When listening to Hippies, it's difficult to forget that Harlem have professed their love for Nirvana, and still more difficult to suppress the urge to tell them to turn down that bass already.

What BYOP now lack is the element of surprise that made their debut such a kick; they no longer sound as if they had something to prove, and that drains their music of much of its charm.

I had to make several return trips to the lyric sheet to clear up which songs were love letters and which were screw-yous. But this sort of tone-deaf emotional bludgeoning tends to work in her favor on monstrous power ballads.

Even if Sainte-Marie tries to cram too much into her joyous return to the limelight, Running for the Drum is proof that a path that began with the powerful "Universal Soldier" back in the early 1960s won't be fading gracefully into the usual sunset of folk retirement.

The mood ... is decidedly bleak- populated by disillusioned lovers and working class escapists, the lyrics splitting at the seams with dark religious imagery.

Sounds hollow and uninspired.

The Inner Mansions is much more interesting than your typical bedroom pop album.

In the end, the record seems an ascetic exercise, complete with drumstick count-ins.

Degeneration Street is a bit of a tease, a solid alternative-rock album with some exciting sounds that afford only a peek into the Dears' potential.

On "Cynic's New Year," Portland, Ore., indie-folk duo Horse Feathers stick so firmly to their sonic guns that it becomes tightly constricting.

Although Scattered Trees get emotionally expansive throughout this full-length debut, there's a distinct lack of production (and even playing) here, and that colors the proceedings with an anonymous hue.

Some things, like this album, are best left unanalyzed and simply enjoyed for their own bone-headed dedication to rockin’ out like a motherfucking banshee. Which Going Way Out does in spades and diamonds.

Her magnetic debut album doesn't aim to break new ground, but her rustic, Stevie Nicks–ish voice unifies the myriad sounds that position her as both a radio-ready alt-country chick and a young, hip folkstress who pulls off online covers of Lady Gaga and Kid Cudi.

Hush quells qualms with the relaxed assurance every third album should carry.

The Tigers have no trouble doing vivacious and catchy without being cloying, so it's a shame they've shelved that skill.

High Places v. Mankind, took just criticism for being a run-of-the-mill indie record with no charisma, Original Colors is a more than respectable rebound.

Hysterical is built for the long haul, and it appears, after a patch of rocky terrain, that Clap Your Hands are too.

Safari Disco Club is unlikely to find itself in the speakers of many dance parties on this side of the Atlantic in coming weeks.

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.

These tunes shred as po’-facedly as any the Champs have recorded.

Confident non-jumpers shouldn't be concerned that this disc weeps with you're-always-dying-inside woe-is-my-love-life misery.

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.

Rapprocher does what last year's (s)excellent debut EP Journal of Ardency did so well, letting Harper be the pretty face of electronic compositions that, with her aid, become liberating, confident, oozing with inviting overtones.

Hard Bargain is a gorgeous album.

Sleep Forever is about accepting mortality, and if its skill represents the possibilities of their earthly journey, long live Crocodiles.

The General Strike sticks to the same supposedly state-smashing standards that drove the previous six or so albums from these Pittsburgh-bred punks into redundancy.

The majority of the songs aren't much more than bare bones, with sparse piano and spacious, airy guitars, but it's the way the women work together so naturally that promises more than a one-off experiment.

Brushes with the law and a cocaine habit sent his personal life on a turn to the dark side, something that's soon evident over the course of Mr. Rager's 17 remorseful tracks.

The track's sonic cousin, "Burn Bridges," still stands tall on sparkly synth loops and bumper-sticker lyrics ("Burn bridges/Make yourself an island"), but the rest of the EP soars mostly on lo-fi surf pop made by landlocked youth using Casios and Fruity Loops in bored bedrooms.

Even when Banhart seems more in a predicament than in the zone, he’s hopelessly inventive. Several songs experience complete transformations over their modest three-minute spans, succeeding like little daybreaks.

Nothing's as timeless as "Blue" or "Waiting for the Sun," but the thrill here is all about those two lonely voices that find each other, in this future of theirs, caught up in that rush of harmony.

