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.

Even if Sainte-Marie tries to cram too much into her joyous return to the limelight, Running for the Drum is proof that a path that began with the powerful "Universal Soldier" back in the early 1960s won't be fading gracefully into the usual sunset of folk retirement.

'Young Hearts Spark Fire' showcases their gleeful exuberance, but even on more subdued numbers like 'Sovereignty,' they still sound like two kids who don't yet know their own strength.

Without a smidgen of a doubt, See Mystery Lights has egghead-party-album-of-the-year potential. But its value is greater than that.

Blank is a product of the cut-and-paste era; nearly everything on I Love You, which arrives in the wake of several buzz-building collaborations with Spank Rock, seems like a tongue-in-cheek version of something else.

None of the Solillaquists of Sound (S.O.S.) is originally from Florida, and that begins to explain how they could compose an eclectic cornucopia as sweet as No More Heroes.

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.

Despite the injection of hope and a denser sound courtesy of Steve Albini, as well as good execution throughout, most of the songs tread familiar territory.

This Seattle wunderkind trio's debut full-length arrives like a freaky reward from a cosmos that has watched us persevere through 15 years of tightening jeans, steadily ramping foppism, and the crushingly beige influence of adult-contempo alt-country.

Horehound isn't White Stripes tea-party cutesy, and it's not Raconteurs good-times eclectic--it's nothing but riffs and 'tude all the way through.

...The Ever Expanding Universe provides a nice excuse to put on the headphones and look up at the stars. There's nothing wrong with having one's head in the clouds, but this band could stand to make the occasional contact with earth.

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.

Confident non-jumpers shouldn't be concerned that this disc weeps with you're-always-dying-inside woe-is-my-love-life misery.

There are times when Upper Air could be some clandestine jam session in the wilderness.

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

The organic, timeless quality of that voice--especially haunting on Helm's own tale of a farmer's struggle, 'Growing Trade'--is offset by the sweetness of his daughter Amy's harmony singing, as well as by bright eddies of slide guitar and mandolin, all of it creating an appealing balance.

As Bjork no doubt hoped it would, the result--long on material from that year's Volta but also featuring such oldies as 'Army of Me' and 'Pagan Poetry'--captures both energy and detail.

Mascis's unique talents have ossified into a signature, so discerning any difference between this set of tunes and, say, his solo albums of the early oughts or latter-day Dinosaur Jr. albums is tough work. If, to you, that means more awesome Mascis crunchwork, then be psyched, because this record slays, the rocking is sloppy-yet-tight, and nothing on here would sound like a drag if tossed into a setlist amongst older classics.

This, their third album is as ambitious as its predecessors but mutes the joy in favor of a more serious tone and tighter focus--well, as tight as an album with a 10-minute number called 'Dragon's Lair' can be. The results are mixed.

Travels with Myself and Another doesn't quite live up to the band's first studio album, 2007's "Curses," but it reaches the same boorishly absurd heights on the spastic 'Drink Nike' and on 'Stand by Your Manatee,' a catchy freakout about the "shame" of using plastic silverware.

Bibio's references may already be T-shirts in your bureau, and his dovetailing of crisp guitars, tangling melodies, smart electronic gestures, and resin-hit production values (all evident on the title track) isn't new by any means. But if you can get out from under caring (that is, if you can locate the title lane), you'll feel as liberated as Bibio sounds here — an artist making a mixtape of himself. Folk yes.

The blithe, lyrical approach is misplaced in the context of Morello’s domineering, effects-laden guitar sound.

If the Jonases come up woefully short in the sensitivity department, they (nearly) make up for it with songwriting that's far more flavorful than that on Fearless or on the JoBros' previous disc, last year's "A Little Bit Longer."

A few songs in, I was reminded that I hate mixtapes--or at least, I find it hard to make it all the way through them, especially when they're made by other people and especially when they're filled with weak endless dub reggae.

Despite the deceptive pop-song outlines and strong grooves, just about every piece emphasizes the rich weave of voices, and on originals like 'The View from Blue Mountain' and 'Twilight of the Dogs,' Douglas extends forms you think you know to take you someplace new.

The only thing Dirty Projectors' fifth album leaves me wishing for is a fifth rating star to wedge in.

The Eternal is a fun, superficial tangent, disappointing in its regressiveness but enjoyable as long you don't examine it too closely.

Quik knows what he's doing. You can hear it on every track of this symphonic mini-masterpiece.