Gold Cobra props itself up as the best thing we've seen from our most hated band since even 1997, and the two albums following that had enough singles to fill a greatest hits compilation one record ahead of schedule.

It’s a rare glimpse into Kaufman’s methodology--one that will make uninitiated listeners wonder, “Aren’t comedy albums supposed to be funny?”

If Alopecia was the perfect fit sonically and thematically for Wolf's verbal diarrhea, then Mumps comes off more like a scattered greatest hits record than an album with a preconceived vision.

At times, the music is playing it a little too safe under the reverb. More dynamics or a bit more vastness in the sound might've elevated tracks like "New Dawn" and "Violent Cries".

The album may have its shortcomings, but in the end it is a solid statement on his appreciation for varying forms of production and his intent to further embed these during his live sets and upcoming studio albums.

If Up From Below was a crazy dance festival, Here is the smooth joint smoked in the shade afterwards.

An eerie dose of deep electronics, Warm Pulse is another step in the right direction for two producers building their own audience.

The peaks overshadow the valleys here, leaving an adequate showing from a guy who deserves to be taken more seriously than his looks and background might warrant.

For a band that spent a year in solitude writing and recording Language, Zulu Winter sound an awful lot like everyone else out there.

Superhumanoids have the talent to breach their simple formula, but they often cut their best ideas too short.

Overall, by the end of the album it feels like Wayne maybe pushed Tha Carter series one installment too far.

If Meek wants to maximize his potential, he'll have to step out from his boss' (er, bawse's) shadow and further develop his own identity.

The EP’s six tracks waft through speakers like the haze that envelopes South Florida during the controlled burns of the Everglades each fall.

There are some great moments in New Wave revisionism. But, in the end, it isn't all that memorable, just something fun to toss on every once in a while.

As a whole, the album treads the fine line of genre fetishism and reinvention.

The duo has shed a lot of the excess sunshine, but the aspects of Condale that made it so irresistible,the knack for melody and the earnest tales of young love, still find a home on Always.

This album is comprehensive, but not exactly cohesive.

Not quite accessible to the unsuspecting ears, Zeros appeals in that inexplicable, morose way, propelled by a certain pleasure entwined with the chaos of the uncertain.

Psychic Ills continue to produce music that succeeds by repetition, a trick that can’t hold up for everyone or in every situation.

It’s neither better nor worse than Dream, but for all that talk of “pushing through four dimensions” (“Surround Sound”), the album remains planted in its comfort zone.

Silencio is Sadier's most politically charged album yet, and it creeps out its message with a familiar-but-refreshed style.

Frankie Rose still has great instincts of where her music should be going. She just has to trust them more.

Elsewhere, he mistakes AOR-ready sentimentality and banal lyrics for perfect summer-album material, which seems like a misdirected pursuit--Within and Without already was a near-perfect summer album.

With the new focus on body-moving sounds, Interiors feels like Mesirow’s desire to appease crowds like those at FYF, without leaving behind those infatuated by the lusciousness of her first LP.

Too often, it just doesn't seem like he was as ambitious with the craft of this one as he was with past efforts, however natural they may have sounded.

The subject matter gives depth to the record, but sometimes it feels like Smith Westerns are filling in templates instead of writing songs.

Kisses on the Bottom is a respectable collection from a pop mastermind.

While the best moments on The Distance Is So Big have hooks to spare, “Scienceless” and “Public Opinion Bath” could’ve used at least one. It’s just hard to maintain that kind of optimism over the course of a whole record.

Too much of the same synth sounds and Kozub's too-hazy vocals (sung into an old analog vocoder that makes the melancholy lyrical content impossible to understand) leave the album lacking a certain spark.

In totally brushing aside the complexities of Caribou in order to make dance music, he loses sight of the more complex moments in the dance music he's making.

The two halves of III frequently war, the pleasantly shambling rhythms consistently undermined by Enborn’s just off-key yawling on viscerally unusual topics, as well as the occasional genre shift.

Unlearn is an album full of great, clever songs if listened to individually. As a whole, however, it's too scattered.

Languid and drone-heavy, The High Frontier is for the star-gazers that don’t get tired of looking up and wondering what’s out there, as opposed to going out and seeing what’s there for themselves.

Put simply, The Great Gatsby soundtrack resonates like the dinky Grammy sampler album they give to us plebeians who aren’t important enough to attend the ceremony anyway.

