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.

The Vancouver octet layers lavish string arrangements and huge group choruses over its trademark, idiosyncratic power-pop, smothering the listener in the process.

It's a tumbler, a series of good thoughts that get lost in development.

It's half-baked as well, never distinguishing itself from other rock & roll throwbacks.

The vocals long to break out of their high-flitting preciousness, and despite the polish of the production, the album as a whole seems unable to wrangle its various impulses, revealing ONOM trying to move beyond the dated charm of their debut but not quite sure where to go.

Grounded in the fertile terrain of terminal relationships, the warm, unadorned album comes undone by undercooked songwriting.

Ms Mr shows off good ideas, but they'll need to focus a little less on digital presentation and more on songwriting.

We're treated to a blissful numbness, which is perfect for those who came here for the whacked out waveforms.

It's the Ting Tings amplified past 11, and the two never stray far from the formula.

Frontman Alex Ebert shoots more sincerity with the sophomore effort, which paradoxically results in a set that feels about as authentic as his previous Ima Robot persona.

The camp is layered on thick, just as it always was, yet this time it crosses the thin line these electro pioneers once walked with ease.

The touches of old Tori ("Girl Disappearing," "Body and Soul") are fairly solid, but most often she gets lost in her mental "posse."

Between her sweet and his sour, there should be a whole lot more shaking going on, but instead it's like they keep coming out of the dressing room with the same hat on.

It all goes down like kung pao chicken and Sapporo, but you'll be at Church's in an hour.

Room Noises is the perfect escape for girls who've outgrown their My Little Ponies but aren't quite prepared for more adult outlets of expression, and that of course is its downfall.

The album plays toward the Black Keys' ethos, but Shakedown never gains its footing.