Deal; her sister, Kelley, on guitar; drummer Jose Medeles; and bassist Mando Lopez return from 2002's "Title TK" in a mellow tone.

Unsurprisingly, Policy is a much smaller affair than his primary band's titanic statements on death, God, and 21st century malaise.

While Home Again rockets with infinite promise and closes on the moody brilliance of the Dan Auerbach-assisted "Lasan," the interim doesn't always clear that high bar.

Despite a dark facade, Riposte has a soft pop center, even if the two instruments often get lost in culs-de-sac and Dyer's voice becomes overwhelming as its own instrument over 14 songs. Cut four or five tracks, and you've got something singular.

The inevitable slump following the atomic "Submarine Blues" of this Gothenburg, Sweden, quartet's self-titled 2007 debut nevertheless bottles a lightning shot or four of moonshine psych-blues.

Timeless? No, but go make out on the dance floor.

Make no mistake: Kweller's an endearing artist, not to mention a talented lyricist, but it appears that he's simply too impressionable and ends up mirroring his influences rather than building upon them.

The new songs have attitude, but they sound like outtakes from 2000's classic Kid A and 2001's lesser Amnesiac.

Distance may have added lyrical inspiration, but the songs seem a little incomplete.

While the lack of onstage banter is welcome, Alive & Wired would have benefited from fewer songs and more space.

Doesn't possess the necessary tension of DCD's best or her wonderful 1995 solo debut, The Mirror Pool.

After two decades of creative partnership, she and Parish no doubt know what the other is thinking, but it also feels like a mishmash of sounds from over her whole career, a flood after the stillness of "White Chalk."

While this summit doesn't offer enough to interest more than the converted, the magnitude of the encounter tends to transcend whatever music is created.

The swapping out of Justin Harwood for Britta Phillips on bass seems to have enlivened things somewhat, but what starts so promising, sputters as the album progresses.

One of the hardest working men in hip-hop fails to push himself on Big Doe, but better Ghost rapping than Soulja Boy. So "We Celebrate."

Yet while White stalks bewitching frontwoman Alison Mosshart to sublime effect in "The Difference Between Us" and "Die by the Drop," the album still sounds rushed, as if the Dead Weather can't wait to storm the stage.

Not without failings, such as the power ballad "Destroyer," the lower points temper the album's explosiveness.

May's album is laced with talent, but ultimately the whimsy undermines rather than accentuates his best moments.

At 23 songs, the UK electro duo's fourth full-length has a lot of room for experimentation, but it comes off more like the soundtrack for a 1960s Hammer film.

Most of the dozen tracks fall comfortably near the middle ground between those two ends. The result is something palatably hip without being overly threatening.

Punch buries its best shots behind too much guitar and gratuitous arrangements.

The title track, meanwhile, showcases the intimate girl-and-a-guitar ethos that makes Arnalds so charming. Unfortunately, the sensual charango tick-tocking of "Surrender" features backing vox from One Little Indian label head Bjork, who railroads the song with her guttural growls and swoopy showboating.

Nothing here to best the hungry creativity of Aenema's "Eulogy" or Lateralus' "The Grudge," which is particularly frustrating given that drummer Danny Carey dazzles again.

They oscillate wildly, but 'The Nest' reveals partial siring from Phil Spector, in sound if not psyche, while clammy, nervous rockers like the vitriolic kiss-off 'Darling'–-cribbing its recurring riff from the Stones' 'Mother's Little Helper'--veer into outright snark.

There's a lot to love about the Spinto Band, but it's a fine line the band treads between catchy quirkiness and spastic annoyance.

Unfortunately, for every song that pulls at the heartstrings or prompts a minor political epiphany, Earle has included muddled-headed efforts that don't pass muster.

Past its christening Dylanesque by way of Todd Snider – Miller echoing Tom Petty's hard consonants – it's all lyrically downhill across party anthems ("Wasted"), fuck songs ("Let's Get Drunk & Get It On"), drug shrugs ("The Disconnect") and antidotes ("Intervention"), plus a token "This Is the Ballad."

Intricate layers and rolling, subtle lifts give way to chaos, but taken in one dose, The Evening Descends is a few hits short of lovely.

A cursory listen is stultifyingly dull and alarmingly same-y, a pale follow-up to 2004's One Plus One Is One. A more careful ear reveals the sort of complexity we've come to expect from our Boy over the years.

What the Soft Skeleton lacks is that sassy power Haines embodies with Metric.

There are throwaways, but 12 Desperate Straight Lines moves Telekinesis in the right direction.

The Stand Ins doesn't really figure out what it wants to be until its second half.

