Though the Long Beach band's sound may not be the most original going, Avi Buffalo pull it off with polish, not sacrificing quality production or songwriting for the sake of a vibe.

GaGa ups the ante in terms of catchy songwriting and sheer high-in-the-club-banging-to-the-beat abandon.

Cooder, like a Keith Richards/Woody Guthrie hybrid, observes [the current political scene] all as a damn shame, with little condescension and oodles of wit.

Her [Andrea Lukic] presence makes Sundowning cathartic--if not downright life-affirming.

A weirdly entrancing collection of polished electronics and acoustic-guitar riffs layered like fruit in a parfait glass.

So Outta Reach isn't so strong that I'd recommend it above its predecessor [Smoke Ring for My Halo], but its songs are very much cut from the same cloth.

The 18 cuts here showcase the Birmingham (England) group’s brand of eerie yet pretty electro-acoustic pop as well as any of their three proper albums.

Electric Arguments is a worthy addition to the canon of this eccentric gentleman trapped in the body of a pop star.

Boy in da Corner may be the classic Dizzee will be forced to chase for the rest of his career, but Maths + English shows him still striving.

The lyrics do little to stand out, but that hardly blights the rest of the experience. And none of the 13 tracks on Nothing Hurts tops the 2:45 mark, so it’s a speedy listen.

Temporal as a whole is evenly mastered and gratifyingly titanic.

[At times on Wild Peace] you might wonder if Echo Lake are merely a caricature of every previous shoegaze and dream-pop outfit. What saves the duo is how splendidly their iridescent sounds can evoke a moment, allowing listeners to lose themselves in the music.

Perkins's simple, folk-hymn melodies are helped along by New Orleans brass, harmonica, B-3 organ, and harmonium, their trumpeting and wheezing sounds adding levity to blunt statements.

Enlisting uber-producer Jacknife Lee (Bloc Party, Kasabian, R.E.M.) has brought some magic that keeps the mid-'90s flame--if not eternal--then at least at a reliable glow.

For some, this could be unlistenable; for others, it will simply come off like the natural product of glitch, shoegaze (to which Bundick certainly owes his chord palette), lo-fi, and psych.

Keith is... for the first time living up to the standards of his most important precursor, the shape-shifting funkateer George Clinton. That is, even as he jokes and grooves his way through Octagon’s long-awaited return, he’s also serious as shit.

Albarn's work here with visual director Jamie Hewlett and a rotating cast of collaborators--Dan the Automator, Danger Mouse, Lou Reed, Snoop, etc.--is as remarkable as their 2001 debut selling six million records.

Reliable cynicism, not artistic invention, is the band's forte (Moody blends into one big damaged canvas), but Froberg's vitriol is still intoxicating.

The band bring the tang of that elsewhere pop back to Carried to Dust, however, planting big-hook sensibility and the willingness to evolve within its Southwestern mood pieces.

Son exudes the studied calm of a laboratory technician engaged in heavy-duty experimentation.

Speech Therapy has a lot going for it: it's a solid confessional debut about the singer's experiences as a black South Londoner, the backing tracks are inventive jazzy jams played by sympathetic musicians, and the upshot is an uncompromising suite of female-empowerment snapshots.

Too good to hate, not exciting enough to love, she still makes most of what’s out there sound like phony baloney.

Idea of Happiness never tries to re-imagine the concept of the summer album or, at the very least, the genre of synthpop.

Whereas their 2006 disc, "Moonlighting," was across-the-board impressive but a tad monotonous, their latest hinges on memorable and unpredictable style jumps.

At the core of any Swollen Members project--and Armed to the Teeth, their first in three years, is no exception--is a clean, uncomplicated spread of kaleidoscopic semi-pop bangers from producer Rob the Viking.

Scott-Heron's roughed-up reading of Bill "(Smog)" Callahan's title track certainly does the trick, though his tender take on the Bobby Blue Bland hit "I'll Take Care of You" only makes you realize how much life he's got left in him.

They might have lost a little bit of character, but thankfully Big Troubles remain reliable writers of catchy pop songs.

He avoids being too folksy or slipping into an acoustic coma by layering percussion, electric guitars, and strings when needed. By the end, you’ll feel you’ve been through the same wringer.

Although the record is on the slight side--there’s simply no replacing the inexorable, existential pushing forward of 'Dallas' or 'Smith & Jones Forever'--Berman still has a knack for catching you off guard with moments of strange beauty.

Regardless of their ability to stand out in a crowd, they write tunes sharper than a thumbtack, with words that ramble around in fascinating stream-of-consciousness webs.

Even though damn near every third song sounds designed to sell overpriced sweaters at the Gap, the nectar at the heart of this album is worth the roughage you have to chew through to get there.

