They still retain a unique identity even as they plunder and explore more generic alt-rock themes, and their particular skill is in making this transformation seem logical and welcome.

It's no different from the formula that made Fatboy Slim and the Chemical Bores such big hits, but something's different this time around: Basement Jaxx have soul.

One of the most original-sounding albums in a long while.

Confield presents one of the purest approximations of "machine music" we've heard yet. It's profoundly unsettling, but that's half its beauty; it's a sonic Frankenstein that refuses to let its plug be pulled.

A dozen mini-masterpieces of crisp, multi-layered production and tight, jangly guitar, a cohesive but loose effort that recalls the warmth of summer even in the cold chill of a New York March.

Fleeting moments of genius flanked by sketchy songs... [and] curious, dense production burying Eitzel's amazing voice under layers of maudlin instrumentation.

Boy, is it a sprawling mess.

All you can really do is sit back and politely applaud.

Written with some basic, inviting rock structures, the album replaces the hyper energy and angst of older material with slowed-down, complex textures and delicate grooves -- but still rocks out intermittently.

Rather Ripped is what you'd expect from a Sonic Youth that's getting back to the cool rock 'n' roll sound they trademarked years ago, completed by a tagline of frenzied feedback and chiming guitars.

A very fine solo album indeed.

Band Red spins bouncy, raw, sloppy and slightly erratic punk that can stake a claim for carving out a jagged edge of its own, complete with loveable, contagious sing-along sounds.

This whole is a sum of 14 songs that adds up to an estimable artistic much, the kind of album worthy of nestling in for months.

Music of reassuring terror.

Over two CDs the music expands towards novel-like richness.

This is The Decemberists' strongest release to date, and proves that the group's unique thesaurus-rock has a bright future.

A rare, perfect instance of collaboration, where two distinct sets of talents merge into something larger than its parts.

For all it lacks in the pop-song department, it's not a bad pop record.

The Private Press is full of rollicking beats, spectral tone colors, and enough subtle textures and supple surfaces to fill a textile warehouse.

Singer/writer/producer Jason Lytle has a little bit of Neil Young in his voice and Radiohead in his production style.

It seems distinct from the discography that came before it (in both a good and a bad way), with intermittent moments definitely treading foreign waters, for both the band and its devoted followers.

An album full of vitality that is smart and intelligent without being boring. More importantly, however, it is simply incredible.

There's more body here, more barroom spill and rollick. There's also a feeling Ward is pushing at the fabric of his music, trying to expand and progress. But the same cinematic mist hovers, the same old, old intimacy fans know well.

Plaid excel at the little moments where the music breathes -- moments all too rare within the regularized patterns of most beat-oriented electronic music.

Berman's most accomplished album.

If Foxtrot's songs were fractured pop, then Ghost is just plain fracture, a soft and brutal self-examination that pulls no punches even as it manages to remain carefully elliptical.

Overall, the melodies are so tight they seem vacuum-packed, and the album delivers a platter of faultless rock songs.

Orchestral swells, kaleidoscopic tones and childlike fragility imbue All Is Dream with the theatrics of a trip through wonderland.

While the orchestration and production are impeccable and finely crafted, it's not hard to pick out influences from the 1980s, ranging from brooding rock to pulsing synthetic pop.

Akron/Family merge shifting, sometimes impressionistic arrangements with limpid lyricism. The result is an elusive -- but strong and deeply fascinating -- debut.

She selects songs that are somehow special, and presents them with great playing and singing, in a way that clearly means something to her. My bet is that they'll mean something to you, too.

His sound, gender-neutral swooning folk dressed in quirky analog jazz keyboards, would fit nicely on a mix tape alongside The Smiths and Nick Drake.

The songs don't float off into space; the strumming guitars and subtle electronic effects give the fantastic lyrics an earthy feel, rather than lifting them into the air.

Me First is a Sunday record, a rainy-day record, a home-alone record, a lying-on-the-floor, staring-at-the-ceiling record.

The astonishing way in which the latest outing from San Franciscan deconstructionist darlings Matmos was put together is of such novel conceit it threatens to overshadow the final product.

