While Lines doesn't escape the limits of its genre--a little more substantial than an EP, consistent but not expansive--it plays its role well, and has enough moments to hold up beyond the first couple listens.

Call it diversity; call it inconsistency; whatever. Moving in some direction is half the battle. [#22, p.93]

The record's informality causes it to stumble a bit-Warren Spicer's words occasionally work better as quips than they do as lyrics--but its faults are more than overwhelmed by its sense of communal grandeur.

The trio's skronky bits and folksy mannerisms are in place, often found competing within the confines of a single song. [Spring 2009, p.96]

Shapiro’s enchanting whisper of a voice guides you along, only occasionally bringing you back to earth with lyrics that speak of lost love and struggle.

The Brooklyn trio’s fourth finds itself cozy in the vein of its predecessor, Hazed Dream.

Think of it as a musical Botoxing: the twitches are gone, but the end result seems a bit superficial and expressionless. [#20, p.99]

Put it this way: the Raveonettes have got one serious retro fetish. [#15, p.95]

If you liked Embrace, You'll like Fever. If you're looking for something novel, you might have better luck at a bookstore. [Spring/Summer 2010, p.107]

A continuation of the trio's lovelorn, earnest pop. [#17, p.99]

His latest, Cyclops Reap, amplifies the warmth of his signature bedroom recording.

With surprising dissonances and syncopations, Maps & Atlases will keep you guessing as you dance along.

The album does have spots that border on being too polished, so these Southern gents would do well to remember that everything is better with a little bit of dirt on it. [Winter 2010, p.100]

As a whole, it’s not so much sonically austere as utterly aesthetically totalitarian.

Runner is The Sea and Cake's most unusual album, in spite of being so rhythmically conventional, and altogether gorgeous.

The Haunted Man is mostly a collection of fairly elementary meditations on the heart, but, without a doubt, there is still thunder in Natasha's soul.

"Trust in Desire"--one of the album's strongest-brings together several stringed instruments, making the song sound like an epic movie soundtrack, and "Sincerity" is an excellent track filled with toe-tapping, fist-pumping beats and sing-along lyrics. Who We Touch is packed with several such numbers, but also loses its way on a few others.

The Teen’s male/female vocal harmonies and occasional big rockin’ choruses are designed to make you love them; at first this will make you hate them, then hate to love them, and finally either get over it and start bobbin’ your head, or crush this album with a hammer.

Grinderman 2 is a great album by most standards. By Nick Cave's standards, however, the man responsible for Prayers on Fire, No More Shall We Part and even the first Grinderman record, it doesn't quite live up to its promise.

With Majesty Shredding, the group toggles between what once was and where it wants to be, bringing back punk and infusing it with a whole lotta pop. [Fall 2010, p.96]

Regardless of the universal, earth-loving edges of this Minneapolis collective's sound (which edges can be trying), what there definitely is in Light Chasers is some supremely beautiful and well-produced music.

This is probably as healthy as he'll ever sound.

With all the bells and whistles in prominent display, Coldplay may have made their most enjoyable album. I only hope the sourpusses enjoy it.

There won’t be many more solid albums than this in 2013.

14 tracks that go from anthemic to soothing and sleepy, while never once crossing any kind of line--or even looking at one. [#15, p.94]

Though it's no breakthrough, Varsons serves as a nice holdover until the new set of material we've been promised. [Summer 2009, p.100]

Raposa breathes a life of delicate beauty amidst a seemingly hopeless situation.

Back to front, Blame Confusion consists of balls-to-the-wall bangers. When the pace slows down, it isn’t by much.

The songs are somber and meditative, clearly crafted by a master, but the boundaries Prefuse 73 normally annihilates remain mostly in place here.

Although there are moments on the album that, despite its ambition, simply feel like fool’s gold, others—like the honky-tonk-slash-futura-disco of “Phantom Rider”--shine like veritable gold flakes.

Cobra Juicy drips with the group's trademark heady synthesizers, as well as infectious hooks and punchy electronica to craft their most melodic and accessible record to date.

Chvrches and Mayberry have a weirdly mannered way with smartly penned romanticism.

Kim and Kelly Deal have delivered their strangest record to date. [Winter 2008, p.91]

The album as a whole is neither as crazy nor as clownish as fans would hope.

