull you under.

BYOP’s debut cascades on itself. Its compulsive, one-sitting punk is delivered with absolute self-conviction.

There’s nothing groundbreaking here, and this record could very well sound sickeningly syrupy come December, but Hal have found a way of reflecting the sun from a time when it wasn’t quite so poisonous.

The Fratellis are beyond infectious.

If you can get past all the arch pretension, When the Deer Wore Blue rewards you with plenty of tunes.

Hera Ma Nono improves on "Ok-Oyot System" in almost every way: the guitar sounds are more vibrant (padded with reverbs, phasers, and other bubbly what-have-you’s); the songs hang together better as a record; the slide between Swahili, English, and Luo is as effortless and colorful as good pidgin; and, most importantly, it usually gets at--or at least hints at--African music’s most cherished balance: unhurriedness with a pulse.

Some of the sonic twists and turns that Delays pull on You See Colours--the multi-tracked vocals, the airy guitars, the pulsing synths--are jaw-dropping.

Underneath the big production, Steele writes some great melodies, and that’s the real reason that his sometimes dubious experimentations pay off.

Even if [some] of it gets a little one-note, it's an addictive note.

The majority of Nastasia’s guitar-and-piano bit parts are full bodied and masterful, overshadowing many big-footed leading ladies’ recent folk releases.

Cryptograms is by no means a flawless record, but taking the time to speak its language, tap into the dueling forces that make it tick, is an intriguing reward.

None of these songs truly sound fully-formed, able and confident, but all of them have their "moments," and some of them do come crashing down like a tidal wave of yearbook memories

This is a staggering debut with layers of errant, mystical roars born from man’s relationship between his guitar, a chord, and a speaker.

This is a very good record. I personally dare the “ASHLEE SUX” folks reading this to give it a reasonably objective spin.

Smith’s abrupt changes in tempo, volume, and instrumentation are alternately inspiring and disorienting.

While their recorded output has still not quite caught up to their prowess as a live band, that moment is likely right around the corner; in the meantime, this album is more than good enough to make that wait worthwhile.

For an album about all the bad things that can happen to us, it sounds pretty damn good.

A Healthy Distrust’s production and wordplay have improved to such a large degree that it’s hard to believe that it could happen again on the next outing.

The excessive genre-bending of their debut has been exchanged for a dilettantism honed to a much sharper point.

iT is the most focused art the Projectors have ever produced.

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.

Strongly, boringly decent.

The four new Magnetic Fields tracks, while good, add little more to Merritt’s considerable repertoire than a few catchy melodies, with scarcely a clever line to boast.

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

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

A number of songs crumple under the weight of the album’s ambition.... Regardless, Amore del Tropico is a fine, fine record: a lively, lovely concept album that bridges the gap between Nick Cave and Calexico.

By turns thrilling, gratifying, and hideous.

Clearly, Gold Chains has a lot to say and a lot to prove, and possesses the means to do so. What this requires is some focus.

<A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1410" TARGET="_blank">People are claiming The Rapture are geniuses, saviours and innovators but the simple truth is that they aren&#146;t.</A> [Review 1, score=70] <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1411" TARGET="_blank">One hates to frown on a band&#146;s ambition, but you may find yourself hoping that next time out the band plays to their strengths the whole way through.</A> [Review 2, score=75]

Musically there&#146;s not enough variation to keep things interesting throughout.</A>[Note: Score listed is an average of two separate reviews: a <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/musicreviews/grandaddy-sumday2.shtml" TARGET="_blank">61</A> and an <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/musicreviews/grandaddy-sumday1.shtml" TARGET="_blank">85</A>]

As sumptuous and sublime as much of Hypnotic Underworld is, Ghost tend to noodle too long.

It could have been much more, but for what it is -- a blissful summer excursion -- L' Avventura is delicately delightful.

More inventive song writing and a less antagonistic stance could have helped Sigur Ros create something as equally stirring as their previous album.

