A puzzling release.

Often dreamy, sometimes rockin', but rarely more than pedestrian.

Starting with track six, Laughter's Fifth verges on unstoppable.

The problem with Blueberry Boat is that, while it's a musical marvel, it's not an album that I'll keep listening to.

When the songs work – it's some of the best material Faithfull has ever produced. But when they don't – you're left... falling asleep in the car.

An uneven mish-mash of musical ideas that is only occasionally thrilling.

While Waves is not quite a knockout, it delivers some undeniable pleasures nonetheless.

The results are not for the faint of heart – beats stutter uncomfortably, disappear without warning, and practically scratch out the walls of your speakers from the inside.

For every misstep on the mostly acoustic Spooked, there's an undeniable classic.

Grand Mal takes a connoisseur's approach to classic rock, and when it works, the best of Bad Timing can stand tall next to its forefathers.

Second disc Chirpin' Hard is the crowd-pleasing Speakerboxxx to Hill's less-accessible Church Gone Wild.

The whole affair is polished to such mirror-like perfection that I have to dim all the lights and cover my eyes when I listen to it.

Little Heart's Ease is a respectable effort - just not by Royal City standards.

On songs like "In the Afternoon" and "Time is Running out," Maclean fails to add even a shred of feeling to his chilly IDM clones.

Despite the relatively spartan proceedings, there is a substantial amount to latch onto here.

And though the album is full of promising leads and sharp-witted initiative, it's hard to shake the feeling that this album is a collection of unfinished ideas, presented with no pretensions to the contrary.

Restraint and frustration are the dominant themes, but the short, aggressive outbursts don't always offer enough release to justify the fatiguing buildups.

What strikes most is a sense of uncomfortable suspension, and what keeps the album afloat remains a true mystery listen after listen.

Solid, if unspectacular.

If you are not in the right mood, Strange Geometry sounds like pretty melodies, plenty of atmosphere, and not a whole let else.

The Radar Brothers have been called "pastoral," "wandering" and "spacey." Their latest, The Fallen Leaf Pages, adds nothing new to this mix of descriptors.

Though the dark atmosphere can weigh Cavelight down on extended listening, it is the record's most lush, emotional moments, like the operatic "Sunday Séance," that are most suggestive of Blockhead's potential.

Last Night is as moody as funk can get, and the results range from soulful to pretentious.

The spoken-word Sonny and Cher act of Chains and Sue does gets tiresome at moments, lyrics like "you be the follower, let's kill the leader" aren't as clever as their authors believe, and the record does run on a fairly consistent mid-tempo bounce.

It's still very plainly the Dulli Show, placing his cigarette-stained voice and oversized heartache front-and-center.

Bumblebeez brings loose, frenetic energy to a mash-up of likely and unlikely sources.

Despite mining decades-old forms, The Anomoanon's honest rock is hard to dislike.

Battery is an album of diminishing returns that sputters out of steam halfway through.

The fusion of The Books' folk stylings and traditional instrumentation (cellos, banjos, clavinets) with Prefuse's hip-hop stutter-funk produces fresh moments, just not as many as desired.

Greater accessibility does not necessarily mean higher quality.

[Disc 1 is] a revealing, if not quite essential, portrait of the artist.... [Disc 2 is] an inventive, rewarding look at the Pixies esteemed catalogue.

As hit-and-miss as its 2003 predecessor.

The harmonies aren't as blissful and the songs more conventional than those of previous releases.

Adherence to stock chord progressions, interminably chugging guitars and a dearth of new ideas since 2000's The Sophtware Slump gives the impression that Sumday is Grandaddy-by-rote.

The songs are likable, but lack a core.

Lead bat Eric Johnson is a talented songwriter but his '60s lite-psych melodies and scruffy acoustic backdrop are not just tired, they're nearly dead.

George has an indistinct voice somewhere between Suzanne Vega and Cat Power. Her lyrics are not mind-blowing, but not at all banal.

Impressive despite its occasional lack of maturity.

As grounds for our own wandering imaginations and protesting voices, Horses' six songs are not as fertile as what's come before them.

As a hip-hop record, Headset's Space Settings fails to hit the mark of its influences, but it is successful in its own right.

The punk dominates more than it ever did on its electro-tilted predecessors.

A set that flat out refuses to be ignored.

While the structured nature of [Looks At The Bird] is likely to hold your attention longer than the static and hum of Brokeback's last release, Morse Code in the Modern Age, the lack of challenge often detracts from the fulfillment that comes with a difficult listen.

All in all it's not the noise rush we were craving - and no, it's not as good as Source Tags - but did anyone really think it could be?

The album feels underwhelming.

For the most part, Outside Closer fails to separate itself from the pack of glitch-rock albums it now must share the market with.

As you're listening, the songs begin to sound more and more like play-acting, as if Malin's trying to sound like his heroes more than he's trying to create anything that's all his own.

The tunes hop as often as they whimper, with stand-up bass, slap-happy drums and wordless vocals fleshing out the reverb-rich arrangements.

The production is crisp and idiosyncratic as usual, but many of the songs fade into the background.

Otto Spooky is designed not so much to be enjoyed as to be a spectacle.

It's endearingly all over the place, but depressingly self-referential.

This is an ambitious album that aims high but falls short.

