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.