Mastodon's most accessible album to date finds the ATL-iens as unfocused as ever--and out of gas.

While We're New Here is spooky, it's more chill-out mix than futuristic minimal-rave, and comes as a less interesting culture-clash than, say, The Dirtbombs doing covers of Detroit techno songs.

The lyrical chops are intact but the production is far too dated.

A double album slough of easy listening instrumentals. [combined review of both discs; #9, p.108]

The updated duo offers lollipop anthems that do not fit airy reverberations and methodical nuance of '90s era Hi Tek. Luckily, the suporting cast offers diversity to the sometimes misguided and underwhelming album. [Spring/Summer 2010, p.110]

Pedestrian Verse is an album made up of melodies, lyrics and verses that are completely, well, pedestrian.

There's not nearly enough of Aesop living up to his impressive talent.

Cyclone might lack the raw beauty of her last project, but Case's emotional honesty is surely a sign that more meaningful transformations are in store. [Winter 2009, p.92]

Blessed certainly isn't a curse, but it doesn't exactly leave you feeling a higher power, either.

Gone are the fun hooks of [Nixon], and the genre jumping majesty of 1999's What Another Man Spills. [combined review of both discs; #9, p.108]

Get Color may not be as revelatory as its predeccessors, but its slight merits gradually ooze into the wounds it so fiendishly creates. [Fall 2009, p. 102]

The best song is track 13, "Apology in Advance." It is still not that good. [#6, p.86]

Instead, the religiosity that infuses the music recalls the forced eagerness of modern day evangelicals and the predictable plainness of suburban mega-churches. Only dedicated fans need ascend.

Special moments are few and far between. [#8, p.109]

A disappointing product of the partnership betwen party boys Modeselektor and space cadet Apparat. [Spring 2009, p.106]

For all of the thought required, the album is still very natural and accessible.

Weller unveils an indulgent 21-track, hit-or-miss collection that has a scope, ambition and jazzy undercurrent which suggests Pete Townshend slumming in Vegas. [Summer 2008, p.98]

The peaks aren't as emotionally devastating as his studio work, but there's a hushed desperation here that gradually leaches into your pores.

Not as good as their first.

[Class Clown is] like all GBV releases, a mishmash of melodic, A-side-worthy compositions and half-formed snippets.

Inoffensive to the nth degree, this is a sleeping pill, not the double espresso we ordered.

There are no distinguishable hooks or chorus lines anywhere on Coming Apart; instead, it’s just Gordon and Nace simultaneously subverting and creating musical forms that will surely polarize listeners who want to “get it” and those who refuse to.

The two marry sounds of melodrama and sheer polyphonic weirdness for a result gone (sometimes) wonderfully awry. [Fall 2008, p.98]

The reality is that Bitter Drink, Bitter Moon is the musical equivalent of a grape soda--it tastes familiar, but it's just not quite a grape.

The altered states of Cameron Stallones' latest Sun Araw effort Ancient Romans are an acquired taste.

Five of the songs don't feature Lanegan's vocals, and when Willy Mason shows up to sing two of them, it's a wonder why Hawk wasn't more truthfully labeled as "Isobel Campbell & Friends." Thematically deficient throughout, this is an outtakes release at best.

While there's magic in Darnielle's always-blissful eye for detail--takes the kaleidoscopic, blood-red sun on 'San Bernadino'--far too often the album works up a head of steam only to wander into unflattering territory. [Winter 2008, p.95]

You want to praise them for their attempts to define a unique voice, but a unique voice isn't necessarily an interesting one. [#11, p.96]

Out-and-out rockers “A Mirror” and “Tired & Buttered” provide some much-needed lucidity, but as a whole, Held in Splendor may be a bit too tranquil for its own good.

What was once enjoyable as a one-off now seems forced. [#25, p.89]

Though “subdued” is a dirty word that’s thrown around a lot, in the case of the collection that comprises Get There, the duo shines bright when they pick up the pace.

Although it toes a dangerous line of resounding too imitative of its own influences, the young producer is nonetheless well on his way to fully embracing his identity.

