Veteran rock legend Alan Moulder and eclectic electro-guy Dan Carey make sure Something sounds as huge as its aspirations, bringing an impeccably massive sheen to every note.

Ashes & Fire is as close as it gets to the brilliance of his first post-Whiskeytown offering, Heartbreaker.

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.

The good news is, this album is going to garner a dozen swoons in her direction for each romantic woe she professes on it.

Although the band's sonic stew isn't particularly remarkable or consistent (instrumentation oscillates between warm and comforting, and distant and anemic), their lyrics have a peculiar charm that keeps them alluring.

'Jerks' is a scathing freakout that made me want to hear Sonic Youth's cover of the Untouchables' 'Nic Fit' all of a sudden; '7/23' is a clopping, slightly flat, strangely iridescent love note; and the focus that disperses over the course of six hazy minutes of 'State Numbers' takes the opportunity of "The Ricercar of Dr. Clara Haber" to slap itself in the face a few times and the shimmering outburst of 'The Lighter Side of... Hippies' to remind you why you made it so deep into this oddly arresting album in the first place.

The disc is an appropriate soundtrack for springtime and new beginnings, and this Sigur Ros–lite of a solo project does carry Jonsi across the equinox without his bandmates-turned-family-men. But it sounds more like the work of a chick hatching than a free bird.

He still dabbles in more-chin-stroking fare, but he's able to ground his adventures in enough melody to preserve the album's flow--and your bearings.

Even if he's stuck in the past, Lewis's best songs feel timeless.

It’s just an Omaha boy playing some good old country pop--for once.

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.

Reatard wants to do it all, and he comes pretty close.

The rest of this satisfying album is a classic Hal Willner production, complete with the unusual cover choices (Decemberists, Espers, very late Eno) and the usual Willner Family Players (Nick Cave, Antony Hegarty, Rufus Wainwright, Marc Ribot) in back-up duties.

Anyone up to date on the current dance-punk scene would have little trouble taking most of these 11 songs as outtakes from recent albums by such higher-profile acts as Soulwax, LCD Soundsystem, and Simian Mobile Disco.

The shoegazy noise genre is again slowly creeping toward the pop spectrum, and Sports might push it even farther toward the indie mainstream, but it needs a new tag - let's call it blackout pop.

Don't expect anything in terms of experimentation--this makes stellar mixtape fodder for an indie-pop prom night also scored by Dum Dum Girls and the Morning Benders.

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.

Two Suns rarely ventures into anything truly experimental; when it does, as in the maelstromic beat of 'Siren Song' or the Scott Walker cameo in album closer 'The Big Sleep,' it makes you curious as to what Khan could deliver if she weren't so committed to her "studenty" (in the UK sense) affectations.

In the M83 universe, emotion comes before logic, and for all 72 fascinating minutes, Gonzalez has you in the palm of his sweaty hand.

It's taken Isbell three albums to find his comfortable post-Truckers solo-artist groove, and on Here We Rest, he settles in quite nicely.

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

This is the longest the band has had the same lineup, which adds to the overall tightness from start to finish.

From moment to moment, Never's oddball quality can be a blessing, but it becomes more of a curse when the moment passes and there's little besides disparate pieces to hold onto.

Real Emotional Trash, with its long, winding guitar solos, extended jams, and emphasis on shifting psychedelic guitar textures, is as retro an album as Malkmus has ever recorded.

The rest of the album, which was produced by James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem, never quite lives up to that early peak.

The duo can't possibly keep up this kind of frivolous pace, and several of the 15 tracks are just (and I apologize for using the term) chillwave jams--but nearly all are expertly crafted, and hedged with mirthy dance flavor.

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.

Down There harnesses the core duality upon which the AC empire is built: a warm and pure pop æsthetic folded harmoniously into layers of murky swirls and drips.