Too much of The Politics of Envy sounds like the mid-'80s acts that glued British pop back together after bands like the Pop Group smashed it to bits.

Heavy Mood has some good songs on it, but if you'd ask me which way to point I'd still say Bottoms of Barrels (the band's 3rd record).

Black Radio would have been more successful if the music used some of jazz's subtle spontaneity in the arrangements instead of satisfying itself by going for the easy laidback vibe.

Of the 13 songs here, roughly half are by male vocalists who, because of the twang in their voices or their choice of instrumentation, have a predictable, even generic, alt-country sound.

The album is not terrible, just not terribly original either.

If you're looking for something that's groundbreaking, thought provoking, unique and ultimately worth the money, don't bother.

Despite the obvious care for craftsmanship, no standouts emerge.

Brett Gurewitz’s buzzsaw guitars sound cool, but the blend of punk rock and carols turns out to be too predictable, so you know whether you need to hear this one even without hearing it.

The problem with 4everevolution is that it takes too long to get to the good moments.

Every Step's A Yes is a stylistic mish-mash with a few notable gems worthy of downloading.

Barfly's 11 tracks find a band unsure of which direction to take, eventually settling on a version of muddled garage rock.

The Midsummer Station isn't a terrible album; it just sounds as if big studio influence overshadows much of the reliable metaphors and creativity that made songs like "Fireflies" a hit.

The songwriting ... takes a bit of a dip on this one. Oh sure, the first few songs are pretty good but that's it, just pretty good.

In the end, though there are sublime moments on In Animal Tongue, the language of these insular and dark songs does not always translate well.

Long Vacations isn't a bad album per se (Rouse is too gifted a songwriter to make a genuinely bad album), but it has the sound of an uninspired one.

This album feels more like a curio of a bygone era rather than an overlooked gem.

The songs on Palindrome Hunches are certainly pretty and play perfectly as background music for a variety of endeavors (washing dishes, vacuuming, etc.) but not much on here really stands out and catches your attention.

Good as this is, it could be that much better.

Most of the songs are littered with cosmic debris, but fortunately it's all relegated to the background so as not to interfere with the percolating pace.

The see-sawing dynamic runs a bit ragged, ultimately.

The sound is a little too familiar, and--like a lot of Scandinavian music makers--the Deer Tracks are more style than substance.

Hearing “Love Is the Drug,” “Virginia Plain” and “The Bogus Man” this way embalms the material. And many lose a key dimension without vocals.

Too much space and too little aggro makes for a dull Faust, alas, and by the end of the album attention spans may well drift toward grocery lists or navel lint.

The sonics, as you might imagine, vary from one track to the next, coming as they do from multiple sources. In general, though, they’re quite acceptable, so rating them squarely in the middle seems logical enough.

It’s a little too smoothed out and indistinct now--most of the songs are well crafted but a little TOO well crafted.

As a tribute, Dead Man’s Town: A Tribute to Born in the USA is fine enough; just falling short of the material it champions.

Brazen and breathless all at the same time, Nina comes across as the weirdest record of the entire year, and might even be the strangest album most people might encounter in a lifetime.

The real problem is that there’s little, if anything, to distinguish any particular track from the one that precedes it, omitting anything of hummable worth for vague, languid repose.

In isolation, he finds beautiful music; with a band, he discovered confusion, pretentiousness and ultimately an average record.

Sometimes Django Django's ingredients cohere into an actual song, but a lot of the Scottish quartet's self-titled debut album is frustratingly sketchy.

It’s merely average, one likely to fade into memory once the buzz dies down and the fire goes out.

Oftentimes, it’s an odd juxtaposition, and one that isn’t always in sync.

Local Business represents a new chapter in the band's saga, but it's one you're better off skimming.

It would seem as if she’s making music from a disengaged point of view.

Many of the songs on here just aren’t very memorable.

Policy is actually all over the musical map.

This is a record of experimental sound, no more or less, and is arguably as important an element in Batoh's musical makeup as anything involving guitar chords. But that doesn't make Brain Pulse Music particularly compelling, especially not to anyone craving a helping of Ghost music.

Soft Will is certainly pleasant enough (which shouldn’t really be what you’re striving for with a rock album), and I’m sure is being hailed by indie taste makers everywhere who like their rock on the sterile side.

Listeners are best advised to head directly to disc two and regard the set with strings as a curiosity and an example of eccentric experimentation best left on the shelf.