If there was ever a worry of the Hives maturing- or simply becoming less like the Hives - there isn't anymore.

So far--on two full-lengths and a pair of EPs--the results have been underwhelming. That trend continues on this homonymous disc.

Give Pink three spins and half a chance and by track five's killer New Order riff, you'll be singing 'Please, Don't Leave Me' back at her.

A lovely, thoughtful album.

While lukewarm as a whole, The Messenger doesn't suck nearly enough to bruise Marr's status as a guitar deity on wheels.

'New Dark Ages,' with its layered background harmonies, wall-of-sound instrumentation, and quietly propulsive drumming, is a 27-year career in a nutshell.

NY’s Finest finds the legendary producer consistent, if not innovative.

Although the Cribs are very good at what they do, the songwriting on the album just feels tired and unfocused.

Ratatat never get as Daft funky or as outright punky as you’d want. But they never linger for too long in one place, and they throw more than enough cerebral curveballs to keep you on your musical toes.

No one song here will change your life, but there are some that could come close.

They are a hell of a band if you're looking for catchy rock with occasional sparks of brilliance.

Mirage Rock might as well be the name of a new airy-rock subgenre, with luscious, echoey story-tunes rolling in like a soft mirage-inducing mountain fog.

[It] depends less on the band’s gear-smashing antics than on their sense of tunecraft, which isn’t as highly developed.

Telephantasm is a solid retrospective for a Seattle metal band who got wrapped up in flannel, became an MTV staple, and left the game before ending up like Nirvana or, worse, Pearl Jam.

The beauty of Beach Fossils has always been in the tension between Payseur's disaffected deadpan and the band's super-visceral live shows (before Beach Fossils, he spent years playing in hardcore bands) and on Clash much of that post-punk energy translates seamlessly.

A curiosity from a true talent.

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.

There's nothing particularly wrong with what Minaj has given us - her pipes are worthy of wide-ranging pop stardom - but the album is a misallocation of the talent and quirk that thrust her into the spotlight in the first place.

Justice never lose sight of the big picture, aiming to blow your minds and sub-woofers with equal determination.

Tennis are still cute as a button, but now they have songs to go along with the smiles.

Their signature '80s homage is consistent across their songwriting, lyrics, album covers, and design - even their videos. And despite their claims to the contrary, the duo have enough self-aware irony to rise above the level of a throwback novelty act or a one-trick nostalgia pony.

So the Death Set essay a Jekyll/Hyde routine of dramatic contrasts, pitting lightning-fried guitars, unpredictable computerized effects, and goofy bullshit against mellow hooks and relative subtlety.

A good deal of the album (particularly the first half) uses the new-fangled instrumentation sporadically, as an afterthought to a slightly darker version of the duo's time-honored techniques. This is where LP4, though flawlessly produced, is messy.

The record bursts with energy and purpose, revealing the brilliance that advocates like the Roots’ ?uestlove have long suspected 9th had in him.

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.

When it comes to production values, Broken Hymns is a marked improvement from 2005’s self-financed "Head Home." Still, songs kinda meant to evoke the 1930s aren’t necessarily better or worse off with snazzier studio treatment.

Even when Fountains of Wayne are phoning it in, they're never less than professional. Think of this as a thoughtfully-written greeting card of an album.

Red Sparowes can’t shake the post-rock stereotype--but occasionally they do point the way forward.

The Luyas do supply some exquisite instrumental ingredients--a French horn sent through pedals, an obscure zither-like contraption called the Moodswinger, and various electronic effects--but they have a tough time making anything memorable out of them. Timidity eventually renders their work tedious.

Long on tweedly solos, rambling structures, and songs about being trapped in space and time, Prior to the Fire--love the title, dudes, despite my disappointment--is sure to satisfy hardcore stoner-metal devotees with no fear of the occasional eight-minute track length. Everybody else should seek out "Hello Master."

For All I Care adds vocalist Wendy Lewis to the line-up of pianist Ethan Iverson, bassist Reid Anderson, and drummer David King, and though it inches the Bad Plus closer to the pop mainstream, it never loses the particular rhythmic and harmonic quirks that have defined them so far.