Lightless Sky's monochromatic metal erosion could use a tonal infusion, but the vocal excoriation of "False Priest" testifies these brutal ruins.

Amelita makes it abundantly clear the Dixie Chicks bite was brought by its snappy singer, but Maguire and Robison's sweetness maintains its charms.

It's a black hole of esoteric expressionism, as baffling as it is brilliant.

It's very catchy, but the center doesn't hold.

Tight and heavy and not terribly fast, The Way of All Flesh recalls Cathedral or Entombed in its groovier moments, but, more often, the chromatic, midtempo riffs and heavily syncopated drumming echo Mastodon.

While everything could be trimmed, Jimmy Shaw's razor guitar in 'Sick Muse' and 'Front Row' keeps things edgy.

Antiphon offers a band regrouping but still searching for distinct direction.

Nude With Boots, their second effort with Big Business' Jared Warren and Coady Willis, continues to muscle up that foursome, the BBs proving the long-lost rhythm section to drummer Dale Crover and guitarist Buzz Osborne.

While strong in parts, on the whole Lillie has a feel of tentativeness to it.

The former Be Good Tanya quilts a quivering, affected vocal that's nevertheless warm on the lilting "Wreckage," the lower register of "Tender Mirror," and the bitter shock of "Remember."

Chicago instrumentalists Russian Circles arrive at neutral ground with Geneva.

Esben & the Witch has pretty frames, but not much of a big picture just yet.

Even if the first notes – and, well, most of Colour Trip – sound awfully derivative of British bands from the late 1980s, this Austin trio glitzes it up royally on its full-length bow, especially compared to its 2007 debut EP.

Living With War: American Idiot for hippies.

She's been down this gravel road before, and those car wheels sound precariously close to spinning in place.

Sennett's lilting accusations resemble buddy Conor Oberst minus the anti-Bush venom, but the homogeneous honesty, resplendent on "Not Going Home," ultimately grows tedious.

Things get ponderous when themes aren't fully developed, "Triangle Frog" never leaving intro mode, but all is forgiven when the dreamy guitar hum of "Plankton March" brings Harbors in for an analgesic landing.

It's one of those albums that's good, but you also know you won't listen to it all that much.

The Civil Wars display some moments of real promise, though not enough to warrant the crush of attention paid their debut, Barton Hollow.

Sweet Sour downshifts something ridiculous, slow and a little disappointing for a little too long (especially for fans of 2009 debut Baby Darling Doll Face Honey), because holy crap, did it melt faces ever so well for a little while.

If it doesn't exactly blaze off in bold new directions, it does offer an opportunity for Interpol to do some fine-tuning (not that they need much) and settle comfortably into their black, velvet-lined pocket.

Common falters where he once shined, and the waning lyrical creativity and constant references to pop culture have caused him to lose touch with the rapper once renowned for his humility and perspective.

Formulaic song-structure stagnation lingers since the group's 2005 lineup overhaul and subsequent lackluster LP, Wilco (the Album). In Fact, the sextet borders on complacency in its rock-ribbed space-rock safety net, despite that music's surface eccentricity and innovation.

It's an interesting departure, but not entirely successful.

The band's dynamics are beyond reproach, and the album sounds fabulous. Problem: The quiet songs don't provide a proper outlet for the band's palpable tension, and Aereogramme stays quiet far too often.

The album's second half gets weighed down with too many overlong songs that wander into the weeds.

Unfortunately, BSS spreads itself too thin on the back nine, which, with the noted exception of Emily Haines' yearning "Sentimental X's," sounds like solo project B-sides (Kevin Drew's dream echo "Sweetest Kill" and closer "Me and My Hand") and studio outtakes (instrumental "Meet Me in the Basement," "Highway Slipper Jam").

Beginning with the naughty promise of "Closer," which voices a transgressive assertion of female sexual desire, the duo rapidly devolves into a string of whiny mash notes accentuated by tinny, synth-heavy instrumentation.

The slow-building songs boast impressive payoffs ('Crack,' 'Seventeen'), and when they have a pulse, they're propellant and poised ('Bandy Riddles,' the 1980s whiff of the title track). In between, however, lays a dense, half-baked haze that makes Blood From a Stone frustrating.

Satisfied lacks a contemporary six-string firebrand like Ely's late partner in crime Jesse Taylor and a team of young production bucks kicking in the stall all night.

Cokefloat! shows range, though nothing special in terms of execution.

La Futura crumbles into more of the exact same-y after that, whether it's the repetition of "I Don't Wanna Lose, Lose, You" or the dinosaur thud of "Flyin' High," which counter to its title might actually be reptilian and/or subaquatic.

