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.

For a while, Magic Hour - the band's fourth full-length - lives up to the promise of its hilarious, zebra-centric-2001: A Space Odyssey cover art. But the wheels fall off with "Year of Living Dangerously," a campy, aimless doodle not even rescued by its random violin solo.

Too often on Radio Wars, velvet-voiced singer Juanita Stein seems content to hover around a handful of notes, and that makes it hard to distinguish this stuff from similarly styled fare by the Duke Spirit or Doves.

Pyramid lacks the spark a document of this importance deserves.

Seaside Rock amounts to a log of underhashed production ideas from the test kitchen.

Aphrodite feels like a disjointed hodge-podge of shallow Hi-NRG dance-floor bangers for a decidedly older crowd.

The guest-heavy formula mostly clicks, particularly on 'Clean Up Crew' with Rock and 'The Way I Live' with Mary J. Blige, but a few misfires--including awkward Slug and Immortal Technique verses--stop this memorable collaboration just short of greatness.

The music simply crawls by in a maddeningly static mid-tempo blur, going about its melancholy business on the way to nowhere.

Working with producer Adam Kasper, Vedder played nearly everything on the album. And that gives Into the Wild a cozy, intimate feel.

The trio's strongest asset has always been inspired, thoughtfully crafted pop songs, which Share the Joy should finally make clear.

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.

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

Just an okay record.

This might not be the experimental genre-crossing venture the duo set out to accomplish, but it is a slideshow of timeless pop songs.

Giving us a taste of what this genre [shoegaze]could encompass with a modernized touch.

The result may surprise some just looking to get lost in Glowstick Land: sure, there are plenty of K-hole zone-outs, but just as often Zimmerman puts songcraft and danceability ahead of the usual sci-fi-filter tricks.

You're still way better off listening to the studio version.

Breakout is a puzzling mishmash that makes sense only if you read between the lines and see the 15-year-old trapped in a machine that is partly of her own design.

Because Seger has honed his craft to such a silver-bullet point, the album never feels like a retread; as on John Fogerty’s underrated Deja Vu All Over Again from 2004, roots-rock tradition seems renewed in Seger’s hands.

It's a broad spectrum of styles, but sometimes that's just another way to describe the comfort of being your (multiple) selves.

A triumphant sequel.

Houston's version of Leon Russell's American Idol staple "A Song for You" works up to a deliciously cheesy club-pop climax. Still, with a pair of "I Believe I Can Fly"–style contributions from R. Kelly and a blustery Diane Warren ballad called "I Didn't Know My Own Strength," there's no denying the message that I Look to You was designed to hammer home. Expect fresh drama soon.

He has an eerie gift for memorable melodies, and it's put to good use on this light-hearted album, which burns through 22 songs in 45 minutes.

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.

The Only Place [is] better-sung, slower, [and] expansively produced.

There just isn't much personality on display here: Icky Blossoms strive for in-your-face decadence, but most of the time, they sound like every other anonymous dance-pop act on the planet.

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.

Much like the show’s second season, this second disc fails to build on its predecessor, rehashing the same digs at male bravado, emotional insecurity, and musical eccentricity.

The 10-minute penultimate track "Tumtum," in particular, is a tiny masterpiece of mood, stamina, and insistent rhythm, built sparingly on overlapping percussion and waves of sound. More of this kind of thing is what will squeak Boom Bip farther from the then and the now, and closer to what comes afterward.

Initially, the album seems to lack focus, save a steady burn of fury. But the anarchy's in the lack of cohesion, opening with the hand-clapping force of "Burn a Miracle" and progressing manically toward the melodic woe of "Peace Out".

Where's the band's personality? Promises glimmer everywhere, as when off-kilter instrumental breaks start stabbing away at "18th Street," but the entire album eventually drifts past without delivering anything as sonically-or emotionally-provocative.

Although only adequate run-throughs of the studio-album tracks, Stage Whispers' live performances do underscore a continuity between songs from both 5:55 and IRM that otherwise wasn't apparent. Stage Whispers' new offerings, on the other hand, are consistently interesting.

Polished, tuneful, and utterly unmemorable.

This Pleasure is known, but in the end it overstays its welcome.

In Preliminaires, the Stooge King has put together a perfect soundtrack for a short, doomy stay in the Hotel Lautréamont.

