Reznor and Ross have pulled off something fairly remarkable here, creating a record that could've existed on its own as an original NIN production, but serves almost perfectly as the sonic document of the evolution of an online phenomenon that began in the dorms of Harvard and eventually took over Silicon Valley.

If you bought Nouns and wondered what the big deal was, this is your chance to find out. No Age continue to grow as conceptual artists and songwriters, and after a summer of dumbed down garage band shenanigans (cough, Best Coast, cough) it's fun to have something that's both challenging and fun to listen to come out of that scene.

Only Deerhunter makes echoes without egos, grounding even Bradford Cox's most wayward divergences in an all-encompassing blend of simple rock stylings.

You always know when a Walkmen song comes on your shuffle, and Lisbon does nothing to dispel that. In fact, it adds another solid entry to an increasingly solid catalogue.

Show Robyn some love - she deserves better than one-hit-wonder tag she's been saddled with, and she's finally getting it.

Perhaps taking a cue from another seminal band, Talking Heads, The Suburbs is a more restrained, tempered affair. Yet the beat of their bleeding heart still remains...

Mainly, Crazy for You manages to reference weed without being lowbrow and her cat without being twee. Sun-drenched guitar licks go woozy and Cosentino's crystal clear vocals lament and wish and hope. You don't have to be West Coast-born to feel the weight of an "I miss you so much" chorus and a slow drum beat.

The lag spots that usually accompany albums like Pink Graffiti are negated by the surprising fun quality of the rest; a perfect wake-and-bake companion.

It's a shame if Dark Night of the Soul ends up relegated to a cult souvenir; it's truly exceptional as music.

It's every bit as enjoyable as the last two. Which isn't to say it's a masterpiece, just that the abrupt backlash is proportionate to the fawning affection she received on Kala and Arular.

How I Got Over is also the Roots' best listening experience since Things Fall Apart over ten years ago (a rap eternity).

After their breakthrough, The '59 Sound, the Jerseyian punks appear to have taken a Green Day-like career shift: finding a concept that struck a chord and beating it to death like one of the down-and-out ciphers in the B-movie quality Springsteen worldview they've constructed.

Robyn returned this year with two new EPs with an alleged third one on the way and while the construction of each flatters the contents, taken as a whole, they're wildly uneven. The stronger of the two is Body Talk Pt. 1, with three of ten best singles of the 2010.

The sequel is a graceful transition into more polished product with an emphasis on detail and melody-all while retaining the visceral screech of the debut.

This album's brilliance comes from the titanium-larynxed Tom Gabel's juxtaposition of the listener's jaded expectations of punk with too-direct-to-be-dishonest sentiments.

It's strange second-hand pop, deconstructed and represented as something entirely new, augmented by a range of melodies and affectations. Good for him and good for the world for the opportunity to be exposed to his music-pop music in its purest form, pop informed by pop.

there's nothing else like this band right now and possibly ever. The volume and power of late 90s rap metal without all the stupidity and endless chugalug. Vocals that not only sing sweet melodies but support them with harmonies that push and pull against the current of noise, only sassy and canny, like a My Bloody Valentine that's being marketed to pre-teens.

It's whether or not This Is Happening stands on its own merits as original composition consistent with the quality of the LCD catalog. It falls short on both accounts, unfortunately, in what basically amounts to a final victory lap for a band that made its mark and doesn't have much more to say.

Despite all the pomp and circumstance surrounding it (and boasting some admittedly rad cover art) their latest record is consistent in quality with their, er, lesser-selling efforts.

The end results in UNKLE's later years have been rather mixed, but Lavelle always miraculously pulls some new sonic trick to keep his pet project from falling completely out of favor.

It's a pretty good album if you can get the idea of its dreary additions to their setlists out of your head.

It's only now though that Patton's fully manifested his passion project minus the avant-garde overlay--and ironically scoring an unheard-of #2 debut on the Billboard classical chart in the process, possibly the strangest highlight yet of a strange talent's career.

For some reason, the band seemed to strip things down on this album, as the tracks are less sophisticated and experimental than on previous works, (which is fine for most bands, but for ones that aspire to keep their crown at the forefront of indie-pop, just not going to cut it).

Laura Burhenn just smolders over a piano-heavy groove. It really is as close to Dusty as they get, but what makes this record special is the way that even when the lyrics clunk up some of the smooth blue-eyed soul (opener and sort-of title track "What We Gained in the Fire" comes to mind), the production is so plainly gorgeous that it really feels like nitpicking (even if it really isn't).

The Canadian math whiz and artist formerly known as Manitoba proves he's just as calculated as he is cerebral, crafting music that feels equally clubby, fluid and submerged to back up the ideal album title.

Travellers appears top-heavy, with a mid-section whose only correlation to time travel is that its melodies could've felt predictable in the 1890s, with the limitations of straight 4/4 beginning to wear. But listeners are rewarded for not giving up after that stretch.

Still, don't expect the bruising cut (or any herein) to set any tone whatsoever as Thing arguably represents Trans Am's most eclectic offering yet.

MGMT seem determined to break the mold they made for themselves, and while they deserve credit for trying, the outcome just isn't as much fun as the MGMT whose tunes could punch up movie trailers.