http://www.tinymixtapes.com/music-review/cocorosie-grey-oceans

Ostentatious as it is, there’s no denying that Magna Carta… Holy Grail is filled to the brim with satisfying, big-budget production.... It’s just a shame that Jay-Z doesn’t rap ‘em for all they’re worth.

We know he's capable of better. Whether it ever comes together on a Carter release is anybody's guess, but the prognosis isn't good.

The album’s an impressive document of Barrett’s talent, but I don’t hear the hooks that similar acts like Belle & Sebastian built their name on. Without them, The Pica Beats remain an also-ran.

There’s little doubt that, despite the odd slip into the saccharine and the set’s lack of anything notably outré or innovative, they do this with conviction and integrity, to the extent where Limits of Desire will receive plenty of service from the lovestruck and jaded alike over the span of this hopefully torrid summer.

It’s the change in an almost overall sound--when acts like The Human League, OMD, Ultravox, and Depeche Mode weren’t the only ones making ample use of keyboards--and Kilfoyle captures this incredibly well while retaining a still-in-formation yet already distinct MINKS sound, much in the way many formerly post-punk bands retained their own certain darkness throughout.

It features the same schizophrenic, influenced-by-everything quality of Dre's The Love Below, but where people were able to overlook the many boring-to-terrible tracks while skipping to "Hey Ya" or "Roses," The New Danger fails to feature as strong a centerpiece.

There aren't a great deal of people making chill this good any more.

It's the sound of restless, searching energy channeled into a bare-bones context, surging against its boundaries by sheer compositional rigor.

Many of This Unruly Mess I’ve Made’s flaws could’ve very well been forgotten, or at least temporarily swept under the rug, had the actual music been good.

The music is appallingly predictable, unoriginal, uninspiring, boring, over-polished, and vain.

This is expertly crafted music, but perhaps too intent on being discomforting: the music intentionally aims to unsettle you.

On 200 Years, Ben and Elisa play their mortality out, unnerved and reassuring, wisely, beautifully.

"It's Kickin' In" sounds like Linnell doing karaoke over a failed garage rock single, and most of the rest sounds like, well, Fountains of Wayne.

All the riffs, drums, and lyrics seem to struggle against the current of a constant drone, with odd sounds bubbling out of the muddy puddle, yet remaining stagnant, as it were. There is nothing remarkable or striking about this mirror’s explosion.

An album that, despite its hallucinogenic tendencies, is painfully boring.

This is extremely addictive stuff, and after only a few listens, every track will attempt to/will succeed in worming its way into the willing listener's brain.

Unfortunately, the goodwill that Eminem builds up with these engrossing and macabre Mathers family confessions are too often torn down by his tedious turns as a goofy court jester.

It Falls Apart is a mess of overproduction and features bland songwriting.

The thick and poorly affected patois, the overproduction, and the sheer terribleness of the songs on Trapped Animal seem, at best, a huge dent in The Slits’ otherwise immaculate armor.

It's not like Again and Again is a terrible album; in fact, it's an almost uniformly enjoyable one.

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.

For Years is at its best when Airhead is working in the first of these modes, the more melodic one.

There isn't enough unforced spontaneity or meaningful pop-craft on The Vision to sustain a full-length album, and a smorgasbord of tasty synths isn't enough to inspire vision.

Anti-folk or not, the band exudes confidence and camaraderie, and The Bundles surely won't disappoint their longtime fans.

Younger Now is a hookless, joyless, profitable success.

For all of their wonderful contributions to modern pop music, McCulloch and Sergeant aspired for too much this time around.

Autumn, Again is a rarely dynamic dream-pop album, an ideal caffeinated companion to birch skies and stubbly faces. It is a secret pleasure like the sound of a sleeping town and the feeling of control that comes with the first morning light.