A firmer grasp of his limited range would have been welcome (i.e., "I Can't Feel"), but the N.Y.C. artist still manages to peek further out from his twitchy drum machines like an impish agent of darkness.

Together, the EPs make Rivers a good addition to the W&P discography.

The synthetics have the heavy warp that most dance floors like to roick, even as they land somewhere between Meat Beat Manifesto, Gang of Four and Ghostalnd Observatory. [Spring 2008, p.100]

Gogol Bordello’s incomparable brand of swaggering gypsy punk hasn’t lost a whit of its euphoric urgency.

Handsome, sparkly stuff.

The record contains many great spontaneous details and nearly as many backing vocal tricks as an Eminem disc. For these among other reasons, even when Way To Normal is annoying, Folds sounds very ispired. [Fall 2008, p.92]

A poster child for all things 1970s, Friedberger’s obsession with the decade colors the album with a breezy charm.

Coomes' slide work is effective and expressive. [#7, p.93]

Besides a couple of limp late-album tag-ons, it appears that, for once, the kings of chill-out have gotten downright animated. [Fall 2009, p.96]

Turner is clearly a sensitive, thoughtful and probably pleasant man whose musicianship is way less pretentious than is being advertised.

Combined with the head-in-the-sky ambience of the subgenre, the result is an album far more interesting and ambitious than mere nostalgia rock.

Although the Oakland, California-based outfit bookends the record with lo-fi charm--the free-spirited “Solitary Gun” and stripped-bare “All That Remains”--Permalight also uncharacteristically departs into euphoric yet contrived electro-pop.

Even if it’s not McCartney’s most engaging record outright, New is a breath of fresh air for what could’ve been a frustrating sigh.

There's... an unexpected intimacy in their nonchalance. [#13, p.92]

Never, Never Land doesn't have a single track that comes close to Fiction's epochal "Lonely Soul" or the eerie "Rabbit In Your Headlights," but overall it works more as an album of equal bombast and grandeur. [#13, p.94]

There's an ardent emotionlism here that would make Otis Redding seem calm in comparison. [Fall 2009, p.106]

Forget The Night Ahead is far from a paint-by-numbers Twilight Sad effort. [Fall 2009, p.100]

Silver Age [is] his strongest, most searing collection of songs since Sugar.

It's an experiment in homage. [#19, p.104]

The collection features spacey landscapes and gentle-though-firm beats layered with those signature nostalgic harmonies.

Not much has changed; it's just been both fortified and demented, buzzsaw harsh and woozily intergalactic.

While his newfound symphonic leanings (hello, string section!) are welcome, the real soul of Monogamy is in its theme: Practically every song explores the relatable yo-yo of emotions that accompanies the transition between indiscreet youthfulness and faithful suburban adulthood.

Her sound is undeniably more mature than what you would typically expect from a 21-year-old, but tracks like "Don't You Remember" make you wonder if the overall vibe is more mature than it should be.

A sloppy and inebriated brand of psych-rock still serves as an ideal backdrop to S.M.'s hilariously irreverent storytelling-half silly, half serious and often poignant. This musical recipe really never gets old.

Like scarfing down a meal at Sizzler: your stomach is stuffed, but, in the end, your taste buds are left itching for more flavor. [#11, p.95]

It doesn’t hurt that Bill Reynolds of Band of Horses produced the five-song EP, and though it clocks in at a brief 20 minutes, it’s worth repeated listenings.

It's an unmistakable departure. But when her staid delivery and lyrics sink in, the artistry that draws listeners toward El Perro Del Mar comes to light.

Tiffany Preston impishly tries on accents for her FX-thinned vocals, Jamaican brogue here or a lot of Karin Dreijer Andersson wailing there, but it's the omni-directional whirl and clashing textures that consume the most.

Bringing it to a simmer works well for the group.

Yes, there are the makings of an ambient symphony... but the more prominent strains of folk instrumentation--accordions, banjos and glockenspiels--suggest to us that maybe it's not all gloom and glum. [#10, p.91]

A surprisingly optimistic take on his trademark jazz-fueled rock.

