Little Big Town make implicit the debt they owe to the California rock of Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles in a way that makes Little Big Town seem fresh and thrilling compared to most other Music Row acts.

Woke Myself Up is smart, arresting, and nimble; at 30 minutes, the only real disappointment is that it’s over too soon.

It isn't new indie-rock territory, and spring is certainly an odd time to release such a puzzling (and puzzled) record, but I couldn't stop listening to it.

Given its origins, this could have been a morbid, self-indulgent exercise. Instead, it's a fine indie-pop album.

He's mastered the tuneful shrug, the song that sounds unfinished and tossed off but sticks fast to your brain and keeps revealing a depth you hadn't noticed.

No bad songs, but any other record they've made is better.

The fact that Paley and Francis wrote this album together over the course of three afternoons and then recorded it in two is part of its charm. There are no big guitars and not much percussion. What you get is two compelling performers and their songs, backed by a couple of Muscle Shoals aces, bass player David Hood (yes, Patterson's dad) and Spooner Oldham.

Balam Acab have crafted a fully fleshed-out record, with enticing dimension and its own subtle meanings.

If a breathy, acoustic aquarium is up your alley, then take the dive and swim alongside Porterfield's magical lyricism.

True, Camu Tao hadn't mastered the art of songwriting: verses and choruses abound, whereas bridges are conspicuously absent. But even half-built tracks like "Bird Flu" and "Intervention" are proof that he could create engaging and catchy hooks alongside vocals that matched his new palette without diluting the hip-hop aesthetic. Such songs are tantalizing examples of unrealized potential--a sad indication of what could have been.

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

Over time, the Mountain Goats have explored different emotional territory. Here they prove they can still make humble, evocative music.

Although titles like 'Suicide' and 'Drugs' may seem a touch overt, the songs are not overwrought cliches.

Glossy and palatable, but also decidedly sophisticated.

His music always offers an emotional complexity to mirror its melodic sophistication.

The 12 songs are rhythmically warm and appealing thanks to Jay Bellirose’s spare-cymballed drumming and the beautifully knotty guitars of Henry, Bill Frisell, and Greg Leisz.

The keyboards that colored his swan dive into dance music before he re-embraced rock with 2005’s Body of Song are simply another subtle layer of muscle for this sinewy disc.

Visitations finds Clinic four albums into their career, but they launch each new tune with the unhinged spirit of a band who are just discovering the power of rock.

It delivers on the promise of Louden Up, with infectious beats and a kitchen-sink approach.

On Excellent Italian Greyhound they deliver the expected fistful of vitriolic by-number chuggers.

Peyroux still sounds like Peyroux, only more so. Which isn't a bad thing either.

Martyn's early-'70s blend of romantic blues and eerie valentines remains potent, and on this double-disc tribute, 30 participants give him a smooch of respect, trying to update the hazy passion he brought to his best work.

Wilco (The Album) finds the band looser and more assertive than they were on their two previous efforts.

The album itself--melodically inventive, melodramatic, and incredibly rocking--sounds about the same as it did when it was first reissued in the '90s.

As in most of Metheny’s work, what could be mistaken for glib virtuosity--or, in this case, gadgetry-reveals new depths at every turn.

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.

At 52 similar-sounding minutes, It's All True is a bit of a robust meal to digest all in one sitting but, served in moderate portions, it's irresistibly tasty. Junior Boys: still itchy after all these years.

The lack of innovation is frustrating, since these guys nailed this formula long ago, but they mostly make up for the lack of newness by expending insane amounts of energy.