More muscle than penmanship, more highway than garage, Because the Times rolls like Foghat at the close of Dazed & Confused.

Cosmic and eerie, the disc pays ample homage to the influences from whom IV swipes its title.

What 20-year-old Kweller lacks in crafting his own sound, he makes up for in crafting virulently infectious hooks, the kind that find you singing along despite the fact that you only have a tenuous grasp on the lyrics.

You might find yourself wishing the band's music would spiral hellward at least once, but when the quartet hits its mark--burly "War Prayer," dramatic "Invitation," and majestic "New Topia"--it hits hard, stirring emotions like the soundtrack composers with whom the band should be competing in the first place.

Produced by John Congleton, the album bridges the quartet's trademark dark reverberations with the fun-house psych of 2010 breakthrough Phosphene Dream, only with more studio effects than all four sides of The Beatles and an emphasis on the Doors' Soft Parade-era organ.

It's a handful, but like fellow acrobat Doom's recent efforts, Beans'll keep you on your toes.

Like the Brian Jonestown Massacre playing the Dinosaur Jr. songbook, Purling Hiss digs deep into the concept of ragged but right.

A near-perfect collection, if a bit short.

It's slightly indulgent at more than an hour long, but more likely that's just Petty's way of offering love for what his ageless band can do.

Time signatures change gears with neck-snapping regularity, underpinned by Cronin's Krautrock bass, and a Devo-esque "concept" involves Segall as a masked, Booji Boy-ish character named Sloppo.

Rock Music proves BSP can hold their course.

It's equal in heft to the first one, and just as uneven.

The Cure inventor Robert Smith remains almost immune to studio dilapidation, but if lucky No. 4:13 Dream could never hope to equal the seminal goth pop of Three Imaginary Boys (1979), Pornography (1982), and/or Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me (1987) by design of natural evolution, neither is it the Wild Mood Swings of the post-Disintegration (1989) paradigm.

After a while this velvet-lined blast from the past gets a little dry, but the Hadens bring a new audience to these cultural touchstones.

Lyrically, Loveless can still hit a clinker ("Verlaine Shot Rimbaud") or two ("Head"), but the yearning in "Everything's Gone" and pain expressed with "Hurts So Bad" illustrate she's come a long way in expressing universal emotions.

An exquisitely contemplative turn into 80.

A party album for the impending robot takeover.

Produced by her son Cisco Ryder, Roses at the End of Time decorates Gilkyson's repertoire with 10 lush offerings instead of a full-bouquet dozen, yet it's as fragrant and evocative as needed.

The 15-song album feels a few tracks too long, but its quotidian WTF?-ness is quite attractive.

As Matthew Gallaway's extensive accompanying history recounts, Bedhead intentionally recorded over potential alternative takes and variations. Thus, the final disc collects the band's equally requisite EPs along with singles, but no revelatory outtakes or even live tracks save for the unreleased "Intents and Purposes" and a cover of the Stranglers' "Golden Brown."

Those willing to laugh along with Kirchen and his swanky guitar will bust a gut on Seeds and Stems.

Nasal delivery and residual skronk aside, the album's themes of abiding love and perseverance skirt the realm of universality.

Sinners & Saints finds Malo in fine company with a distinctive Texas twang courtesy of Augie Meyers, Shawn Sahm, the Trishas, and Michael Guerra.

The Richmond quintet's usual uniformity of sound, production, and performance strikes many like a concrete dam, and Resolution takes 10-15 minutes too long to resolve, but there's no arguing with a rabid dog called "Cheated."

The mechanics are here, but Worth remains most memorable for its enthusiasm.

This time around things are more industrial and complex but every bit as sleazy and intoxicating.

Undercurrent might not be her best work, but she's set herself up to go wherever the music takes her, and those following along are sure to revel in the adventure.

Some of their best songs yet.

∞ (Infinity) is ambitious and experimental, not so much songs as scored moods and sketches of dreams.

Drama aside, space is Menomena's final frontier, and they use it to great effect.

Nearly 77 minutes, The Final Frontier calls for a harsher edit and, of course, Maiden's early punk tenacity.

Addressing affairs back home, where Tuareg rebels fight for an independent state, Emmaar invites meditation not limited to those conversant in Tamashek.

Alt-J could come off as pretentiously obfuscating but for the overt playfulness within the experimental.

An 8-CD vinyl replica box set of no additional material.