Throughout Narrow Stairs, the band allows itself to open up, twisting and tinkering the same old style to their liking with mixed results. [Spring 2008, p.90]

Compared to the relative intensity of its opening numbers, precious few other moments on BIB escape the intertia of your average campfire bray-along, which is too bad since the sexy new studio sheen validates the Mates' many virtues. [#19, p.90]

Though Does You Inspire You doesn't always flow smoothly, the merit lies in its diversity--a quality that is often lacking in today's indie sound. [Spring 2009, p.103]

The record’s major achievement is in stretching the genre again, this time by contraction: This is meditative hardcore.

While the lyrics are a little repetitive, the catchy rhythms make this a solid album for spring.

If you're looking for the quartet's usual twist in its sobriety, there's a Sondheim-ian feel to Keane's particularly ardent brand of complex pop melancholy this time out to go with its new sense of directness.

The band members’ talents rise to the top, making Nothing Is Real a serious mark for Crystal Antlers, if it’s not their high-water.

when given the space, the music is alternately compelling and peaceful; unfortunately, the words get in the way.

The flows may be lacking in precision, but precision isn't always necessary when you've got a bazooka growing out of your grill. [#7, p.88]

Worst-case scenario: that initial dreamlike spell wears out its welcome long before the album's 38 minutes are up. Best case: you've had a stressful day and True really hits that sweet, relaxing spot.

The Lives Inside the Lines in Your Hands showcases a lighter side of Pond lyrically and musically.

The music is a bit harder. [#19, p.104]

It’s fun, it’s derivative, it’s about 30 years too late, but it’s also rock solid.

The standout beats have some old-school crackle and POC is most interesting when Kweli can relax and just, you know, be brilliant.

Unlike their debut-which could sometimes have moments equivalent to loud machine-gun fire, occasionally hitting its intended target but blurring together and exhausting itself--the tracks on Wolf's Law are like laser-guided rocket blasts, tighter and more effective.

The tone of the album is consistently mellow but not necessarily boring.

For the most part, though, Suede’s newfound maturity suits them well.

Krug's songwriting can't help but put a smile on your face when you really try to let your guard down, and if you want the summer documented by epic eccentricity, this is your callling. [Sep 2009, p.94]

Perhaps the charm of Codes and Keys stems from the clever recycling of tropes-both musical and thematic.

They're better when they're reflective, not reflexive, as on the galloping, careening 'Be Somebody' and the mournful 'Cold Desert,' but the album lacks the hooky rock the band once pulled off so effortlessly, even when thry weren't trying. [Fall 2008, p.91]

Bloc Party is back. Four years on the sidelines seems to have re-energized the lads-their sound is as frenetic as when they left us.

There is ... a marked orchestral fluidity throughout, which lends itself to the experimental instrumental passages that permeate the record.

This ambitious LP is an acid-tinged, ambient headfuck that's guaranteed to blow your brains out all over the couch you've sunk into.

Thankfully, none of Lidell's guests do much to blunt his funky trajectory. [Spring/Summer 2010, p.108]

It’s easily the most-realized project from the guitar-wielding freewheelers, shy in the right spots but also unafraid of boogieing down in a dive bar.

Frances the Mute documents the Mars Volta as a passionate and explosive band that has grown capable of taking the music in a hundred different directions. [#14, p.96]

Gorgeous tracks are as eerie as they are sonically cosseting, all weirdly effected electronics and gossamer vocals.

The record feels experimental and alive because of it. That unpredictability breeds some missteps but for the most part the album is peppered with pleasant, sometimes unsettling surprises.

Though it may be too severe a downgrade for some, Tender Buttons is in fact a lovely ugly thing. [#17, p.96]

The former Split Enz and Crowded House frontman goes for the jugular by taking a chance with a delightfully fresh sound.

On The Lady Killer, Green takes another shape, but this time with a narrow and singular vision: absolute soul impresario.

After the jarring synthetic combo of “Rope Burn” and “Eggs At Night,” Hubba Bubba hits its stride with tracks like “Sic Bay Surprise” and “Photograph,” which contain flashes of Dwyer’s high-pitched breathy signature vocals and a few bars of guitar shredding in between the machine blips.

Much more solid than their latest records...sounds like a bit of the old Charlatans. [Spring 2008, p.100]