Given the genre-splicing we witnessed on 10,000 Hz Legend, Talkie Walkie sometimes seems like white-bread Air, like a fractured spin-off of Moon Safari.

She doesn’t attempt to emulate the pedantic attention to detail of Kevin Shields, largely avoiding the dreamlike wooziness of Loveless, but rather builds on the cathartic emotional impact that feedback and noise can lend to melancholic melodies.

But for all of the good things that can be said about the first half of the record, the second half misses the very things that made both of the previous two records such conflicted masterpieces.

The Notwist are obviously talented enough to keep me guessing if they wanted to. They just don't. They are quite happy making simple pop songs, albeit with complex ingredients.

The relentlessness of the pillaging becomes one of the album&#146;s virtues&#151;each song wildly varies from the next, revealing thirty-five minutes of noise and pop that extends far beyond the surface into a slowly decaying singalong monster.

The weak point of the disc... is the songwriting.... But if you&#146;re in it for pure sonic pleasure, you&#146;re in the right place.

Unlike the playgrounds inhabited by those chillout bands--and other post-Air types, for that matter--the rhythms aren’t just here to keep time. Instead, they add texture and purpose, swinging from chunky bass lines to dub soundscapes.

This record is packed with deceptively simple melodies -- often aping established pop forms and the singer&#146;s usual array of influences -- that are nearly irresistible because of the detail that Momus and Talaga infuse into each of his songs.

Review 1: <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1418" TARGET="_blank">This is what they do- they don’t ape other bands. They ape pop music. And they do it better than any other band right now.</A> [score=80]; Review 2: <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1419" TARGET="_blank">33 minutes and 34 seconds of the SAME album!</A> [score=65]

Come Here When You Sleepwalk is a soporific reverie that wafts gently and beguilingly but ultimately insubstantially.

Enjoyable rather than revelatory, and quirky rather than profound.

Capable punk rock with a slightly skuzzy, yet unmistakably pop edge.

Apropa&#146;t&#146;s biggest flaw could be the use of Eva Puyuelo Muns&#146; vocals. Perhaps I&#146;m accustomed primarily to Herren&#146;s music as instrumental, but the use of Eva feels painfully forced at times.

To understand why the album is disappointing, you must consider the different perspectives. The fresh listener sees an EP's worth of quality songs and a six-minute skit roadblock. Someone who heard the leak is confused as to why more wasn't done to circumvent the lack of newness inherent in early disclosure. Diehard MFers will retain respect in spite of reused beats, but won't be able to avoid comparing it to the solid-but-sparse King Geedorah record.

While Barnes' lyrics don't indulge in apocalyptic imagery or read like autopsy reports, the lyrical subjects range from death, to low culture, to existentialism. When combined with such inexplicitly peppy music, the somber nature of Barnes' lyrics welcomes hesitant laughter.

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 &#147;experimental&#148; claptrap of the album&#146;s last two tracks.

Little new or exciting is added to the mix that can&#146;t be found in different forms on their previous two albums. Instead, the album works as a consolidation of strengths from earlier works.

Like a leather whip encased in a spun sugar cage, it is simultaneously deeply sexy yet innocent. And it&#146;s that push-pull tension that keeps this album yanked together tighter than a PVC miniskirt.

The psychedelic underpinnings of old are cleaned up a bit and the anger and bile that lay beneath the surface of the earlier material has been calmed, but there is still much to be enjoyed.

A good and often great debut.

An underdeveloped and frail album.

A set of saccharine sweet songs which occasionally dissolve spectacularly in a haze of whirring electronic mist.

The songs are immediately accessible, with a classic rock/modern pop delivery that&#146;s every bit as lively and exciting as the very first disc this band released.

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.

It's good in its own right, but perhaps you're better off listening to it in isolation from the rest of their canon. It's not quite there, but it is definitely a good record.

Fanfare aside, even though the naked version is an improvement, Let It Be remains the Beatles&#146; worst album.