Talent and skill overflow from the fingertips of the members of Trans Am, but that doesn’t mean they should let it make a mess on the carpet.

These are lonely outposts in a landscape without distinction, where the most depressing aspect isn’t what happened to Landes and Ritter, but what happened to Landes’ songwriting.

The band draws from the members’ mutual admiration and concerted input, but while it’s an admirable first attempt, it never quite gels into anything of enduring interest.

More a series of half-drawn soundscapes than actual songs per se, No Elephants comes across as an exercise in the abstract, in which the artist makes almost no attempt to color inside the outlines.

Though there are portions of We Are Undone which could definitely be considered unhinged, nothing here suggests they’re even close to being undone at this stage.

Afraid of Heights is ok, it’s Wavves most sophisticated, it’s fun for one or two spins on a sunny day and the duo due take a few chances but at the end of the day, the thing that Wavves are most afraid of isn’t heights, its originality.

It has a good sound to it, but as a whole, the misty quality in many of the songs doesn’t have much of a lasting impact.

Like other such endeavors-acoustic re-imaginings, that is-the results aren't that poor. They're just boring.

The problem is that Pearl Jam at this point is just repeating itself--or others.

The songs vacillate between solid, classic McClinton and ho-hum and you can’t help but miss the more raucous, wilder Delbert.

While Rowe's deep-baritone delivery conveys intimacy, his lyrics are a grab-bag of overwrought, secondhand images.

The shift in sound is subtle at best, and only the most astute listener will sense any real progression. At times it’s lovely to listen to, but all in all it best serves as somnolent sounds for insomniacs.

They are trying too hard for precocious-ness, not enough for worn-in beauty.

Even stripping off the gloss doesn’t help, because there’s not much under it.

The second half of the album finds the foursome relenting and mostly mellowing out.

The production has gotten bigger, slicker and more surgically clean, but the tunes haven’t.

This is no disaster on the level of, say, a Leonard Nimoy or Don Johnson album, but given Laurie's outspoken love for New Orleans and the involvement of Henry and his crew, Let Them Talk still falls well short of expectations.

This may be as good as it gets for Dreamers of the Ghetto, and it's really just fair.

More Than Just a Dream is a perfectly ok record that can even boast one or two above-average songs, but ultimately the result is pretty underwhelming.

To be sure, Blitzen Trapper can be commended for breaking down the boundaries between roots and rhythm, even though they may alienate those more accustomed to the tried and true.

Individ challenges its listeners to discover the elusive melodies that reside below the surface, even though the clattering arrangements and oddly oblique atmospherics might prove to be a distraction.

If energy and enthusiasm count for anything, then The Pack A.D. comes out a step ahead. The problem is, they don’t seem to know when to pull back.

These songs work well in small doses, but start to grate after repeat listens.

Those that deem this effort too weird or erratic are best advised to consider the deluxe edition with its live bonus disc recorded with the Metropole Orchestra at the Paradiso in Amsterdam.

It’s tranquil, amiable and very familiar.

As long as those instrumental additives remain intact, Poco will always excel in more than name alone, but with fewer voices in the mix, it also remains a challenge to reach that high bar established so early on.

Good Mood Fool takes several listens before it’s possible to fully appreciate its full potential.

Shakedown is less about method and more about attitude.

It’s a little regrettable then that his last officially studio album, coming out less than a year after he died, is so overproduced and kitschy.

It’s hard to imagine the circumstance that led Low Anthem to assemble this effort. Was it psychedelic substances or a fascination for Faust? Whatever the case, Eyeland marks a trippy transformation.

This debut from Dangerkids is ambitious only in the fact that there is so much wrong with this record.

No, that's why God made the CD player's "skip" and "program" buttons.

“Harmonic Hall” is a pseudo serious semi-Arabic sounding pointless exercise in sequencing and doesn’t aid the soporific nature of the record one iota. The rest of the record is nothing more than pieced together bits of overwrought musicality that were always present since the 90’s but never given center stage until now.

It turns out that "Brandenburg Gate" is one of the only songs with an actual melody. The rest of Lulu is full of recycled, repetitive riffs; endless drones; more sex and violence than a slasher movie.

The LP’s few highlights--the thrumming “Cremated (Blown Away)” and “Bridge By A Tunnel,” the only track with a memorable chorus--can’t rescue Proper Ornaments from the ugly truth: there’s a bomb already in this Foxhole.

There is little if anything redeeming about this CD.