His latest outing, Afterparty Babies, doesn't derail that path, but it struggles to stay on course.

Each track on Seventh Tree is a picture that stands alone, but in its entirety the record works as a landscape decorated with guitars and pianos spread over hills of upbeat drums as strings and woodwinds line the sky in the background.

One almost has to listen closely to take notice of Devotion’s every last little benumbed intricacy but it’s as rewarding as it is tantalizing.

NY's Finest shows glimmers of what Rock can do, but it's unfortunate the album came out before Soul Brotha #1 was warmed up.

They finally deliver on the big promise everyone saw in what they might do with the raw sounds of that first LP. [Jan/Feb 2008, p.102]

Cold and sweet all at once while perched atop a reef of moody Krautrock, Let the Blind Lead has a progression that melts more than it floats.

Stalwart fans of Morcheeba won't be disappointed. [Mar/Apr 2008, p.106]

It takes a minimum of three full listens to really appreciate what’s going on here, so take some time with Time:Line, and reap the rewards of cross-country wav file transmission.

Hot Chip hasve always guaranteed a certain degree of respect for the listener's intelligence, even on their most fance floor ready album yet. [Jan/Feb 2008, p.102]

Although the vocals initially may spark fears of self-indulgent been there’s and done that’s, the musical beast which duels with the lyrics stays on point and goes beyond the point in miraculous fashion.

Opener 'Time to Pretend' exemplifies this best, as the synths provide quirky cartoonish bounces to tales of fancy car whipping and coke snorting pipe-dreams. However, the record grows sluggish at certain points, particularly when they try to get super sentimental on that ass.

There's a psyche-rock track with UNKLE on here, for chrissakes. But yeah, dude has skills.

One answer, really...bass. Or, lack of bass. Having tested the disc on several systems, I can only determine that someone at Daft Punk central, or Virgin Records decided to master this disc like a pop record, the mids jacked to high heaven while the sub-bass, the stuff that actually makes you move, is completely erased.

The Big Doe Rehab, is predictably entertaining, not because he doesn’t have new tricks, but because at this point his weirdness is hardly surprising.

The anonymous producer behind the work of Burial is letting his dubstep sounds progress and on his impressive sophomore album he can be found chasing the transient hints of beauty to be found in the confines of urban desolation.

Because the sound is based on repetition, yet it bounces off every wall it touches, the album can be like a bad trip inside the mind of a schizophrenic and new listeners may not be ready, but for the others who’ve supported the band in the past, it can be a welcome respite from the sound they’re used to.

A very dark album, yes, but Raposa's ability to convey much with little usually results in a fragile and gloomy beauty rather than mopey dreck.

Was it a signature-sound effort, or a further exploration of their film score work on "Breaking and Entering" or Danny Boyle’s 2007 sci-fi film "Sunshine?" These two worlds collide beautifully.

Yes, you said it best, pretentious-as-hell front-man, Warfield, this album is a train wreck.

All of these lyrics have already been said before and said more creatively, but what’s even worse is that they’ve all been said by him more creatively.

It’s not just his vaguely interesting falsetto or all the emoting on his debut; it’s that all those emotions are under the guise of some real heaviosity but really aren’t saying shit.

Were the House of Gryffindor to stage a theatrical adapation of "Castlevania III," co-scored by Danny Elfman circa "Edward Scissorhands," it might sound like this fourth bobbing full-length by Iceland's glitchy naifs mum. [Sep/Oct 2007, p.129]

It sounds like Drew would still benefit from having his Canadian ragtag team behind him though, because his solo effort just isn't very strong.

It's unfortunate that "Interscope Jackson" spends so much time here trying to ply believable tough talk--highlights arrive when Fiddy embraces his current, lavish lifestyle.

AC still celebrates soaking up esoterica, but this album is the group's jauntiest, least emulsified. [Sep 2007, p.128]

Whether live or memorex, it's really hard to tell the difference between the two, especially on excellent if-it-ain't-broke tracks like 'Fake ID' and 'Doing it Right.' [Sep/Oct 2007, p.130]

This UK duo's second album has lost some of the poppy jangle found on their debut. But it is replaced with grander harmonies and gauzier production, making this smooth as John Oat's bare upper lip these days.

Beatwise, Playtime culls Wiley's best dubs from the last year, with tracks like 'Bow E3' and '50/50' flexing textbook mastery over grime's sludgy polyrhythm.