At the close, the guitars surge forward in waves of noise, a precursor of what's to come. And come it does, with the hammering, staccato fuzz of the album's title track and the speed riffs of "Woman on the Screen."

Just like every other record Malkmus has been involved with, it doesn't feel like an album, doesn't feel like one whole work, doesn't feel focused, or of some specific intent. Pig Lib sounds rambling and goofy and slump-shouldered and half-assed and happened-upon and lazily comfortable with every step that it takes.

The songs on Mama's Gun slip from one to the next effortlessly, coming together as a set of sedate, buttery-smooth grooves.

A shimmering set of utterly gorgeous songs.

If naysayers can't get past the sheen of spiced-up production, it's their loss.

Ancient Melodies of the Future sounds more like "vaguely familiar melodies of the past," but so do some of the best albums in rock.

It recalls U2's The Joshua Tree, and not just for its stunning guitar work but for its wild passion and spiraling tension-and-release dynamics.

Yanqui U.X.O. is the work of a band that has finally become confident in its popularity and influence.

Hate is a beautifully gilded record, thoroughly nice and thoroughly listenable, and a mark higher than a lot of pop music with lofty intentions, but it doesn't move you to extremes.

The most amazing power-pop album I've heard all year.

It's basically more of the same sort of wistful, sometimes hard-charging melodic rock of the group's first and better release, Up the Bracket.

There's an indefinable freshness and purity here.

Although Loveless and Psychocandy are obvious reference points, this album actually succeeds most on its charming, candy-colored pop songs.

Mostly downbeat, the album feels, at times, as if it were created beneath a black cloud.

One-upping their previous masterwork, 1997's The Dandy Warhols Come Down, Thirteen Tales... will trip you out, especially when listened to on headphones in the post-midnight hours.

The comparisons to the Mamas and the Papas are ultimately weak; there's a lot of blues mixed in with the folky pop, and traces of '80s British band Prefab Sprout, who also spun their troubles into melodic gold full of boy/girl harmonizing.

Melding big, weary Fleetwood Mac-esque emotion to stretched-out arrangements, both electronic and folk, the Canadian singer/songwriter's power lies in his dedication to his own individuality.

Their third full-length is their best ever, a passionate yet cohesive vault into outsized rock sound.

One problem: Common is an MC, not a musician. Which makes it difficult for him to achieve his lofty goals. Mostly he fails.

Fans of the movie who are attached to the film renditions have no cause for concern; none of the songs here are dramatic reworkings of the originals. But almost all of them pop with the same buoyancy and joy, demonstrating that the artists covering the songs are Hed-heads too.

By corralling five hungry producers with a flair for the earthy funk and slippery samples that guided some of De La's best albums, the veteran trio have recorded the true successor to 1996's Stakes Is High.

It's big but it's also clever.

This is giddy pop-rock in Technicolor.

It's a sound that doesn't loudly proclaim itself, but nevertheless insinuates its way in, until it feels quietly indispensable.

Madlib's constant digressions, interruptions and little sonic jokes may make for an immersive listening experience, but The Further Adventures of Lord Quas demands pretty strict attention, and what it gives back in return is only sporadically satisfying.

Out of the Shadow is a meandering musical path, but one well worth taking.

Sea Change not only signals a pinnacle in his career but may just be remembered, in an environment fueled by accelerating cycles of disposable culture, as one of this young decade's best records.

Each of the 12 tracks on the Grey Album is finely tuned -- the precision cut-and-paste sampling DM exhibits is often mind-blowing.

The icy qualities of Last Exit's synths are retained, but the old minimalism is certainly gone, and enough real warmth buoys these productions that songcraft actually develops.

There are no shocks or surprises, but instead, How I Long... thrills us softly, its tiny layers and details all intricately woven together into a cohesive and aesthetically delightful tapestry.

Cave's latest finds the singer in perhaps the finest voice of his career, armed with a set of melodic ballads and mid-tempo rockers which exemplify his dedicated, traditionalist's approach to the songwriter's craft.

While Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes is far from a perfect offering, this album provides a plethora of outstanding moments reminiscent of the musical exploration the band's heroes The Pixies exhibited on their debut longplayer, Surfer Rosa.