The songs, a handful of covers and about a dozen originals, aren't terrible, but the ukulele gets really old, really quick.

A self-conscious return to Dashboard’s acoustic-troubadour roots. The good news is that the mellower sounds don’t come with mellower sentiments.

The sound is as swoon-inducing as it is complex. A brilliant debut full-length.

Like labelmates Passion Pit, Freelance Whales trick out their wistful, post–Postal Service electro-pop with just enough record-nerd insularity to fend off cred-endangering Justin Bieber fans.

Anyone digging into Maya (or MAYA, as it's being promoted) expecting club-banging pop hits will be . . . not disappointed, but definitely confused.

It’s one of the most unabashed love letters to anthemic ’80s synth-pop ever laid to hard disc....If that sounds like an unappealing clarion call from a dark musical period that you’re still trying to forget, this isn’t the album for you. But for those of us who weren’t beaten up by Harold Faltermeyer in a dream, Head First is a wondrous piece of creative anachronism.

His melodies, whether delivered in an affected falsetto (closer to Animal Collective than the Beach Boys) or a grumpy baritone, are simple and hummable to a fault--without the energy of the distorted cassette recording, I have a feeling the songs would be a bit too cloying.

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

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.

Mathematics conjures a distinct Wu melancholy that outsiders can only imitate. Most impressive here, however, is Method Man.

Despite the raucous vibe, Diamond Rugs is flawed - scattered, unfocused, and rather long, at 14 tracks.

What separates Reed from his would-be contemporaries is just how much Come and Get It! is not a pop-crossover record -- a point that is the album's strength, as well as its potential weakness.

It’s more polished and sonically ambitious. But it’s not a major departure.

Loose, loud, and fun.

For a visionary guy like Hendrix, this glorified compilation isn't as imaginary as it could be.

Hansard gave himself a hard act to follow, but he pulls it off with Repose. He doesn't shun the sound that made the Once soundtrack a hit, but he does expand his palette and show off the breadth of his songwriting prowess.

Texas's Trail of Dead settle into a nice groove somewhere between the two on their sixth album.

The likes of Kate Nash and company have flitted through this piano siren/exuberant dance-diva territory, but never mind, because this gorgeous genre starts now.

Great Lake Swimmers' sugar-sweet ditties easily drift in one ear and, unfortunately, out the other.

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.

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

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.

Lysandre inevitably feels a bit skimpy. It's still an unnervingly tuneful warm-up: freed from his hipster shackles, Owens is harnessing the power of the incredibly uncool--and he's all the cooler for it.

The disc largely lacks the memorable song- writing Merritt is known for, and that deficit is only compounded by the misguided production.

Noise Floor is a smattering of moods and modes all tied together by Oberst’s love-it-or-loathe-it voice.

Hooks are competent and decent but never demanding enough for you to race out to get a song's lyrics embedded into your skin.

Steam Days is usually pretty, but it's also a snooze.

Fans will welcome the grotesquely titled 'Ultra Vomit Craze' and 'Gag Shack,' reveling in subtle mood shifts found amid the ferocious racket. Skeptics and nay-sayers will remain unconvinced of the genre's ability to move beyond bratty outbursts.

This latest entry in the old-icon-meets-young-iconoclast trend is lit up by the sparks between the principals.

Here, Dolls II make their move, surging forward while simultaneously nodding to a time that predates even that first über-influential incarnation.

Argos's unrepentant superstar imitations aside, Brilliant! Tragic! holds some well-written standouts.

Double-O and Nawledge were not yet capable of chopping up the sort of cuts that people sing in traffic. They are now--there's no boredom in Land of Make Believe.

Part of the problem is Rihanna's essential blandness in a post-Gaga/post-Idol pop market, but mostly it comes down to the siren-song nature of her amazingly recognizable voice.

As long as Brit keeps the ballads to a minimum and plays to her strength as a willing pop renegade (which she does here more than on any of her previous albums), she will continue to make exciting, groundbreaking modern music.

Love Sign dips a little too far into the Fountains of Wayne kiddie pool.

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