When the compositions behind the words are as dull and lifeless as the album's core ("This Bum's Paid" and "Hair Dude, You're Stepping on my Mystique") the results are utterly disastrous, relying too heavily on tried dissonance over unimpressively staid tempos.

To be sure, there is nothing on Often Lie that is revolutionary - for the most part Dalley delivers straight ahead power pop.

Does it replace the originals as the definitive Gang of Four collection? No way.

Because every note is perfectly placed, and the contemplative mood sustained throughout, it's hard to notice the lack of originality and occasionally pedestrian songwriting.

It's funny and smart and a little annoying in large doses.

Two tracks focusing on guest vocalists are stand-outs.... The other eight songs are more hit-and-miss, often depending on whether Bip's headed toward rock (the blah "Eyelashings," which sounds like a mediocre U2 song, without vocals or a chorus) or hip-hop ("The Move," a nice piece of synthesizer and vibraphone chemistry).

Forget Tomorrow is a record of two exceptional ideas that would sound better as separate records.

Resilience is laid-back Kid 606.

As a bridge over the analog/digital divide, Chapel's a bit behind the curve. But, when they hit their marks, Weatherall and Tenniswood's versatility shines through.

With more room to breathe, the textured synthesizers come to the fore, and it is their melodic decoration that ultimately provides the saving grace. But without the electronic textures, Love and Distance is just Bryan Adams with a hip producer and a great drummer.

The sound, which blends a little of the pastoral, John Fahey-influenced digital music with calm, focused songwriting, gives a sense of romance to a fairly limited musical vocabulary.

Whiskey Tango Ghosts is a quiet meditative listen, yes, but those who haven't followed Donnelly's career trajectory closely may find it difficult to reconcile the contrast between her old and new selves.

Labeling Again as entirely derivative would be inaccurate, as Tan folds flourishes of dub and krautrock into a lascivious mix of after-hours cool.

Here we get the full range of peaks and valleys from Martina's vocals, but the songs are a bit syrupy for those prepared for the menace of Maxinquaye-era Tricky.

It all recalls a traveling Klezmer troupe, unsure of its audience, warming up with tributes to "Schindler's List", "For Whom the Bell Tolls", and "The Godfather", while waiting to find out if they're playing a festival or a funeral.

Where Corpse works, it's merely a repeat of past successes. The few tentative steps into unfamiliar territory are marked failures.

You're a Woman, I'm a Machine might be the best party record on this side of '79 that your local abandoned warehouse has ever seen.

Much of the record lands solidly in novelty territory.

Plays mostly as a digest of fairly enjoyable if not particularly memorable shaggy-haired rockers in the Kinks or Small Faces mold with little material to rival Sunshine's radiant highs.

It's not that Kannberg has somehow "sold out" with Preston School of Industry, but for the time being, he's clearly lost the urge to take good risks.

Unfortunately, Pole contains no revelations beyond what was revealed in the prior EPs. With this release, Betke calls his own bluff and loses.

The mish-mash of moods and modes leaves little from which to gather a theme.

The outcome is alternately brilliant and awful, adventurous and boring, incisive and pretentious, over-wrought and subtle.

The band plays a raucous, shifting rock heavy on drama, but light on reasons to keep listening.

Unfortunately, the band is not able to match their vitriol with memorable tunes.

An interesting, if flawed work.

With his merely efficient playing, Mould never reaches the highs of electric ecstasy he perfected in his heyday.

The result is a tad muddled, with the valleys unfortunately outnumbering the peaks.

That's not to say that Love & Distortion is a bad album, just that it's thoroughly average.

Classical guitars, mellow piano chords and brushed drums lope across the proceedings like yawning animals still awaiting their first caffeinated jolt of the day.

It is not groundbreaking, or particularly clever.

The album's production, particularly the insistence on pinning Brown's hazy croon way on top of the mix, too often dulls any punch the music would otherwise have.

There's a very good record in this band. This isn't it.

Over the course of Gemstone's 15 tracks, Green's heavily enunciated, lumbering delivery become more irritating than a busload of thespians on their way to an audition. Thankfully, Green's elementary-school melodies, which call to mind Jonathan Richman at his silliest, ultimately save this album from the topical hell to which it aspires.

There is a shortage of pathos, and relatively little ventured musically and lyrically from a songwriting team responsible for some of the most tortured, searching music of recent years.

The album as a whole isn't interesting enough lyrically or musically to hold itself together.

A disappointing concept album with large patches of trivial explorations and experimental noodling.

Those who can overlook this slightly dumbed-down approach will find This Island is not without its moments.

There is little personality amid the speed and distortion, and no tricks or treats to keep fingers off the fast-forward button.

The Catheters do little to distinguish themselves, instead offering formulaic rock rebelliousness in a nicely packaged, repetitive form.

Ten turns out a few good songs, but there are better solo records by each of its members.

What the act does offer - chunky dance music with icy vocals that recall Debbie Harry when Dykes is on the mic - sounds great in terms of dance production.

Kinsella carefully enunciates his lyrics to make sure we hear all the clever references he's making, forcing SAT words into musical phrases that stagger under the weight of their pretense.

The '80s idolatry is far too forced and distracting, and VHS or Beta comes off as trying too hard to imitate admittedly great, but definitely dated, pop music.

Sparta earn points for thinking big and penning deeply-felt songs that break the five-minute mark, but ambition alone isn't enough.

Breaking new ground probably isn't the point, but the album still fails to generate any emotion or create a mood other than ennui.