Although Bloodlines is a solid effort, it never seems to really take flight; alternately quiet and bold, it can’t seem to decide whether it wants to be a testament to Mathè’s artistic transformation or a kind of tentative experiment, to be abandoned if it doesn’t pan out.

Milk Money takes a disappointing step back in the album’s second half.

The album's strengths indeed grow on you with time, but his failure to capture these strengths as a whole is what denies it stature among other bedroom recordings.

While this album shares a lot of qualities with the likes of Mr. Impossible, its straight to the jugular strike at being a groovy good time comes off a little less polished.

Had GFK’s focus been on par with his corresponding hero’s repulsor beam, this record would’ve been more than a solid collection that fails in trying to make high-art with a half-hearted storyline.

While the record is still enjoyable, particularly due to a strain of riot grrrl-infused audacity and vociferous demands for respect, the sonics fail to achieve much progress and rely far too often on tried-and-true riffs and structures.

Mohager takes the propulsive beats of New Order and makes it his own for the modern club set. With a better editor, Mohager's future won't let up any time soon.

Whether the sound quality on Nothing Is Real is intentional or not, the lo-fi rattling smothers the hooks and makes the songs feel suspiciously like demos.

The scope here is smaller, the instrumentals keener on serving as a pedestal for the vocals than as a landscape for them to get lost in.

There's a glistening sheen here, and the mixture of fast and slow ("When I Start to Breathe" is ballad-like with an eminently hummable chorus) keeps things refreshing.

Take Vodka and Ayahuasca as a testament to these guys' long-acquired mastery of their craft, even as the rhymes are generally less than striking.

Much like the Odd Future catalog, SpaceGhostPurrp's impressive, stark, spooky production will be enough to win over listeners bothered by the sexism.

The problem of carving a new brand of sprawling music that feels carefully hand-crafted at every nook while not letting those nooks fly by too easily, or unappreciated, is not one that Palms has a great solution towards.

It’s still engaging in places, but it never comes close to reaching the level of its predecessor.

It's full of moving parts and the type of effortless transitions between songs that makes the album much more than the sum of its parts.

At his best, Calder channels a disaffected claustrophobia, bearing down on twentysomethings lost and disaffected in their parents’ basements. It’s a bummer listen, but sometimes that’s warranted.

Geographer managed to show how well they clean up.

The album sounds like it was written and recorded one lazy day on someone's back porch, and could perfectly soundtrack such a day.

Shut Down the Streets is a strange beast and one that will fall victim to that option that destroys the album sequence as we know it: shuffle. Fortunately, the high points are so high that they warrant a listen, even a purchase of the record as a whole.

EmptyMansions plays like a well-crafted diversion, an artist’s escape to play in his own corner of the musical playground, if just for a short spell.

Disappears have created a dark, at times dancey, record that very rarely lets up.

While Green’s sleepy pop-punk songwriting is the stuff of afternoon nap dreams, it’s too bad that the vinyl single isn’t a more viable option, as the longer, slower tracks that fill the spaces between those little gems dissipate the album’s buzz.

Nothing can be accomplished if someone doesn't stand up and act as the new gold standard. Kanye West and Jay-Z have proven themselves to be, at the very least, kings of just that notion.

The album proves worthy enough for the wait, namely due to its shining moments that outweigh the surrounding pitfalls.

While captivatingly evil at points, the absence of the hooks that made It's Frightening so exceptional can make Milk Famous a difficult match.

The problem is, Wale isn’t at the top, he’s simply borrowing that swagger from the A-list guests that decorate The Gifted.

The sense of unbridled joy on Carnivale Electricos is infectious. It defies you not to dance.

Perhaps Heidecker & Wood are creating an album that is meant to be somewhat obtuse and open. Perhaps it's part of the joke. I don't know, but I do know that, like after watching an episode of Tim & Eric, I just feel sort of confused.

So far, he's kept a high quality to go along with the high volume of his releases, and Weekend at Burnie's is no exception. It won't be his breakout into the mainstream, but if he continues at this rate he'll be there soon enough.

Union's production and technical minutiae are immaculate, but as always, those are checks that bounce without the song ideas to cash them.

Cobra Juicy is the most technically focused that Black Moth Super Rainbow have ever been, but it also lacks an important degree of their trademark self-contradiction.

All in all, this soundtrack is a solid collection of B-level material from a varied selection of artists.