This music is more about ambiance, with the luscious haze recalling a mood rather than shaping something distinctive. Has anything ever been so perfectly gorgeous and perfectly inconsequential all at once?

See The Light has an airy feel that is more suited not only to actual dancefloor dancing (rather than the thump-until-blackout oblivion of most current electro) but to the gentle torch-song pull of Ruiz's emotive bleat.

The Cost... captures them at their best.

Wilson may be most famous for his own good-time rock-and-roll hits, but in underselling the Gershwins he's neglected his own very sophisticated and currently under-utilized capabilities.

Ode to Ochrasy is a little more energized, but Mando Diao still aren’t breaking fresh ground.

Featuring actor Rhys Ifans, who's purported to be SFA's original singer from way, way back, the Peth (Welsh for "thing") make what sounds like psychedelic rock recorded in a pub, all claustrophobic and ear-ringingly fantastic, after the pile-up of pints has turned drunkenness into a not-so-silent lucidity.

The collection itself is haphazard; what's worse is that the individual tracks build and remain suspended in mid air by very thin and awkward threads, rarely growing into full-fledged arrangements.

When it's not ripping off Panic, Love Drunk seems to be catering to other mainstream audiences and the hipster crowd.... But once you get past all that, you'll find a few solid pop-rock tunes here.

Apparitions is a solid debut that both emulates the band's contemporaries and revisits a once influential genre that most of that peer group have all but abandoned.

Respectable, serious, accomplished and... no fun.

Returning after 11 years of officially not existing, what's left of ATR could've focused their energies on kicking lots of ass. Instead, they indulge spoken-wordy, freshman-year non-profundities that mostly siphon energy from the get-up-and-f*ck-some-shit-up ethos present on a few okay tracks like "Activate" and "Codebreaker."

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

The Return of Mr. Zone 6 is an album pared down to the elements Gucci knows best - sinister beats fueled by snare pellets and twisted, carnival-like synths, deadpanned prioritization of cash over women, and collaboration with a slew of Brick Squad compatriots and friends (we hear everyone from Birdman to Master P to Waka Flocka Flame, many times over).

Kasabian can’t do anything besides snarl, a limitation that’s starting to show after only two albums.

Bleeding Rainbow provide tunes to which one could satisfactorily gaze at his or her shoes during any point of the year.

What Spiritual, Mental, Physical documents is a group kicking around possibilities that could go somewhere great, but as they appear here, only a handful of these half-cooked ideas deserve an audience.

In spite of its self-depreciating title, this odds-and-sods collection of the usual B-sides and other spare tracks lives up to some of the best material the Las Vegas foursome have delivered.

Craft Spells certainly live up to their name on this six-song EP, with the charm of its effortless, pixie-light production and the warm, plangent harp sounds of their major-key melodies.

Freedom’s Road addresses his pet topics — hard work and small-town life, not to mention freedom and the road — in catchy-enough tunes built with rootsy guitar licks, boot-scooting beats, and the occasional splash of spaghetti-western strings.

It's nice to be reminded that the world is shit and we're all gonna die. Editors have mastered the form.

Two-Way Mirror produces a handsome cacophony as is, but cutting away some of the gunk would have made it sweeter.

Everything about Free Dimensional is cheesy--from the mousey bedroom beats to the predictable synth lines to O'Regan's (hard) Soft Cell vocal delivery to the awkward, bumbling raps. Regardless, several songs are stunning.

Too often on The Evolution she’s looking over her shoulder, too self-conscious to be a real seductress.

The group’s second album continues in the same vein as the generally winning debut--only now the arrangements are lusher and more ornate and, in a few unfortunate cases, the songs are longer.

Lynn Teeter Flower... delivers on the promise of 11:11.

Closer to Closed is a testament to the decline of Braid's teen angst, but those who grew up with the band may not recognize this aging friend.

Even though the album's zany unpredictability can be thrilling, it often feels like Banks is adorning vacant tunes ("Arise Awake," the plodding instrumental "Another Chance") with bells and whistles.

Bridges has talented friends and mentors who help bring out the best in him, which is surprisingly good.

Gemini's theater-rock is no pain to listen to, but true drama queens will want to get their fix elsewhere.

