Les Savy Fav has finally delivered an album worth shrugging about.

Certainly fans of the Blonde Redhead of old may damn Penny Sparkle with faint praise. Yet if Penny Sparkle veers a bit too close to Blonde Redhead meets Sade, it is mostly pleasant, and not for all of us is that word an epithet.

Lisbon is, for The Walkmen, a reinforcement rather than a reinvention - but for those listeners already fond of their sound, or of melancholy rock stripped down to its essentials in general, that makes for a rewarding listen.

All I did was press fast-forward, track after track. When that expectation of emotional articulation wasn't met, it brought up that feeling of outrage, as if somehow Superchunk let me down.

There's nothing self-consciously modern or calculated about You Are Not Alone, no visible strain from trying to mold Staples' style into something she's not. It's just her, as she is at her best, and Tweedy deserves credit for bringing that out.

No one can be a teenager again, not after 20 years, and The Vaselines have lost some of the feckless charm of their earliest material. Still, as they've gotten older, they've held onto much of what made them special – the reckless fun, the gritty melodies, the taunting humor – and picked up some skills.

Grinderman 2's variety and complexity never feels like a reach, and doesn't keep the album from cohering beautifully.

The farther it strays into new territory, the older and duller and more dubious Wilderness Heart sounds.

The end result is that, as far as we know (for now), Album of the Year is Black Milk continuing along at his very best.

Screaming Females do not get me because I'm not surprised by them. I enjoy Castle Talk, but it's academic.

To make so many overt references to his musical heroes while never losing sight of himself speaks to Iyer's own command. His improvisations have such clarity and vision, and it's rare that he stretches things any longer than necessary.

It's to Ejstes credit that he's stayed his course, continuing to pull together nostalgic and post-millennial sounds instead of chasing a mass audience that he probably couldn't have kept anyway.

Intentionally or not though, the vibe here tends to conjure more of a '71 than '01 frame of references, working up a slightly discordant, cacophonous sound that brings to mind everything from the Kosmiche synth-klang of early Cluster to the Industrial scree of late Faust.

While the band's celebrity rose in the wake of national tragedy, Interpol will remind you that it's time to be worried again.

Personal Life is absorbing and entertaining the first few times through, but many may not find it as engaging as the Thermals' best work.

Though a newcomer to The Clientele should not start here, it's strong throughout, with the exception of the aberrant (if mild) guitar freakout in "Jerry" and a creepy piano solo, "No. 33," which, if unobjectionable, seems unnecessary.

They're going through the motions, you can't get into it, and then it's over, just like that. Strange Weather, Isn't It? is a party where everyone looks like they're having fun.

The a-ha moments in the archaeological game Magic Kids sets up on Memphis are fun precisely because the songs are so unassuming in their saccharine one-dimensionality.

With Special Moves, Mogwai have released a "greatest hits" collection in a sense, but it's indeed more special than that. Dramatic, at turns gentle, majestic and harsh, both old and new songs blend so well that there's no feeling of weak recent material sagging amidst earlier favorites.

Listening to the work heard here, it may be a bit premature to file Carey's work beside some of the musical touchstones suggested by his record label's press corps (Bill Evans, Talk Talk), but it does suggest a good start and a solid grasp of the spaces that can be created by music.

This kind of detail-heavy album can make you feel like you're missing something if you're not paying attention. Each listen can run the risk of feeling incomplete. But by that same token, it also means it can feel new each time.

It's another misfire with a handful of great moments that point to something better.

Engineer Bosco Mann's work here exemplifies the principal that it's better to capture the sound right than to try to fix it in the mix. Then you can spend the mix getting the balance right, making some sounds stand out and others blend just right. Such is the case here; this record simply sounds right.

It is not as raw as the first LP, not as musically belligerent or emotionally wrenching. Instead, it's got an elegance and symmetry to it, a sense of space and precision that was, if not entirely missing from Hammer of the Gods, at least not fully realized.

King of the Beach has a few decent approximations of beloved styles. Perversely, they don't seem like breakthroughs--they make his old songs seem less special.

The Suburbs is a really good record, but it's clear that indie rock is not in Kansas anymore.

The mix's most pleasing moments and its most successful don't usually overlap: some of the beats are fresh, some of the basslines impeccable, but it's the extramusical sensations, those slithering intimations of robotic insects rooting through the garbage for your financial information, that make this worth engaging with on his terms, not your own.

If whining and wishing that your cat could talk is your bag, well, here's Best Coast. Now let's get burritos.