Although a three-song offering that sounds like something scraped together using leftovers from a four-year-old album may seem a letdown, it's not, if only because, in those four years, many have tried to mimic Burial's sound but to no avail.

When Longstreth uses his newfound focus to shake up his methods... the results are often startling.

The Stones mined its [sessions] results for years to come, creating little else of value otherwise and entering the nostalgia-act phase of their career, effectively making Some Girls the last gasp of credible new music by the self-proclaimed World's Greatest Rock and Roll Band.

Slightly less coherent than his previous stunner, "Awfully Deep," Slime & Reason has tracks intended to fill dance floors and cuts that are more layered, their intricate beats and rhymes better suited to headphone enjoyment.

Townes does what a tribute album should do: Earle evokes the essence of the honoree without giving up a smidgen of his own individuality.

Sinners Never Sleep is a transitional album, though such efforts rarely bode as well for the future as this does.

Animal is a clear subversion of pop norms amid a sea of synth stabbing and whisky guzzling, a kick in the groin on a dark dance floor.

As confidently current as Say It comes off, it doesn’t sound susceptible to fashion. Given enough attentive ears, the Ruffians may have made a statement that will last a long time--or at least assembled enough ears for the next one.

It's a crucial listen and one of the most rewarding releases of 2012.

Rock Music is free of both the maudlin and the mundane, and oddly rousing, too.

Even with a dozen records behind him, Smith, when he puts his mind to it, remains a master at crafting concise masterpieces of bouncy pop majesty.

Mirror Traffic is the first time he's tried to make a Jicks-as-band record digestible.

Loaded with the sort of multi-tiered melodies you find in the early work of XTC.

On Angles, the band tossed a few tunes out that sounded like carbon-copies of their first album, but on Machine they eschew that kind of market compromise in favor of following their strange muse, even if in the end most listeners will have trouble pegging down who it sounds like.

There’s atmosphere, sure, but it’s less sad-guy sitting room and more 22nd-century juke joint.

Although it’s not a major departure, Dear Science, does have a more open, brighter sound than "Return to Cookie Mountain."

The disc's six tracks clock in at less than 40 minutes, so there isn't really time to screw things up on a royal scale, making Grace/Confusion a fine listen.

By the end of the 13-track disc, Lee's unwaveringly hopeful message starts to sound preachy. But if it works for him, well, maybe he’s onto something.

He may have found the perfect partner in the Shins' James Mercer, whose moody pop sensibilities complement Mouse's muted time-capsule colors.

Gold Leaves go about their dreaminess the au naturel way, and they're all the better for it.

Be the Void might be the band's least accessible offering yet, but it's certainly their bravest--and given some breathing room, it might just prove their most rewarding.

It’s also one of the best-sounding records of 2009, with a simple, clean style and plenty of piano, banjo, and pedal steel to flesh out the dynamics.

Heart of My Own amplifies guarded things, a tuneful prototype of new-century folk intent on having its voice heard.

whereas Krell's keening, pleading falsetto dominated Love Remains, Total Loss finds him granting the rest of his sonic palette more prominence.

A return to what Jones does best: Stax-inspired soul-rock showpieces, brassy ballads, and an emphasis on the massive voice itself, which hasn't dissipated a scintilla since 1964.

There's not much fault to find with the music here, however, particularly when she elects to dial down the raw-edged guitar fuzz the Bastards have become known for.

Still blessed with cleverness, tunes, sass, and youth, she generally pulls it off.

The music here is visceral enough that it holds its own in the legacy of the project.

The Cost... captures them at their best.

The great news is that even the bad news is good news: Alabama Shakes have a hell of a lot of growing to do, but even their slightest tunes pack a punch.

Urban has the market wisdom to balance his artistic efforts with assembly-line Nashville pop-chart fodder.

A lovely, thoughtful album.

Although Citrus allures with its dizzying waves of sound and airy melodies, the band never let those elements become tangential or spiral off into cul-de-sacs of pointless theatrics.

Lupe’s new sophomore disc, Lupe Fiasco’s The Cool (Atlantic), is way too long.

Spine Hits as a whole is a tighter operation, less intended to soundtrack your mushroom trip, but a worthy attempt to bridge the gap to the mainstream.

If there's a knock to be had against the Harlem rapper, it's that he lacks an original presence. So it's curious that for his major-label debut he's opted to further venture down the rabbit hole of references, loading Long.Live.A$AP with a bevy of guests with personalities far more distinctive than his own.

Jimmy Eat World go to great lengths to recapture the anthemic thrills of "Clarity"--and give or take a few bouts of brooding cynicism, they’ve succeeded.

