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.

[Making Mirrors] showcases a risk-taking, self-possessed artist, with mixed results.

This young band has something fresh to say, which softens the letdown that their late attempt at post-punk heroism falls short.

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.