Yes, it’s a concept album, but it’s not crap. Actually, Scarlet’s Walk is very suitable for an artist with Amos’ capacity for spewing drama from her intense and highly articulated words.

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.

The group's consistent artistic statement with little flexibility for change or innovation upon an already distinctive sound is their own greatest strength and enemy, leaving them unable to win over new listeners with a directional change.

Nothing has really changed at all.

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.

It is music that sits at the crossroads of Neil Young and Captain Beefheart, a reverence for its rustic background balanced by a playful desire to fuck shit up.

Surprisingly reminiscent of that other white-boy hip-hop circus freak [Beck], circa 1996’s genre-mashing breakthrough Odelay.

The group’s move toward a math-metal-industrial fusion is a welcome one that should help to bring them fans that have never heard the group before.

Sadly, there’s no escaping the fact that Squire’s solo debut is a one-paced, uni-directional affair.

Pretty Girls Make Graves fall slightly short of their ambitions and capabilities, producing songs that are good, even very good, but less than what they’ve proved themselves to be capable of.

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.

Anyone expecting direction changes and unpredictability may not find this band particularly exciting, but anyone who is a sucker for catchy, contagious pop tunes will revel in Life On Other Planets.

Unfortunately, barring the opener, few of Lost In Space’s melodies do their lyrical conceits justice, and worse, many sound as if we’ve heard them before, albeit in a fresher, looser context.

Zoo Psychology is a phenomenal 20-minute experience, if only for its sheer insanity. The songs aren’t consistently strong enough for it to be remembered too long down the road, but it does make for a thrilling listen.

His last two efforts weren’t as focused, but this time he’s got about half an album’s worth of quality work.

Being Ridden is not a great album, because these kinds rarely are. Kidwell’s vision is born of confusion and disarray, so it’s only natural that his art would follow suit.

More than anything in his career, Escapology is literally riddled with confession and confusion.

Disappointing, but still a worthy purchase.

This is indie in the most traditional sense.

Howl is surprisingly solid.

It takes a couple of good close listens to appreciate Herren’s languid songwriting; a casual listener will likely enjoy listening to only a track or two before turning off.

It is a measure of Albion’s strengths that it can make itself heard above the crumpy distortion and shrill feedback generated by its author.

Suitcase 2 does exactly what it sets out to do, documenting the incredible breadth of Bob Pollard’s songwriting.

With no foil to Barat’s grumpiness and bitterness, it’s therefore difficult to see anyone getting nearly excited enough to love Dirty Pretty Things as much as many loved The Libertines.

Everything Ecstatic provides an enjoyable listen, but it also sounds as much like a groping as a declaration.

While the idea of delving into the cars of local wrecking yards and their contents is an interesting one, the music that emerges from it is noticeably weak, in comparison to other works in the genre.

As long as Wonder is producing and laying down basic arrangements himself, he’ll never be awful, which is a shame: like any lifelong charmer, he can stand to be more vulgar, or show some teeth, damn it.

Get Lonely doesn’t have the full force of any albums in the Mountain Goats catalog.