It’s now clear that though the District of Columbia might not have representation in the US Senate, residents do have a distinguished rep in hip-hop.

CD2’s smoking live versions are where AC/DC defend their reputation as a well-oiled machine, as oiled up as the jugtastic fembots that permeate the music’s hyper-hetero fantasia. And the band’s testicle-laden metaphorical fodder is brought to life on the DVD’s music videos.

At the end, after his inevitable untimely death, all anyone will care about will be the stately grandeur of the opening (and closing) music coupled with the star’s eternal blank stare: unknowable, unfathomable, and ultimately tragic. We’ll have to wait for the movie; fortunately the soundtrack is already here.

Guilty as charged, then: I’ll gladly let Moz, my all-too-human co-pilot, do my thinking for me.

Nirvana launch into a 90-minute onslaught of fugly-beautiful grunge-guitar fury.

Rock-stardom is not necessarily what you hear beckoning on Sub Pop’s 20th-anniversary reissue of Bleach, which comes with a sludgy live set taped at Portland’s Pine Street Theatre in 1990. In a way, though, that only makes this program of lumpen lumberjack-metal moves more interesting.

This beautiful disc needs only her sweet muted-trumpet voice and optimistic viewpoint to sail gracefully through its 10 songs.

What still holds up is the low-end garage-rock throb of Mick Taylor and Keith's guitars with bassist Bill Wyman, and the idiosyncratic bite of Jagger's diction. But even Mick's attempts to offend (like changing the age of that stray cat from 15 to 13) make this special four-disc 40th-anniversary "deluxe" edition more historic document (and collectible!) than satisfying listen.

At its core, Earthly Delights is the sound of a band digging in so deep, they’ve struck something molten.

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.

Their sixth record reminds me quite a bit of that Metric album that came out last spring. You could put this reaction down to Sainthood’s understated, idiosyncratic electronic elements, or to the whole Canadian elevated-indie-pop thing.

Ay Ay Ay, the second full-length effort from Chilean-born, German-raised Matias Aguayo (who now splits time between Buenos Aires and Paris) is, in source and spirit, one of the most human dance-pop records of the year.

At the core of any Swollen Members project--and Armed to the Teeth, their first in three years, is no exception--is a clean, uncomplicated spread of kaleidoscopic semi-pop bangers from producer Rob the Viking.

Even more than on last year’s auspicious digital-only "Exposion," Austin’s White Denim stomp down the fine line between fertile versatility and iffy uncertainty. More often than not on Fits, this works out awesome.

Even though damn near every third song sounds designed to sell overpriced sweaters at the Gap, the nectar at the heart of this album is worth the roughage you have to chew through to get there.

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.

It’s also one of the best-sounding records of 2009, with a simple, clean style and plenty of piano, banjo, and pedal steel to flesh out the dynamics.

Of course, there are neat textures and chilled-out sounds. But by the end of the record, you have only a few tunes or hooks to serve as a souvenir of the 44-minute journey you've just taken.

This is accessible music pushed to the very edge of accessibility, far away from the safety of the band's song-oriented efforts "At War with the Mystics" and "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots."

Here, as on Red Album, they keep finding new ways to make old Black Sabbath tricks seem fresh.

Hundreds of Lions marks her return to original material, but it’s clear that the time she spent doing songs by yesterday’s greats inspired her: this is her smartest, slyest set yet, with shapelier melodies, wittier wordplay, and more-adventurous arrangements.

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

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

In and Out of Control is a reined-in Raveonettes album with more differentiation among songs.

Exploding Head is less an interpretation of a forgotten sound than a restoration of an abandoned mission. Even if you've heard it all before, you certainly haven't heard the end of it.

He'd be proud of what his little girl's done with that sheet of paper.

Throughout, a messy æsthetic attempts to cover up pop sympathies--or simply proves that dissonance and sweetness needn't be kept in their separate corners.

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