While Oracular Spectacular has its sophomoric moments (you’d be wise to avoid the nasal whine of 'Weekend Wars'), a listen to 'Climbing To New Lows'--a catchy demo set from their undergrad days--will make anyone see what attracted the bigwigs at Columbia in the first place.

The one knock on this record is that it just isn’t very dynamic, as too many of the tracks fail to strike with the impact of truly great efforts. There are exceptions, of course, and the drumming on the fantastic 'Skeleton Man' propels the track with a driving momentum that’s too often missing on The Evening Descends.

Distortion does not reinvent the wheel of alternative rock, but it may have just started it spinning again.

8 Diagrams is a paradox of track selection and pacing.

The album has more than its share of bangers and certainly beats last December’s leftovers casserole More Fish on the killer-to-filler ratio, but Ghost veers too close for comfort to the feel of his worst albums

Jay-Z has rebounded to make one of the year's most interesting and engaging rap records with a sense of immediacy and wordplay that no Denzel Washington film could match.

Far from essential, Hvarf/Heim can merely be looked at as a stop-gap before the next proper record.

While his contrived sonic and visual aesthetics do much to explain the thinness of Smoke, they do not justify it.

It seems as though the quick release of Untrue restricted Burial from burying his emotions underneath layers of alternatively sparse and overwhelming production as he did on his debut, resulting in an album that instead wears them unabashedly on its sleeve.

His ambition’s got the better of him this time, though: it’s tough to care about the overarching (and admittedly interesting) theme when the component songs aren’t satisfying themselves.

Possibly the most confident and successful of this third phase of Black Dice, the pieces here make no claims to exist as anything but the welcoming and obtuse freaks of rhythms gone awry.

Even his lyrics, a mix of front-porch reflections and impressionistic images, are more sound than sense, the stuff of ambitious art-rock, not folk.

A supernal set of tracks ends Preparations, movements of pure reverie that complete the album in fitting fashion.

While this release is ruminative in nature, the temperament isn’t far removed from the classic record with which this release shares a striking visual resemblance.

Amazingly, it lacks any pretense: their aesthetic is organic and fluid, indicating a band that responds honestly and artistically to circumstance, rather than one that imposes a rigid, stagnant aesthetic for more idealistic purposes.

The Flying Club Cup is a good album. If you’re a fan of "Gulag Orkestar," it’s probably a great album. But aside from 'Cliquot,' it’s more of the same.

Widow City is by far the band’s toughest-as-nails record yet, with Matthew incessantly setting fire to the stage.

His music’s dynamic, but his voice lacks range and variety. Krug sings emotionally, but not responsively.

When the boys aren’t treading water, they’re still treading a fine line between memorable and anonymous.

Lekman perfectly funnels his signature sound of gentle string and horn melodies, audaciously appropriate sampling, and often corny balladry into a well-oiled, 12-song machine.

They really did a great job. I think their best song was 'Those Who Don’t Blink' but it is not a good song for a headache.

The Pipettes are only fresh in the sense that they've appropriated Spector-influenced girl-pop for a new era.

Magic is a sturdy, sure-footed Bruce Springsteen album.

100 Days is a straightforward progression of rhythm and blues, but on the gut level, well, words like "modern" or "derivative" become fairly worthless.

They have taken on a wider range of styles and adapted them to their strict sound, but it still sounds like Tunng, which is never a bad thing.

Polly has always done well to play outside her comfort zone, and in doing so on this album, she crafts a reminder more effective than her return-to-form attempt on "Uh Huh Her."

Where music fails to tell a story, Beam’s lyricism fills in the details.

The consistently laudable performances and production of Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon make for something that appears effortless and remains engaging throughout its 70-plus-minute runtime.

Despite occasional flourishes, Go Go Smear the Poison Ivy is an average set by a band who should be far beyond releasing anything less than stellar.

What separates Boss from any cynical cashing-in critiques is that the Markers went above and beyond to actually create an album that nearly contradicts their constructed identity.

Drained from the melodic juices of previous works, Cosmos is left to bubble atop of a seething pan of sharp shards of metal, to be later buttered with a mechanical hum.

Suspending cynicism for a moment, this is their strongest release to date.