While Pleasure and C.U.T.S. evoke the nature of the dream, Angel, obsessive and occasionally trite, tends to tell rather than show.

The British quartet masquerading as a Japanese duo is back with its fourth full-length, Ventriloquizzing, bringing along a signature slinky groove and wordplay that borders on the absurd.

Quality though it could be, if only the vision wasn't so occluded.

While bombastic and ambitious as ever, Tao suggests that Trail of Dead have once again lost the taste for subtlety and texture that's past served to elevate their sound from the prog pack.

Nothing sticks on the LP, and the disc feels recycled, pedestrian and a bit exhausting--at best.

The Globes do a nice job of grabbing and keeping listeners' attention throughout the album's 35 minutes of music.

Feathers isn't a bad album, just one without a discernable look--or hook. [#14, p.99]

Personal Life comes across dark, lost, and-shockingly for The Thermals-boring. At least Don and Betty Draper shared a bed for a little while.

She never gets quite where she's going, but it's good to have her back.

The band is not exactly daytripping here and there is a great fervor in what they do, but the fruit is not quite ripe. [Summer 2009, p.102]

The North Carolina natives mix the boisterousness with the balladry well, while delivering image-evoking lyrics in between.

In Our Nature is a compelling but not fascinating portrait of an artist at ease in his element.

The Soft Moon's sophomore album Zeroes is an experimentation in industrial sound that doesn't fully hit the mark.

It's a mess--not without some tidy bits--but what's better: these songs could be the death throes, finally, of these guys' unfettered id.

The sense of movement is missing here, that raw immediacy that powered "Full Collapse's" better tracks; the howls and breakdowns feel almost like quota-meters. Still, though, there are enough feedback squalls and keyboard squelches in Dave Friedmann's production to suggest Thursday have yet to run their course. [Winter 2009, p.100]

Waiting For Something To Happen, is something both sinister and sweet, dripping with shoegaze guitars and harmonies abound.

Messy yet polished guitars surge through swathes of melodic white noise while the tracks are still able to maintain an impressive sharpness.

This is another great move by a revered musician, but the delivery isn’t always as exciting as the idea.

It's hard to say what it all amounts to apart from a collection of partly-cloudy-late-afternoon-sunshine, on-and-off '80s jams.

With no standout tracks, Reptilians just becomes 40 minutes of innocuous, digital background music that's been done before.

Unfocused and uninspired, Machineries lacks the sprawling majesty and well-forged hooks of earlier efforts.

This debut could've, should've and would've been more appropriate as a moody summer release for trips with the car windows down, but instead we're forced to keep 'em up as winter nags at our sleeves. [Holiday 2008, p.100]

The result is mixed and at times strained, but a spark still lies within.

Precious and self-indulgent, this disc is bound for the sale rack at Starbucks.

The Sword akes the safe, oddly paradoxical decision to stay off the cutting edge. [Winter 2008, p.97]

Nick Weiss and Logan Takahashi sadly lack their forefathers' mastery for emotionalizing machine-made sound.

Mid-tempo balladry and redundant choruses sap all the percussive vigor from this former song factory.

Somewhere in the English to Japanese to...uh, English translation, the wonderful quirkiness inherent in their delivery and meaningless lyrics was misplaced. [Fall 2008, p.105]

The greatest 1996 era melodic rock since... 1996. [#22, p.98]

It has stylistic cohesion on its side, even though that’s where it’s at its most derivative, but it’s like an antique firearm--it might look the part, but it’s not much good for shooting.

The result is a melancholy brew.

Caulfield continues to showcase some seriously well-crafted shifts between proggy meandering movements and pop hooks.

Modern Art remains behind the veil, smoke and mirrors of nostalgia-not wholly accessible to audiences, modern or otherwise.

It's shame, however, that the goofy aspects of the album distract from its sonic frame, as Wiliams is not only a talented producer but also has a keen ability to weave masterful pop instrumentation. [Winter 2007, p.94]

It’s Nocturnes' two sleek singles (“Motorway,” “Broken Record”) that manage the best in dark electronic allure with shiny, hook-driven choruses.

