As brief as the moments of goodness may be, they’re lost in a sea of noise that becomes near indistinguishable when taken in one sitting.

Garden Of Arms is a disappointment, but by no means a failure; next time Peter Wolf Crier need to not only focus on how to make interesting-sounding songs, but how best to execute them too.

This album would not be selling or gaining attention if the band consisted of either of the aforementioned, proving that Share the Joy is nothing worth rejoicing.

Monthly Friend is serviceable indie rock at best, but it’s hard to meet it with anything greater than apathy and indifference.

Raven in the Grave isn't significantly weaker than any of it's predecessors, it's flaws are just significantly more obvious.

It's an album that alternates between being rewarding and punishing.

There's nothing wrong with seeking to accomplish the same things your heroes did, but when a band tries only to imitate a few aspects–in this case, detached singing, jangly guitar interplay, and lyrics about teen angst–without offering many of the other aspects that made that band great–like clever storytelling and interesting perspectives--it's always going to fall short. Which Come Of Age does.

Pedestrian may have similar mechanics to Yuck’s highlights underneath, but it’s stripped that fuzzy distortion and slathered in a thick layer of schmaltz as a replacement. The end result is a struggle, one that’s scattershot due to it’s need to include now-ancient methods to survive.

Sure, there is not a bad tune in the bunch, but the problem is that there isn't a particularly good one here, either.

To put it simply, Is This Hyperreal? suffers not because the band made a bad album, but because this is the fourth time they've repeated the formula.

Ultimately, Mylo Xyloto feels like a mixed bag of ideas that never really comes together.

The end results are still pleasant enough, but can wear thin, even just after five songs.

It's shiny but fluffy, and sure to be a disappointment to those hoping that O'Regan could build on the promise of Special Affectations.

Banks is showing some desire to move beyond the design that his career has sustained itself on, but this album shows he's not quite ready to cut the cord.

If Wilson and crew are trying to invoke a riot, then Easy Eighth isn’t the best manifesto – but it does at least fill the time fine enough until they figure out their cause.

Different Gear, Still Speeding shows that the band is comfortable with themselves and their follow-up has every chance to be a stronger album – especially if they are brave enough to include more styles, even if they won't move beyond their British Invasion inspirations.

They need to find their identity, and they're going to have to move forward and progress even further as a group if they want to move beyond being a flavor of the month.

The textures are jagged and distorted, the lyrics are mostly nonsensical and feel spontaneously captured, and the whole thing sounds like an awkward genre-fusing experiment that doesn’t feel like it warrants its own noted release. That’s not to say there aren’t moments with elements to enjoy, if not just moments with potential.

With Feed The Beast she has neither progressed past that nor become a lost cause.

The moments of brightness--some poetry here, a brief pop moment there--will get most listeners through the album, but won't inspire them to keep coming back.

If anything, A Very She & Him Christmas can feel like a wet blanket at times, like a party that just can't get off the ground.

There is a disappointing flatness to the songwriting, the performances and the general drive of the record. It is the sound of a band going through the motions, scared to make much of a show of themselves for fear of making a mistake.

There's potential here but it's sadly unrealized.

This kid may not have the voice of a generation, but there's certainly a demographic he could mean the world to. Once he figures out that it's what he has to say that should guide his singles, rather than what he imagines we want to hear, there may well be a great artist in Yelawolf.

Rave Age is an awkward half-step in a couple directions for Vitalic. It's texturally half-baked and predictable.

Go With Me is like a big box of popcorn; it's tasty and it can be improved by the circumstances under which you're enjoying it, but by the end you're barely even tasting it anymore, and it certainly won't quell your appetite for a proper meal.

The record sounds tired, dreamy, and wasted in the daylight at five in the afternoon– it tries to be breezy, but instead still feels like 99 degrees of heat.

Apart from the aptly titled "Film Credits," which, worthily, plays much like a ode to Max Richter, the music on the remainder of the album is left to unsatisfying and grey piano suites that don't sound destined for a more open setting nor benefit from the intimate setting of Arnalds' own living room.