Their third album is classic hardcore punk: loud, thrashing, and out of control, but with just enough goofy humor to make it easy to swallow.

Sure, you can wonder whether there’s a need for Youth Group with so many bands trying to replicate the success of Coldplay and Death Cab for Cutie, but Casino Twilight Dogs is worth a listen.

That means you get Stickles roaring about being told he'll always be a loser over full-throttle indie-Springsteen arrangements replete with bleating Clarence Clemons saxophone lines, pavement-pounding marching-band drums, and loads of drunk-dude Dropkick Murphys gang-vocal chants.

Up-tempo club jams like "Break Your Heart," "Dynamite," and "I Can Be" sport melodies sturdy enough to support all the digital detailing, and power ballads such as "I'll Never Love Again" and "Falling in Love" do the gathering-steam thing as efficiently as more traditionally presented songs by Diane Warren or Kara DioGuardi.

As eclectic as the disc is, it never strays from that warm sense of familiarity.

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

Only a music fan obsessed with the rules of authenticity and the requirements for lyrical profundity could find fault with the 11 odes to overload that make up Hot Mess.

Always ambitious, occasionally experimental, and sometimes even radio-friendly.

There’s an urban-informed edge to much of the disc.

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.

The template holds.

Here they make less of an effort to conceal the pop smarts percolating beneath the slop-rock surface; catchy little gems like 'Starting Over' and 'I'll Be with You' help make this the most satisfying Black Lips album yet.

'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.

This album is infectious.

The reason Father, Son, Holy Ghost is so uniquely, imperfectly swell is because the band plainly give fuck-all about convention or stylistic uniformity.

Instead of wandering into opaque experimentation, as they’ve been known to do in the past, they corral those unruly elements into a series of hummable, memorable tunes.

There's some obligatory Velvet Underground deference, like the jumpy "Hey Jane," but for the most part the new disc is more in line with the soaring sing-a-long brilliance of "So Long You Pretty Things" and the simplistic "Too Late."

The first thing they did right was actually to be a band: to write songs, and tour with them, before recording. The result is a tight, energetic sound with elements of punk, heavy rock, and new wave.

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.

Strange Mercy becomes more intriguing the more you listen to it--even if that means you also get further away from comprehending its idiosyncrasy.

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.

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

For now, these four remaining songs from their indie days are perfectly competent, reminiscent of the Pixies, and hard to remember even though they're perfectly tuneful.

It's supposedly winnowed down to seven excellent tracks you can pay for, versus an album-of-the-year candidate you can cop free legally (for now).

It's an effortless move to help firm up No Age's place as one of the most bi-polar party bands around.

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.

Hollenbeck leavens the severity of his attack with instrumental warmth and unusual ensemble timbre: reeds (Chris Speed), accordion (Ted Reichman), vibes (Matt Moran), bass (Drew Gress), percussion--plus, on Royal Toast, frequent collaborator Gary Versace on piano.

In a genre dominated by sensitive boys in sneakers and second-hand cardigans, Rainer Maria have had an edge: ... There’s barely a male voice to be heard on Catastrophe Keeps Us Together.