The songs on his latest, often about political ambivalence and soul-searching alienation, are still catchy as V.D. But they lack the fiery complexity of past efforts.

Whether it's due to the backing band, or the better studio resources, Banhart seems more self-assured than ever as he sings his songs on Cripple Crow.

Nextdoorland is one of the rarest of things: a reunion album that captures the spirit of what made the band special in the first place.

They combine the angular dread of Joy Division with the slow burn of the Velvet Underground (circa the third album), underpinned with some sinuous rock dynamics and topped off with laconic, sometimes languid vocals.

There are no real shocks or surprises on this album; instead a number of more understated delights come through.

The spell is broken, however, by pieces like "Tears From the Compound" and "Oscar See Through Red Eye," which get lost in the marshes of their own hypnotic rhythms, sugar-sweet synths and lo-fi, breathy drones.

You could dismiss Teenage Fanclub as not being original, but that would be missing the point. Instead, appreciate a group that, in 2005, can create absolutely perfect songs that somehow manage to channel the magic of early-to-mid-'60s pop-rock.

With About a Boy, Badly Drawn boy has grown up.

This album more than any other swiftly dispels the notion that the trio are condemned to register wary introspection through brooding atmospheres.

What makes Quality worth it is exactly what dragged down Train of Thought -- the slow and syrupy songs.

Once you get acclimatized to the torturous messages and the dynamic, diverse musical accompaniment shifts from song to song, it becomes obvious that Uh Huh Her is one of Harvey's most rewarding albums.

Lounge-rock for world-weary sophisticates.

Whilst Bejar's songs are blessed with mucho rhythm and melody, you should still be made aware that there's no real beat, no real bass, and little that sounds organic. Yet there's still something quite regal and symphonic about it all, the synthesized strings and horns and piano stirring up a romanticism that goes with Bejar's fancy-pants lyricism.

One Bedroom does tend to lag in parts, perhaps lost in the legacy of the band that created it, but in the end it comes off as an unified organic being, both necessary and pleasant.

The earthy tones, accomplished songwriting and passion within Full of Light give Mendoza Line newcomers good reason not only to hear their new album, but also to dig into their back catalog.

Horn turns in the best work of his career, giving DCW a collection of sounds so potent and invigorating that the album may be Belle & Sebastian's Revolver.

The marked contrast between the deadpan vocals and the lightness of the music mostly works, although because of the limitations of Merritt's vocal range, he is not always able to project the same depth of feeling detailed in the songs' lyrics.

Walking With Thee isn't a rehashing of last year's Internal Wrangler; it's actually an inferior version of it.

Kozelek has delivered a wondrous collection.

It is quite possibly Stoltz's best work ever, and certainly one of the landmark releases of 2006.

This is simply some of the best guitar-driven rock I've heard all year.

The beauty and richness of our seemingly mundane lives can be found here, in the bossa-nova of minor catastrophes, the pseudo-jazz of strippers, and the easy lilt of coffee cups.

Cannibal Sea is startlingly immediate.

Zedek is still shrouded in her aesthetic darkness, is still hungry, still driven; her music is still driven by the same ghosts that've haunted her throughout her career.

Laughter's Fifth finds Jayne tracking back to a groovier, sillier time in rock 'n' roll, peeling back the rough riffs and celebrating the peace-and-love beat.

Even with a couple of missteps, this is a solid album that will likely stay in heavy rotation on your stereo for months to come.

More life-affirming than life-changing, on Up the Bracket the Libertines deliver a stellar set of songs that -- both musically and lyrically -- neatly synthesizes the past 40 years of English rock.

For Human Animal, Wolf Eyes have stepped back from pure violence, bringing in some of the old cinematic features while retaining pieces of the vicious nature that has served them well.

Tindersticks have always made music that conjures up smoke: songs that are elusive, wispy and ephemeral, sung by men with somewhat rough smokers' voices. With Waiting for the Moon, unfortunately, little remains once the smoke clears.

The Life Pursuit is an immaculate album; Belle & Sebastian craft pure pop perfection better than just about anybody.

There is nothing here that thrills with its audacity, beauty, beat or lyrics. Instead, we are given a solid batch of songs that for any other artist would be a crowning achievement, but for Beck is just mediocre.