At best, the record is filled with remnants of bottled anger and expelled demons. At worst, it’s filled with the kind of angsty cries typically read in pouty 14-year-olds’ LiveJournals.

The Western Lands works well as a whole and will surely please longtime fans, but I get the sense that Gravenhurst are holding back.

The music tries to express what words can't, which makes this Animal Collective’s most combustive, "live" record yet.

Like a good term paper, much of Graduation sounds great in theory but flounders in its execution.

Sonically, Rise Above is just another healthy dose of what Longstreth does best. Anomalous harmonies, quirky time signatures, and spontaneous rock-outs punctuate the album’s 11 tracks.

One can’t declare Autumn of the Seraphs, Pinback’s fourth full-length, any better than their first, second, or third album.

Our Ill Wills is a good pop album. Now go make your own.

Good Bad Not Evil covers a wide range of territory, but never feels needlessly eclectic. Every stylistic experiment employed over the 35-minute runtime is a welcome departure from their signature slime rock

North Start Deserter, however, is in a class of its own.

The lack of a unifying theme on this particular album leaves their past influences far downstream and without a paddle.

Essentially, it’s the effects of Aesop’s modesty that keeps him afloat above some of his equally skilled contemporaries. (This, in addition to the dope factor, more than makes up for the moment when the album overwhelms and shapes into a part-primal/part-industrial drone.)

Level Live Wires, is almost a pitch-perfect continuation of 2005's "Burner."

Despite not being my personal favorite, the album may in fact be Gira’s most poignant statement to date, one that succinctly encapsulates Angels of Lights’ every driving thrust since "New Mother."

Just know that Architecture in Helsinki have enough energy to continue cranking out these adrenaline and saccharine cocktails until you do.

At first, you’re itching for her to tear into such a juicy beat. But after a couple of listens, you realize it’s a tactful deference that allows her to be in the mix without commandeering it. She could if she wanted to, but she’s passed that.

The New Pornographers are straying away from the niche they’ve carved out for themselves, and they’re doing it with skill and calm. And perhaps that should be celebrated, because Challengers is everything this sort of smooth transition ought to be.

Andorra is a psychedelic and polyrhythmic trip to a place even less known than the actual country and a momentous addition to Caribou’s enviable discography.

What saves the album from musically becoming a boring, going-through-the-motions exercise is Imperial Teen’s ability to write good hooks.

While the rest of the album flirts with the shivering, uncomfortable mood found on 'Since I Came,' it infrequently equals it.

The overriding element of Natural is the band’s sense of experimentation, merging punk with semi-transcendentalist folk.

What makes The Historical Conquests Of... a great album and not just Ritter’s foray into stylistic versatility is the integrity of his musicianship. The album is thorough; it is complete.

The most egregious offender is Planet of Ice's last song, 'Lotus,' which clocks in at close to nine minutes, thanks to clumsy feedback inserted somewhat inappropriately between the beginning and end of what must have started out as a fairly straightforward rock song.

Broder’s voice adds an extra source of dynamism to the mix. It all adds up to a sound that revels in rock’s limitations while working to redefine them.

Although one of PE’s three focal points, Terminator X, is gone, Chuck D and Flavor-mother-fucking-Flav still have vitality pumping through their veins, enough to elevate a two-decades-old rap institution above the level most hip-hoppers reach once they hit middle-age.

Longer listeners will be impressed with the band’s evolution but will inevitably be let down with the lack of charm in these new recordings as opposed to their looser demo cuts.

Throughout Emerald City, Vanderslice uses his celebrated producing talent to control feedback and mold it into an instrument as vital as the guitar and piano that are so central to his music.

And the mixing problems extend far beyond Corgan’s voice. The Band of a Hundred Murderous Guitars has turned into a modern-radio-rock band.

Our Love To Admire isn’t even a contractual obligation to push off without care. But boy does it sound like one; a band phoning it in, out of steam, and running on a few lingering fumes and smoldering coals.

Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is Spoon’s finest release since 2001’s "Girls Can Tell" and fills me with a happiness rarely delivered in a genre filled with groups that never improve upon their debuts.

T.I. vs T.I.P. is mercifully light on the requisite skits illustrating its dichotomy, but you almost wish there were more of them to explain the album’s weird alchemy of simultaneously overwrought and undercooked production and flaccid, self-absorbed lyricism.

