Sure, a couple tracks hit it just right, but by and large, once the album's over, it's not liable to pop back into my thinking.

An epic, widescreen journey which is busy and bonkers but constantly entertaining.

You're probably not going to find another record quite so beautifully produced this year, or quite so warmly inviting, or just quite so full of lovely stuff.

There are no compromises to be reached, and that's what makes No One Can Ever Know such an authoritative listen.

The biggest, brashest cartoon this side of Eminem's early albums.

Libraries is chock full of restructured reminiscence, yet doesn't lay any cautions in modernizing pop's landmark, time-honored aesthetic.

It's elegant, but hardly likely to inspire any particularly stirring flights of fancy, or any reevaluations of the band's post-Moon Safari discography.

House of Balloons is still his finest hour to date, but Echoes of Silence comes damn close to it.

Shortcomings are well disguised, and even when they are exposed, the originality of Papini's storytelling is enough to keep the ears alert for several listens.

Firing on all cylinders and exhibiting the canny combination of eminently danceable rhythms with big hooks and gorgeous synth melodies.

Considering how the lyrical content and flat as a rug singing in Weekends was written for an elementary school child to understand, they probably should've kept it that way; it occasionally downgrades the songs to a point where they are unable to rise above their cheesiness.

In both songwriting craft and execution of recording, The Coldest Winter For A Hundred Years is exceptional.

It all sounds very immaturely polished.

From the album's onset, you're treated to both the abrasive and the profane.

While I can appreciate their longevity, ironic style and pureness in their sound, I can't admit that this was enjoyable for me.

The often overly-enthusiastic arrangements threaten to smother the qualities that made Rodrigo y Gabriela special in the first place with the quiet brutality of their guitar playing often lost in the extended jam-band style... structures.

Far beyond simply avant garde, this is one for the abstract devotee.

The end result is an album full of tracks that sound so warmly familiar that they instantly seem like old friends.

Her voice single-handedly eliminates all accusations of the sameness that could be shot at the songs, evens the pace of the album, and although it may not make up for the album's flaws entirely, it certainly helps hide them and is reason enough on its own to find enjoyment on this album.

There's a lot in here that brims with life but, somehow, it never quite unfolds.

The album isn't faultless by any means, but Trailer Trash Tracys have made one of the most interesting albums of recent months.

There is nothing abrasive about Strange Weekend, nothing risky, nothing unique; there is instead just a shortage of "Wow!"

The Hold Steady this ain't, but as far as new directions go, Craig Finn could have done much worse.

When this EP gets it right, it is a triumphant nod to Dear's versatile ear, but when it settles for being weird for the sake of it, it's simply messy.

Most of Attack on Memory has an abrasive, shrewd backbone, but it's those moments where Baldi hones his sweet touch where the album finds a satisfying balance of surprise and comfort.

A "more accessible, less-noisy Jesus and Mary Chain".

The vocal hooks and catchy choruses that have brought Nada Surf this far have only gotten better.

As you listen, you can easily picture a campfire in a forest, stars in the sky and Laura Gibson, guitar cradled in her arms, mumbling her way through an upbeat breezy folk song that implies some inner sadness while at the same time being entirely optimistic and happy.