Rich Forever doesn't boast any potential mega-hits. But that's actually a good reason to give this a spin; the songs here are strong without shooting for the stars.

Although the overall plot of the album is sparse, it's hard to deny the enjoyment it can bring to you. If you know what to expect when you hear it, you can take The Beginning for what it is: a feel good album.

It's rewarding if given the occasional spin but tiresome if spun too often.

The album isn't wildly new, which could either please or possibly dismay dedicated DCD fans.

Though the compositions at times straddle the line between detailed and busy, on the whole, The Speed of Things is a seamless, competent, and lighthearted pop release.

His raspy voice still aches and arches over the songs and caries his wandering soul and eager heart, but near every other facet of There's No Leaving Now is compressed, leaving a much smaller impression than his previous albums.

Tempest delivers yet another collection of the ramblers that have populated Dylan's records since Time Out of Mind.

While every cover on The Love may not be exceptional, Corinne Bailey Rae once again exhibits remarkable vocal and musical range.

We attempt to find a pattern in the nonsense (both in the vocals and in the music itself), to figure out what this is supposed to be saying. But Copeland is there at the knobs, twisting things just out of our reach.

With its chilling soundscapes and cryptic feel, Deadbeat plays as much as a piece of twisted musical theatre as it does a proper studio record.

The resulting effort, Long Slow Dance, is a perfect example of time's true, unpredictable power, a collection of 12 songs that demonstrate true focus and dedication while displaying telltale signs of over-analysis and stagnation.

Be it from an as-yet-uncertain lineup or a sign of life and things to come from this ensemble, the unknown and the unheard may be the most fulfilling aspects Content has to offer.

Although the majority of the album is indeed predictable, the band did take some risks.

Overall, the few great tracks balance out the filler, and Gold Fields manages to forge a hodgepodge of weathered songs into something wholly emotional.

While nothing on this record comes close to rivaling any of his past material, you can't deny the urge to indulge yourself in something labeled, "new Michael Jackson," and that's where Michael succeeds.

Dead Son Rising is neither terrible nor extraordinary.

Too Young to Be in Love may be a lot of things, but kitschy is not one of them, as Hunx and His Punx yet again provide a fresh take on the first generations of rock and roll, executed with tact and sparkle.

With a handful of infectious hooks and a gem of a vocalist, Royal Headache has the tools to capture an arena audience by the ears.

If Brazos can focus on their strengths, they have the potential to make a pleasant, summery mark on pop music.

In the end, you love this album. Of course you do. But not as much as you could have, and when you have this much potential and youthful energy on your hands, that sin is almost unforgivable.

Take a spin through Denison Witmer’s 11 songs, and whether listening to an album stream or consciously and individually clicking through the individual tracks, distinguishing song-to-song shifts proves difficult, as Witmer chooses an acoustic guitar as his primary partner and additional instruments (hear: light percussion, occasional keys, and drowsy bass) are reduced to mellowing sleep-aids.

It can be said that this is the best recently released shoegaze record, or perhaps that it best recapitulates the classic sounds of a genre largely past.

Raven in the Grave is a step in the right direction, to be sure, but the melodies aren't quite as fresh on this album and the songs often lack the soundtrack-y emotional wallop that older albums relied on.

If, like me, your hillbilly musical tastes lean toward bluegrass, you're likely to forget this one.

It’s uncertain music from an uncertain man, an artifact that will continue to influence growing pains from the many Lynchian dreamers.

Hunx has returned with a reduced lineup of Punx (formerly the Punkettes) and a sophomore full length, Street Punk, which is a far more aggressive endeavor than its predecessor.

It's an improvement, and it reveals a band with plenty room to grow. In the meantime, these Jackpacks will continue coasting.

The album might be a brooding thought battle, but with the support of dreamy, female sopranos, the burdens become bearable.

Crocodiles try so much that it can be an exhausting listen, but still there is enough here to keep this outing from San Diego's noise pop outfit from wilting.

It ends with a glorious resolution of two notes teased from Northumbrian pipes, so perfect and final that the reprise of “The Last Ship” seems redundant. Such honest moments make this album a worthwhile, if not fully rounded experience.

Their sound yearns for those Pacific nights, with a hazy moon illuminating San Francisco Bay. It's going to take a bit more than sparkles and glitter, though, to propel their intelligently crafted dream-pop a bit further.

Mount Moriah is ultimately a refreshing debut whose flaws can easily be excused as growing pains.