This album is so lightweight and airy, it often consigns itself to the background.

The strength of Comfort Woman's first half quickly diminishes as the ideas run dry.

There's sweet regret but no apology in Horses and High Heels, and though the lyrics of Faithfull's title track tell a different tale, the image is universally and resolutely one of female youth.

Live Music opens with the roguish piano line of "Me and You" that simultaneously pops like a spark and settles lazily into Ryan Sambol's moaning vocals, setting up the freewheeling aura that permeates the A-side.

It's both hip-hop fashionable and cheesy banal packed into one vibrant and romantic spree.

When today transcends tomorrow, as on 1979's Rust Never Sleeps and Freedom a decade later, there's no stopping this "Old Man" whose '59 Lincoln Continental drives these latest headlines.

Honduran Aurelio takes the Garifuna mantle from his late, great mentor Andy Palacio (ACL Music Festival 2007), further evolving the musical moment an African slave ship broke free to the Caribbean.

At 34, Paul Banks writes bitter adolescent songs, and his namesake proves he still makes it sound true.

While the album revels in retro cross-pollination, and the title track's dream that "It won't be long before we all belong to love," echoes Lennon's counterpoint of responsibility throughout, Dr. Dog's zealous frivolity is infectious but ultimately fleeting.

These 16 songs in 16 minutes are a lean demonstration of hardcore punk purity that only lacks memorable songs.

If this album were about four songs shorter, you could hear its beat better.

There's wandering to endure, but if you can find the hook, let it grab you.

Consentino's certainly got an ear for a hook, and her trio makes good use of them, but you can only sing about your cat, weed, and loneliness for so many songs.

Neal restrains throughout, even on the aggressive moments of "Evil's Rising" and poppy stutter of "Difference," but closing triptych "Mountain Town," "Million Dollars," and "Sante Fe" lulls with folksy ballads and harmonies that drop any earned momentum.

While closer "My Dream Is Yours" picks up the pace, the album pulses inward and outward, meditative, trapped in one place.

Music is meditation for Brian Eno, so it's fitting that portions of Small Craft on a Milk Sea – a collaboration with guitarist Leo Abrahams and pianist Jon Hopkins – sound like they're circulating air at a day spa.

Does anything come close to the prize-winning likes of "1901" or "Lisztomania"? No, and that can't help but feel a little disappointing.

Bundick doesn't have a great voice. A one-man vehicle such as Toro y Moi won't fix that issue any time soon, so it might be time for some extra help.

Ferry sounds like he's singing on a cruise ship.

Howl weaves a compelling narrative, but it'd be more interesting if Brooks embodied the title and channeled his inner Screamin' Jay Hawkins.

Davies' trademark softer delivery saves 'Imaginary Man,' but convincing vocalizations remain a major problem at the Café. Two steps forward, one step back.

It's an unfortunate reminder that even on an album populated by seedy characters and hard roads, Bingham still struggles with the devil in the details.

Why not take the five really good tracks on Break Up the Concrete ("Boots of Chinese Plastic," "Love's a Mystery," "Rosalee," "One Thing Never Changed," "Don't Cut Your Hair") and offer a stellar EP for download?

A mixed bag for the devoted.

Despite its meticulous craftsmanship and ornamentation, Tim Smith's stoic delivery throughout – detached and downtrodden – ultimately turns The Courage of Others into a sepia-toned slumber.

You can imagine a modern-day Syd Barrett coming up with similar ideas after being locked in a closet with a laptop.

Say Yes to Love gets bogged down in some questionably drawn-out experimentation toward the end, but that can't undo the face-peeling impact of its first 15 minutes.

Founder Carlos Hernandez has a tendency to mask his arrangements in more noise than they need, dynamics buried in the resulting fracas.

For all the loud-fast ethos, the album feels like it's balancing on one leg.

Ledges waivers with harrowing lyrics, but worn arrangements.

There's plenty to miss here if you make the easy, been-there, heard-that dismissals, even if it's still mostly just stoner rock.

The 13 tracks on this sophomore disc can be indistinguishable in their chirpiness, but George's balance of whimsy and a furrowed brow gives the Invitation its lovely charm.

The heart of Pocket Symphony is simplicity, like wind chimes echoing the breeze's sentiment.

Summer's gone, but the buoyant vibe to The Sound of Sunshine extends year-round.

