Mice Parade is an original, hovering over multiple traditions without disturbing any of them.

Harcourt would do himself well by spending a bit more time on his lyrics; a lot of the time it sounds as though he's just filling in the space between choruses.

To be sure, there is an ironic smirk clinging to much of Who Will Cut Our Hair..., but there is also the subtle beatings of unpretentious sympathy and maverick potential.

It's not always pretty, but even the mistakes have a remarkable charm.

The krang of album’s past seems more an afterthought as the band explores the natural textures of layered guitar and lumbering bass tracks.

Room on Fire is a passionate, 32-minute burning effigy of the seemingly insurmountable expectations fans and critics had for the record.

This is the natural and logical epiphany of three musicians who have been getting to know one another for some time. It's also a damn good album.

When Pause came out in 2001, that sounded like an artist at his peak. But get this: He's still at his peak, and the view is no less scintillating, crisp, and sweet, rolling with drums and shaded by clouds of horn reverb and file-sharing swish.

Immediately more accessible than their last effort.

Summer Sun doesn't have the collective impact of its predecessors, a problem typically attributable to song selection, sequencing and mixing.

Has more to do with the Shangri Las' "Leader of the Pack", '60s sock hop and the Jesus Mary Chain than it does with Television, downtown Manhattan and pre-treated denim.

While In The Reins bears the unmistakable imprint of both Calexico and Iron and Wine, these collaborators donâ??t seem to be interested in playing it all that safe.

Dents and Shells matches the intensity and concision of Impasse, while adding an organic, spontaneous feel to the proceedings.

In the band's able hands, the music still sounds dangerous, unpredictable, and potent.

Where previous releases have been occasionally bogged down in somnambulistic reverie, the majority of The Earth Is Blue feels light as air.

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.

Throwing Muses is an exhilarating ride that manages to marry the helter-skelter rhythmic pulse of the band's first few records with the poppier sensibilities of their nineties releases.

Somewhere between Beth Orton and Iron and Wine, Molina's music feels like it's been pulled direct from the surrounding air; a spring breeze given shape.

An essential addendum to the Galaxie 500 story.

Far less lucid than his past work, even by Animal Collective standards, all nine untitled compositions reflect a man whose soul is adrift.

No Earthly Man demonstrates that all the glitz and studio production techniques used in making many records aren't really necessary to craft a compelling document.

The results are stunning.

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.

Though it is at times a forbidding and daunting listen, piercing through the dense thicket of sounds reveals a wealth of melody and funk underlining Autechre's irregular electro rhythms.

Songs walk a delicate tightrope between the brain and the hips, and the libidinal release of the beat is denied, suggested, suppressed, and finally let loose to sweat it out.

All told, it's another triumph for a band whose creative peak seems to defy gravity with each passing year.

While the sound here is undeniably on the lo-fi side of the spectrum, the arrangements and production on the album seem more carefully crafted. The result is Sprout's best album in years.

She's lyrically sharp as ever, and switches gears and works in nice melodies just enough to soften the edges, luring fans in before she pummels them.