The result is not so much a breakthrough in ease of listening, but more a feeling that one of the greats is getting back in the ring to fight after tying one of his own arms behind his back. [Winter 2008, p.99]

It's somewhere between impressive and impressionistic how Glover inhabits each style, but pit between street chaff and crooner cheese, between respect and restless imitation, one can't help but wonder where all of Glover's talent is headed.

For every minute-long section of pinwheeling brilliance, there is some expository musical element that keeps us from getting at the core of what makes the group work so well. [#20, p.99]

Despite some inspired guest contributions from A Sunny Day in Glasgow’s Jen Goma and Beirut’s Kelly Pratt, the raw guitar anthems from Belong are too often replaced by poppy fizz, toothless jangle and twee melancholia on Abandon.

Back To Forever strives for mainstream acceptance, and in doing so dilutes Lissie’s strengths.

Blue Songs is a sophisticated and club-ready sophomore effort, even if--at times--it nearly crumbles under the weight of its own decadence and self-indulgences.

Overall, Forfeit/Fortune feels too much like a collection of songs that were thrown together without thought or directoion. [Fall 2008, p.99]

Not one drop of Dracula is dance-friendly. In fact, it sounds just as disparate as the last Nurses effort.

Amos said she wanted to reclaim the songs from religious appropriations, but in the end, she just barely save us all from complete shame. [Holiday 2009, p. 98]

Will Maas be forever obsessed with the good–evil dichotomy? The answer’s in their moniker--and their monitors.

Where's the NoDoz? Chillwave may have officially become too chill, bros.

The Sun Dogs features solid, compelling songwriting and sounds wonderful; heavy, spacious guitars flare up amidst the smoke, and when these guys start to rip, there’s no stopping them.

The 29-member jonkoping, Sweden, collective opts for a darker and altogether less interesting vernacular. [Fall 2008, p.92]

It gives us songs more memorable for their grizzly narrations or the occasional doo-wop harmony than the steady performances of mostly standard-format jams.

The ruminative, skittering TVOTR rhythmic patterns distract from Miranda's strengths even with the occasional injections of some easy-breezy horn lines or soul-jazz keys. [Winter 2010, p.100]

He’s taken a sharply intimate and original turn from his debut solo effort and the result is a catalogue of 14--surprise!--super-chill tunes, consistent front to back, although none necessarily a standout.

Ranaldo and his band are unparalleled musicians but have fallen prey to a disaster that normally besets younger bands--a great sound and nothing said.

The result is an album that is altogether pleasant, but just doesn't do enough to distinguish itself on the map from the rest in its genre.

The results aren’t all winners, but there are gems where you wouldn’t expect them.

A touchy-feely orgy better left spooning in its afterglow 10 years previous when the feeling was still fresh. [#21, p.96]

Complete hit-or-miss studio play. [#8, p.104]

What the crap is this? [#17, p.94]

At points, the overly sappy lyrics are sung with fervor and match the passion put into the music, but ultimately, the album doesn't feel cohesive.

While the group's penchant for humid power-dirges threatens to sink 119 in its middle, they're unbeatable--but only when they skip the accoutrements and just bang away at high speed.

Wymond Miles’s imaginative guitar work is often enough to cover a multitude of sins (see the scorching lead on “Hummingbird” and the minimal flourishes on “April Fools”). For some listeners that will be enough, but overall the record feels structured more like a career-spanning live set than a cohesive collection.

While the record does nothing to offend listeners, it's excessively broad and does little to dramatically impress. [Winter 2008, p.94]

The traditional folk-rock methods begin to falter as the album wears on, leaving Mason's stirring tales of troubles and joys feeling rather one-dimensional. [#24, p.98]

The surviving Hackneys-bassist/singer Bobby and drummer Dannis-sifted through their early jams, rehearsals and demos for this ragged set of odds and ends.

Their songs do run deeper than they seem, but you have to listen closely and push through fluff. It was cute the first time, but now it's just awkward. [Winter 2009, p.97]

Yet as delectable as the melodies are, Sex with an X seems like it's all been done before--and in fact, we know that it has.

In the end, this record is frustrating. [#9, p.111]