Fellow Okie Wes Sharon might be to blame for producing both albums, because the similarity in sound detracts from 20-year-old Millsap's themes of love, redemption, and what passes for spirituality these days.

Promise never runs out of steam or succumbs to laziness, but it's never as engaging as it should be, either.

Melodically, Young creates a comfortable, atmospheric lilt his admirers will instantly recognize. Lyrically, however, Young's lost his way.

Although his quartet's first LP has boozy punch, even with two bonus tracks, the Scots' eponymous debut still feels padded.

There are cool reminisces (opener 'Farewell to the Pressure Kids,' 'Safety Bricks'), but the bulk is derivative.

Feminist complaints aside, the problem with this seventh LP is that the Old 97's suffer from being too comfortable.

Bishop's voice is typically smooth and Cobb's production sizzles on occasion, but save for soul-pop ditty "Too Late," Ain't Who I Was never catches fire.

Sadly, the last third of this Boy sinks, but by then the damage is already done.

Jukebox follows the soulful turn of 2006's "The Greatest," cueing up an uneven sequel to the hushed acoustics of 2000's "The Covers Record."

Foals' major label debut, Total Life Forever, keeps those elements intact, most notably on the title track and in the calculated urgency and cold sweat of "After Glow," but the band has redesigned the template to include a more expansive pop approach evinced by sprawling centerpiece "Spanish Sahara."

Unfortunately, the rest of Dangerously in Love is only intermittently sexy.

The listener's attention drifts as Harcourt dips into sleepy introspection, although his voice is so arresting that one won't wander for long.

Animal Collective has backslid into a comfortable, but unfortunately unexciting, middle ground.

At times too synth-heavy for their own good and at other times downright bizarre, Simian nonetheless appears to be following a forest path no one else seems to be treading.

Event 2 sounds close enough to the first launch that an outwardly futuristic disc sounds oddly dated. Eight years in the making, the sequel doesn't venture where no man has gone before, but it's a worthy return trip for fans of the maiden voyage.

Attention Please offers a full-length extension of Boris' more pop-oriented material, except with petite guitarist Wata lending her narcotic coo to its shoegaze reveries ("Spoon") and cinematic passages ("See You Next Week").

The sold-separately CD soundtrack reiterates that point, capturing the pair's post-millennium blues, from the scat-rap, tornado groove of "Icky Thump" and electric mandolin haunt "Little Ghost" to the proto-punk, Maximum R&B of "Let's Shake Hands."

Happy Songs for Happy People offers many of the thrills of Rock Action, but without the diversity and succinctness that made that album shine.

Suggests that he's finally coming into his own, albeit gradually and grudgingly.

The now-South Carolinians intermittently evoke that inaugural 2006 disc by employing a fresh producer, Grandaddy mage Jason Lytle, who stamps his former band's downtrodden space rock into BoH's festival formula.

The soft lull of "Sleep Apnea" sinks into the Fossils' familiar shoegaze, but all the songs are clipped so short that atmosphere is unfortunately never given the chance to fully evolve and envelope.

Italian doom merchants "Mammoth UFO"... can't duplicate the tight encapsulation of 2010 origin story Eve in 51 minutes, although 14-minute lunar landing "Empireum" could power Alien craft Nostromo.

Derivative but entertaining.

Neither miserable nor memorable.

To the Sword's credit, variety pulls its sense of melody to the forefront, though die-hards may find the subsequent loss of energy an uneven trade. Yet "change or die" applies to the Sword as much as anyone, so if the tweaks of High Country act more as window dressing instead of a new structure, the additions enrich a manor in need of upkeep.

The Austin sextet reinvents the songs behind the bandleader's intimidating vocal flourish, though few provide particular improvement over the originals.

MGMT's still reacting to the mainstream triumph of 2008's Oracular Spectacular, trying too hard to sound genuinely weird, as if determined to fail at any cost.

All the Rest later blurs into trio clamor, cathartic but in need of compositional improvement, which has thus far proved Girl in a Coma's cross to bear.

Evil Heat... feels suspiciously like XTRMNTR outtakes, which isn't half as bad as it sounds; there's a sense of cohesion to the proceedings, and nothing, wisely, sounds remotely like the gossamer bliss-takes of Screamadelica.

Crystal Antlers need to allow the sounds of their instruments to serve a compositional goal in this way more often, rather than simply using them to bash through their songs.