I’d imagine Thunder Lightning Strike will not age well nor reward a thousand listens, but for what it attempts to do, and succeeds, it’s worthy of attention.

Falls a few yards short of essential listening.

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

While Blue Album doesn&#146;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&#146;s an undeniably good record, certainly their best since The Middle Of Nowhere and possibly even since In Sides.

With such a pitch-perfect sonic backdrop, RJ makes it almost impossible for 'Print to fail, each track equipped with all the genetic material an emcee needs to deliver either a sage-solemn message or a quick-witted punchline.

While traditional rock fans may have a difficult time swallowing Cake&#146;s meticulously produced, pop-obsessed, genre-bending concoction, fans of Moby, Beck and The Flaming Lips might make for easy converts.

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.

Burn Piano Island, Burn was something approaching a masterpiece and Crimes doesn’t live up to its lofty standard.

They sound like little else you&#146;ve heard before.

As rap, this hardly registers. As political commentary, it&#146;s too obtuse to make much impact. But as eclectic, genre-bending music with an ear for interesting sounds and a knack for making ambiguous lyrics memorable, cLOUDDEAD&#146;s second effort is uniquely promising and satisfying.

Like David Bowie’s Station to Station or Peter Gabriel’s So, TV on the Radio make music that demands to be listened to actively, as for the listener to absorb the lethal amounts of heartbreak, dignity, and mystery in the human voice.

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

The production's sanitary feel plays a large role in the album's conservative nature, as it scrubs away any potential raucousness.

Beckett references numerous stylistic signposts across the multifaceted recording&#146;s thirteen tracks--Merzbow, Chain Reaction, Fennesz, Techno, Pole--but manages to personalize his music too by infusing its cool, abstract minimalism with a sensual warmth and melodic pop sensibility.

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

Beans has yet to learn, however, that we’re paying the price of admission to hear him wrap his tongue around the mic, not screw around with his drum machine.

The mood for both is, in a word, joyous.

A vibrant album that at times sounds like it&#146;s a young band&#146;s first shot at the cherry.

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.

A more straightforwardly uplifting listen.

Where Jerusalem was all reaction, humanely riddled with helplessness and incomprehension, The Revolution Starts...Now is the well-honed response, a focused act of civil disobedience.

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.

Kill the instrumentals and one or two filler tracks and you've got one of the best EPs of the year.

Fortunately, the good songs outnumber the bad; unfortunately, the veteran Costello has made the rookie mistaking of frontloading the disc.

What it ultimately comes down to is style versus substance. Once Midnight Movies matches the latter with the former, the results should be nothing short of stunning.

What makes Trust Not Those In Whom Without Some Touch Of Madness a career highlight for Zedek is how she avoids misery while continuing to confront emotional storminess.

Though lacking in innovation, the final GBV album will please any longtime fan that prefers &#147;Game of Pricks&#148; to &#147;Chicken Blows&#148;. Pollard&#146;s songwriting finally feels consistent, fully realized and commanding.

Interesting, strong in places, but overlong and uneven.

Pawn Shoppe Heart is the type of thrillingly raucous, visceral, harsh, storming brand of balls-all-the-way-out rock familiar to anyone paying vaguely close mind to current Detroit rumblings.

Ultimately we can&#146;t get a bead on Brandy precisely because she hasn&#146;t yet figured it out herself.... Which is exactly what makes Afrodisiac such a fascinating exercise.

So even if, like me, you find the lyrics and Elton John-style coda to &#147;Superfool&#148; annoying, you&#146;ll probably also find yourself singing along; this is the sort of record whose vices, if you give it a chance, slowly become virtues.

The baggy beats and techno touches that occasionally made their eponymous debut seem slightly forced and naïve are stripped away, O’Brien’s production giving the band a more expensive, professional sound, just as massive and frenetic as the wilful teenage strafing they used to create, but with infinitely more control.

The Libertines don’t even try for a good album; they sound like four blokes lucky to be jamming in the same room again, and their joy in each other’s company redeems the enterprise.