Easy Tiger’s not his best, but it’s got focus and a lot of heart.

If nothing else, Astronomy For Dogs should be heralded as a step in the right direction after six long years of wandering.

If you’re fond of the curious, Icky Thump is the choice White Stripes album.

The depth and craft in these songs keep The Sun interesting and make its inspired moments that much better.

It's the kind of music any fledgling music lover deserves to remember.

Its sharpness in wake of modesty might make it The Cinematic Orchestra’s biggest accomplishment to date.

The tunes sometimes lack a punch or vigor — not to say they aren’t catchy; I’m just not shocked when they’re misinterpreted as stale.

Greyhound lacks the raw immediacy of their first three albums.

A real slog to get through.

Mirrored is a marvel, dastardly and wholly original as it is, and one of the year’s finest.

I find myself disappointed with Plague Park despite its elusive initial luster. The good news is it’s an easy fix: Hire a band.

While the elders will rejoice this sober, satisfied, and craftily subdued effort, the younglings of the bunch, with their abbreviated attention spans, iPod shuffles, and demand for instant gratification, will declare the album a boring and lethargic affair.

It doesn’t break any new ground, but it’s not a retread. It’s just good, for you and your soul.

Volta is Björk’s best album yet.

God Save the Clientele is more of the same for the group’s fans, who will find the record near-faultless.

The band returns to The Power Out’s playground equipped with the chops their latest personnel lineup displayed on Axes. The album only benefits from it, becoming a more-than-worthy successor to both previous releases.

An album of satisfying, summery rock.

Each track is unique and memorable in its own way, but they all follow the same basic pattern and structure.

You can hear him trying to figure things out, and that’s the most lasting and vital aspect of New Moon.

The righteous Southern revival swagger of these electrified riffs collect over Jago’s drums to rain down the real rawk people have mistakenly praised Kings Of Leon for providing, absolutely destroying them at their own game.

Tears of the Valedictorian works on so many levels. It adds another hefty, colorful cornea to the Frog Eyes spazz gallery, for one. It also takes a step toward streamlining their sound, which may, in the wrong hands, be considered a faulty premise, but let me assure you, it isn’t; this recording is crystal-clear but far from diamond-decadence.

This album is ridiculously rhythmic.

This is cinematic music, fitting a noir mode.

Pullhair Rubeye is significant not because of its aesthetic and non-conceptual disposition, but also for its dedication to instinct and brave novelty (in the best sense of the word).

Dumb Luck is an album that desperately tries to be spontaneous and carefree but eventually ends up sounding stunted and alienating.

It’s hard to imagine a few stellar tracks and a well-flowing album being taken as a negative, but the result just isn’t enough to make these lads stick out.

Post-apocalyptic muck and digital drivel, outer space splattering of dark matter, Mattel and Fisher Price toy instrument sets: it’s all here, and it’s all in accordance with Anticon’s aesthetic.

So when the repetitive rhythms of 23 don’t bowl you over like the first synth lines of Melody, allow yourself the opportunity to sit through its entirety. What you’ll find is an album that reveals its true personality slowly, surely, and yes, lovingly.

The more lukewarm segments of Ghosthorse weigh its worth down like saddlebags filled with iron, particularly the trip-hop confessional sections. But even these lesser moments contribute to a greater good when all is said and done, adding up to a slightly cinematic experience best witnessed with full attention fixed on the little details.

I can confidently say that this is some of the most astonishingly beautiful music being made today.

The Endless Not is ultimately a testament to getting it right, even after a lengthy separation, and proves that getting old doesn’t mean that you have to suffer loss of potency.

Wilner’s talent lies in revealing the abundance of music locked inside even the smallest fractions of extant recordings.

This music on this self-titled release is perfectly and tightly composed and arranged.

Music dignitaries and primordial fans will be contented. If they’re smart, they’ll rejoice.

It is still more accessible than previous Low records, as The Great Destroyer was, but doesn’t ever compromise the pure sincerity that the trio have conveyed throughout their career.

This is a bloated, overlong rock record that shouldn’t have even considered breaking the 40-minute mark.