Garza’s assault on the skins, much tighter than any Bonham comparisons could possibly describe, gives the album much of its strength and character. The rest can be attributed to creative, post-modern lyrics.

For the most part it succeeds quite well in its single-minded pursuit of disco euphoria, but there’s definitely a whiff of flop-sweat emanating from it.

It's pure BTS, but without enough sparkle or rough-hewn beauty to be memorable.

This is not perfect music: the observations seem to easily gained; the faster songs mere replicas of previous monuments; and no matter how graceful the notes' elisions, an unskillful denouement on many of the songs' endings.

Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes is diverting, short (47 minutes), atmospheric and contains exactly one truly memorable song.

Leo's singing (showing a few traces of a soul side) has never been more confident or convincing.

Sexsmith is incapable of dishonesty, insincerity or cliché in his writing or performance, but none of these melodies soar and the lyrics reveal nothing new for him.

Ultimately, The Campfire Headphase shows continuity with the duo's previous recordings but fails to replicate the sheer beauty and awe-inspiring quality of past material, sounding at times like the work of very good Boards of Canada copyists.

NoYouCmon is more eclectic and less focused, with fine moments to be found.

Feist offers diversity and charm.

The songs aren't bad, but there’s a loss of personality in the grooves.

The harder U2 tries to rock out with wild abandon here, the less spontaneous they end up sounding, making How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb more like an incredible simulation of a punk-influenced album rather than an actual punk-influenced album.

While hardly bad... the album too often sounds as if the ceaseless invention that made Nixon so vibrant has been replaced by self-consciousness of the wrong sort.

Teems with all the life that the band omitted from Oui.

This disappointing album is infectious and literate, but erratic compositional fortitude and lack of daring is a drag, as each clever step is followed by another clever step.

Emphasizing colorful vocals over the average playing benefits the band enormously.

More of an expansion than a breakthrough.

Even through patches of mediocrity, QOTSA still offer something healthy and respectable to the hard rock world, but too much of anything can be bad for you.

The album is ingeniously constructed; many of the songs play off each other while seeming off the cuff and loose-limbed.

The Robinsons remain a fascinating couple on Get Yr Blood Sucked Out, burning through more inspiration and ideas in one album than any band has a right to.

The band's audible confidence in its music gives it the ability to negotiate sudden shifts of tempo, volume, distortion and tone without fussiness or confusion, demonstrating what Franz Ferdinand might sound like if the Scots were a little less together.

There's nothing about the quintet's second album that audibly acknowledges the impact of its debut.

Still quietly bombastic and still occasionally in search of an author, the spacey, haunted music bounces from the ethereal to the grounded dirt that our shoes kick away on imagined dance floors.

Perfectly arranged and one of the best of 2004, it's an ideal starting point for newcomers.

An impassioned, angry and devastating document.

An exciting mix of audacious punk rock stammering held together by such disparate art-rock nomenclature and tendencies as vocal transmutation, discordant climaxes and ironic herky-jerky rhythms.

Positive energy and enthusiasm go a long way here.

Individually, the tracks are every bit as good as anything else he’s ever written; as a whole, however, the album is too much of the same thing, as one glum tale follows another.