She layers airy, tightly harmonized vocal hooks over sleek synths, strummy guitars, and booming hip-hop beats, and the songs broadcast their emotional content--anxiety, melancholy, resilience--with a straightforwardness you rarely hear outside children’s music. That simplicity doesn’t detract from the ample melodic and textural pleasures, but it does give Down to Earth a limited shelf life.

Some tracks, of course, are as sexy as a soggy batch of freedom fries once the words are comprehensible. But the best updates... have a seedy splendor all their own.

Damaged isn’t the most tuneful record Wagner and company have made.

Beyond a scrappy/winsome take on the Beach Boys' "Shut Down," there's not much to distinguish one track from another. It's all shits-and-giggles, all the time.

Something To Die For has the Swedish dance/pop outfit awkwardly dipping a toe into the pool of trance music.

The misstep here is that it all sounds too safe - rarely does he deviate from the sweet, melodious splendor of previous S&S discs.

On its own, Pierce's clever lyrical ache resonates; but in extended play, his yearning and preening against twee surf-pop and minimal electro-pop can grow tiresome.

It’s their honest simplicity that offers a refreshing contrast to the irony of neo-new-wave disco retreads that are all the rage in the UK.

The tracks are re-released here, along with some extras, and mostly betray a songwriter still finding his own voice.

Of course, there are neat textures and chilled-out sounds. But by the end of the record, you have only a few tunes or hooks to serve as a souvenir of the 44-minute journey you've just taken.

El-P's least ambitious record.

Minks floats along like a Sofia Coppola movie - delicate and listless, topped with a glossy and charming overcoat, but lacking in substance.

Though no new ground is broken, the classically trained pianist and Berklee alumna shows her confidence and talent with this strong break-up record right after the quirky cool of last year's Taller Children.

The continuous hitmaking of Present the Paisley Reich might be gone forever, but Dancer Equired offers up enough catchy pop jams to warrant a listen.

...The Ever Expanding Universe provides a nice excuse to put on the headphones and look up at the stars. There's nothing wrong with having one's head in the clouds, but this band could stand to make the occasional contact with earth.

Comfortably normal, the War on Drugs make for a nice tonic to the sometimes overly weird attitudes of modern indie-psych bands.

It's more like the album we should all discover after they've broken through with their second or third long-player, when we'll all be a lot more forgiving.

1,000 Years--the record Sleater-Kinney might have made at the very beginning if they'd been ambivalent about whether to turn up the volume and the attitude--is a meditation on age, timelessness, and nostalgia that could elicit a glass-half-full/half-empty decision from fans.

At this stage, Small Black are a charming but undeveloped outfit. Moving from an aquarium to a sea (or even a pond) would be an intriguing next step.

What still holds up is the low-end garage-rock throb of Mick Taylor and Keith's guitars with bassist Bill Wyman, and the idiosyncratic bite of Jagger's diction. But even Mick's attempts to offend (like changing the age of that stray cat from 15 to 13) make this special four-disc 40th-anniversary "deluxe" edition more historic document (and collectible!) than satisfying listen.

Light on laughs and riffage, the title/cover entendre makes it hard to tell if it is supposed to be so terrible or a joke about being so terrible... But the long-available cover of Radiohead's "Street Spirit" is inspired, and first single "Nothin's Gonna Stop Us" grafts one candy rope hook after another into one of the year's finest melodies.

Good Time is old-school in the sense that he’s bypassed Nashville’s army of songwriters to pen all 17 songs himself, and modern in the sense that at least half of the 17 slide by your ears without making much of an impression.

The album's listlessness - when compared to the blisteringly restless heartbreak/firecracker of Dreams - is kind of a bummer.

The album stutters heavily in the middle. Hercules are a 12-inch outfit, and "Boy Blue" and "Blue Song" are failed attempts at varying the mood with some despondency. As if they wanted to make Blue Songs more than a collection of singles, which it isn't.

The real weak link is Hawk's airy falsetto, which is too underwhelming for its own good. But give him a hairbrush, a mirror, and another couple of years and we'll see how it sounds then.

The bulk of Roses is like a spring day in the first week of May - not exactly shocking, but sunny and warm.

The songwriting isn’t BRMC’s most memorable, but Baby 81’s noise-roots fumes are pretty thick.

When Fish Ride Bicycles doesn't have the same old-school shine to it. Instead it feels caught between a few different directions, as personified by its guest list: Travis Barker, Asher Roth, Bun B, and the irreducible Ghostface Killah. But even with the help, none of the tracks stretch particularly far from the Cool Kids' limited palette.

In SOAD, Tankian’s vocal gymnastics and penchant for subversive lyrics are kept somewhat in check by the mix of muscle and subtlety guitarist Daron Malakian brings to the table. Here, there’s nothing to hold him back.

The dry vocal mix leaves her somewhat narrow range exposed. It adds up to an unsatisfying whole.