By the time Love & Distortion arrives at "The Simple Things Are Taking Over" and "Kleptophilia," the band finally has an identity of its own: smart without being pedantic, coy, but not pretentious, the British affectation in the vocals sounding more natural, the melodies spelled out with greater precision.

A juvenile cluster bomb of goofy guitar shenanigans.

Lighter on the pop and heavier on ornamentation but keeps enough of the playful antics that garnered the first album such popularity.

The worst mistake you can make is to write off this band as just another sappy, sentimental Brit-pop effort, because you'd miss out on supreme moments of emotional clarity that far outweigh the muddier, more overwrought mistakes.

Trampin' is much too formulaic, too willing to leave the power of Smith's songwriting in words and not back it up musically.

The effect diminishes with each spin.

Unfortunately, Keep Your Eyes Ahead, the pair's fourth album, suffers from multiple personality disorder.

The master pop craftsman can still play it like Elliott Smith's hopeful counter, and when producer Bob Rock pulls the right sounds together, it's golden.

Bluegrass songbird rises from the ashes of Albion with 11 impeccables beginning with the breathtaking title track and equally stilling "Lie Awake."

Huddling together former members of the erstwhile Pretty Girls Make Graves, Seattle's Cave Singers have fashioned a deeply masculine disc in No Witch, the trio's third LP and first for Jagjaguwar.

Full of punch, the album still never quite reaches its destination.

Mexican quartet Chikita Violenta hand claps a tight cell of indie rock scientists, its gang vox consistent with use here of Broken Social Scene knobist David Newfeld, who also produced these muchachos' 2007 album.

The lasting impression might be the 3-D IMAX version of Sandra Bullock in Gravity: Sonically stunning with mainstream appeal, but the dialogue still makes you cringe some.

Nothing comes close to the [early tracks], though plenty of interesting bits are strewn about.

Part of the problem remains in Ellis' reedy voice, which mutes the impact of the songs like the soul-stirring title track and a misplaced cover of Paul Simon's "Still Crazy After All These Years."

Dwyer's yelps paired with Brigid Dawson's sugary vox have made them a West Coast Frank Black/Kim Deal, and Warm Slime secretes the tightly wound psych-punk blues of Help, but lacks that album's urgency.

Not in the same league as, say, 2009's Willie and the Wheel, Bluegrass lacks the magic of either a great Willie Nelson record or a great bluegrass record.

Despite boasting favorites from Charles repertoire including "Cryin' Time," "Busted," and "Hit the Road Jack," this summit never clicks, perhaps a result of the one-off nature of the project making it hard for the musical personalities to fully gel.

Individually, both men are astounding talents, but beyond a few solid tracks, the alchemy's just not there.

Four Foot Shack provokes guffaws, in that hallucinogenic Claypool way, but its visceral blend of oddness and crassness leaves you with a stomach ache.

Moments, ideas, turns of phrase are jumbled together, good and bad, resulting in the sweet smell of garbage.

As tight and well-rehearsed as any camp band, the Kids' real magic lies in their unsullied embrace of 1960s pop and garage rock with a modern teen sensibility.

Dour, divine, depressed, the Liverpudlian of The Apple Years 1968-75 wears many moods between Krishna rock and "Ding Dong, Ding Dong" roll.

Without co-star Alison Krauss or marquee Texan producer T Bone Burnett, Robert Plant's latest solo outing suffers the expected sequel slump.

Six years later, the New York trio's third LP, It's Blitz!, is only as subversive as its cover image.

Even at their best, Quasi can be like the same magic trick performed over and over. At first, it's marvelous and mysterious, yet with each successive time less so, until eventually you figure out how the whole thing is done and lose interest altogether.

All in all, though, Medúlla is far too busy. Even when you're experimenting, the less-is-more rule still applies.

Sadly, forced lyrics and too-on-the-nose productions (bedsprings in "Ooh La La") are a killjoy.

[A] black hole.

[Elton John] eschews formulaic pop for the stripped barroom noir of "Oscar Wilde Gets Out" and church hymn "A Town Named Jubilee." All too soon, though, "My Quicksand," which would be a perfect Rufus Wainwright vehicle, sinks overwrought while drawing the disc's Maginot Line. Only the Eighties-esque "Can't Stay Alone Tonight" rallies after that.

Full-length Vice debut and second LP Descending Shadows has some good songs ("Paranoia," "Zip My Lip"), but it's no big stretch from Dead Moon's formula.

It's a process, not a product--frustratingly inarticulate when it matters most.

She's certainly eyeing global pop domination. Therein lies Maya's conflict.

Wise Up Ghost, more compelling in theory than practice.