On Our Love to Admire that world-weariness goes from strikingly haunting to fairly monotonous.

Spoon has again produced a collage of songs that may be proverbial, but are not paint-by-numbers.

If you want to get in on the ground floor of something good, then check out Cross and see where Justice leads; with cuts like these, it will certainly not take long until they're all over the place, in commercials, on the radio, and on TV.

A well-rounded and passable product, both old fans and newcomers to They Might Be Giants will like this release.

An album that doesn't immediately astound, but gradually unfurls in dense atmospheric strands.

I can't remember the last time a popular punk album sounded this simple, lean and ready to conquer anything in its path.

There are no apologies necessary for this wonderful debut album.

Easy Tiger is his most consistent effort since Gold and his without doubt his most assured ever.

Boys Night Out and producer Lou Giordano (Sunny Day Real Estate, Paul Westerberg, Taking Back Sunday) still have taken a fragile overarching concept and pulled it off, delivering one of the strongest rock releases of the year.

At 48 minutes, Icky Thump has enough genre-hopping, rip-roaring tunes to get even the 70s rock purist nodding his head again.

For the better part of an hour, the trio's experimental pop melodies create their own breeze that, in a very Zen-like manner, becomes one with the surroundings of the listener.

So when Era Vulgaris comes as a bit of a disappointment, well, that's all relative, since it still rocks mightily.

Easy to hate and easy to love.

There's something captivating about the project, and you will find yourself returning to the album over and over again.

In short, Maths + English is an ideal sellout.

Boxer is another accomplishment for The National; more understated than Alligator, yet just as alluring, and right on target.

If the Flaming Lips mated with Marilyn Manson and ate Underworld for breakfast, the end result might sound something like Battles' debut album, Mirrored.

[An] enjoyable, if slightly inconsistent, album.

Well worth the wait.

Release The Stars swoons and sweeps until the final curtain and Rufus Wainwright has delivered music perfectly suited for the elaborate set of the world around us.

It may seem disappointing to those looking for further progress in one of the best American bands of recent times, but in the end it all comes down to the songs, and most of the ones here are little gems, perfect for a summer morning.

At once soothing and energetic, ferocious and effeminate, beautiful and ballsy, No Shouts, No Calls is a passionate, confident effort.

Everybody might be less than lustrous in their own catalog but tops most group's bests.

Although Mice Parade isn't necessarily the group's paramount album, it certainly makes their stock soar high.

The creative engine has stalled on Baby 81.

Lambert promises on the album's stellar title track, and if that isn't a warning to all of Nashville, from a woman who has compiled one of the year's finest releases, it should be.

Woke On A Whaleheart is a pleasure, and aside from the intro to the song "Footprints," every moment on this record is immensely listenable.

Favourite Worst Nightmare finds the band getting louder, more aggressive, and, as a consequence, losing some of their youthful charm.