It’s a mere change of scenery, then, that separates this from much of the Wedding Present’s canonical work; the scabrous schoolboy humor of their 1987 debut, "George Best," has become the scabrous, middle-aged cynicism of El Rey.

Beady Eye's eagerly awaited debut represents Liam Gallagher's uninspiring foray into the spotlight without Noel, his battle-weary brother and Oasis's chief songwriter.

Unless you’re a diehard fan, wait for their new album in the spring.

Like any great jingle, it leaves you with nothing but a vague craving for the product, without quite knowing why you need it.

The music is what matters, and Prince Rama, with this highfalutin' silliness, have delivered big.

In all, Ninth is a striking return to form.

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.

It’s a sonic adventure thanks to Burnett’s current signatures: booming drum kits sans cymbals, knotty guitars, lyrics sung through amplifiers, and an open, airy quality that’s the antithesis of modern rock production.

The effect is as scattershot as the guest list.

Dr Dee's well-defined boundaries mean it lacks the sense of adventure found in previous efforts, but Albarn deserves kudos for such artistic fearlessness.

Davis-Jeffers sounds bored throughout The Flexible Entertainer, and her languid, half-rapped vocals are entirely affectless.

Gordon isn’t much of a tune man; his melodies rarely take a memorable shape here, and his adenoidal singing turns what he does have into open-mic mush. The lyrics, too, are on a pretty low burn.

Diver is depressingly one-note, trimming back the band's scope and muscle. For some reason, Callan Clendenin sings every line in the same tiring, vacant croon, and its charm fades with each track, as does the Garageband-style production.

If Esben and the Witch don't quell their sonic histrionics, they may not get a second curtain call.

They seem hell-bent on pleasing everyone, and at times they succeed.

Luckily for fans of music and controversy alike, Madonna's compulsions reap musical dividends as she continues to bang into a dance-tastic G-spot, and the results are part sour, part sweet.

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.

This may work as a singles record, but it lacks the depth to hold much interest.

WYWH is a darker, thinner, more digitized affair whose only compelling moments come courtesy of a new-found sex appeal of the disco variety.

The beats are eminently funky, the rhymes tight, and the topics decidedly old-school: plain-spoken boasts, the rejection of greed, and an acknowledgment of our communal evolution indicate the overall tone.

Her fourth album brims with sunny hooks on its best tracks, and the alluring opener, 'Little Black Sandals,' affords her a rich, layered backdrop.

Though Eno is adequate, moments where he takes over the collaboration (such as on "West Bay" and "Watch a Single Swallow . . . ") are too under-nourished and ponderous to suggest that he's giving us something new.

Motorizer, much of which the band recorded at Dave Grohl’s Studio 606 outside LA, is Motorhead’s first studio album since... well, actually, only since 2006, when they released "Kiss of Death," which sounded pretty much exactly like this one (not to mention the 22 before it).

The songs start running together till they’re not distinct tracks so much as guitars and bass and drums and yelpy indie vocals that happen to have been recorded at the same time.

Throughout, you can feel the tension between RJ's desire to make something real, in spite of his limitations as a performer, and his discomfort with his true strengths in sample-based pastiche. In the end, it's a colossal waste of talent and time.

Besides sounding more like laptoppers Fennesz and Tim Hecker than proto-drone cousins Sunn O))), All the Way even dips into the glorious filter sweeps of trance music, here twisted toward sonic decay rather than utopia.

There's an easiness and directness to these tunes that was missing the last couple of times out, aided by Joe Henry and Ryan Freeland's no-nonsense mix but owing mainly to Farrar's vivid songwriting.

As precious as your grandma's finest china (and 10 times prettier), All Will Prosper nearly dissolves into shapeless clouds by album's end. But by then you've already dissolved into it.

Carpenter remains one of the most thoughtful writers around, but lately she's been reluctant to leave her musical comfort zone.

Even though his heavy drug phase seems to be largely over, Borrowed is his "Sgt. Pepper"--not because he’s spelunking far-flung experimental trenches, but because he finally understands that life is larger than his ego (self-depreciating as it was).

Still, like the lovable Muppet, Flaws is just a little too green to have any major impact.

Their most subdued effort yet.

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.

Even Folds’s knack for a well-placed f-bomb has devolved into a lazy device masquerading as irreverence. His attitude may remain young at heart, but his irony’s over the hill.