What we’re left with is an album that retreads a lot of familiar ground, but does it well, exploring a narrow but richly developed arc of ‘60s-influenced indie-pop.

As a curio from one of the most unsettled times in UK music (pre-grunge and post indie), it's interesting, from an academic rock nerd's perspective. For everyone else, if you're looking for an album that has all the hallmarks of a musical movement but only some of the flair of the leading lights of that scene, here it is. Warts and all.

Rakka contains some of Ripatti's most thrilling and unpredictable sound design, but taken in one sitting, it's hard to know what to do with it.

Vocals are delivered straight-forwardly, instrumental solos are kept to a minimum, and there’s a general sense of presenting things honestly in a documentary style. That fits the material which would most naturally be at home in a small-town church.

If Happy Hollow doesn’t astound lyrically, though, it swings with force musically.

Though the record cleans up some with the drifting “How Might I Live” and a quick hit of sadness from closer “Navigator”, these are but mild highpoints in a waste of still-milder mediocrity

Sometimes Pratt’s nervousness about being looped into a scene extends to her album’s production. Some songs are cloaked in hissing tape, and her lyrics can be difficult to make out.

Bridwell has a very clear vision for his band and presents it well. His smart lyrics match his previous standards, and the group execute the album well, but it feels too much as if they’re standing in place.

So while Fordlandia may be his prettiest record, it’s arguably his dullest.

Predictably, there are some excellent sad songs to be found here. Just as predictably, though, when the whole thing sounds essentially the same, the impact is blunted. If Lytle decides to make another Grandaddy album after this, let’s hope he’s at least partially in the mood for something a little more rocking.

He lets his imagination paint the details. That's the role of an artist. And while he may be singing lies, that's okay, because one can find the truth in the fiction.

Even with its missteps--[Sun] is her most patient and generous record to date.

Comes across as kinda dull.

The album’s biggest failing is that it sounds too much like his past three albums. But this also gives this record strength.

Hot Shit immediately announces its intention to be a purposely difficult listen, and the difficulty persists through the album's eleven tracks.

Revival is neither the great album nor the disappointment many are proclaiming it.

It’s disorienting and congealing at the same time, so it’s very ‘John Maus’, as in it is simple but oh so complicated.

Overall, Sainthood is heavier than previous efforts, both lyrically and musically, and old fans will probably appreciate what this pair has accomplished together. However, for a new listener, the album might come off as a somewhat hard swallow; the songs are often too produced, and may even lack some honest musicality at their core.

Bishop’s self-indulgence stunts any suggestion that anyone other than a serious aficionados is going to express anything more than passing interest.

On this, their second album, MONEY have created a difficult listen on two levels. Firstly, in creating a collection of songs which, if not directly about suicide, often convey a hopeless state of mind and heart. Secondly, owing to the awkward collision of some fine playing with a largely monotonous production and some painfully strained singing from vocalist/guitarist Jamie Lee.

Antenna is lacking in every sonic department they previously thrived upon and sounds exactly what fans of old feared: immaculate, sterile guitar production; rigid, radio-ready song structures; and an end to the dynamic, cosmos-exploring sound that elevated Jupiter to a stunning success.

The Wolf is a primer on self-actualization, but AWK's sharpened focus comes at the expense of creating memorable tunes.

The album’s structure collapses under its own weight thanks to questionable production and a plot that never becomes cohesive. Still, Monch’s bars are among the best in the game. Put his words over shoestring production and your jaw would still drop.

Local Business has lots of fascinating things to say about control but sometimes it gets lost in its own unruly order.

It’s another solid chapter in Friel’s musical story. In spite of that, it’s also an album that sometimes feels like its missing a layer or two.

For a smooth talker like Common, talking through his ruminations could easily lead to talking around them, so on Nobody’s Smiling, he leaves a lot of the talking to others.

If it's not a leap in the right direction, it's at least a big step.

On Relax, Das Racist, at worst, deliver an album that tries too hard to sound like every other rap album out there.

This smart and sophisticated country-rock however, is punctuated by uninspired songs that sound like outtakes from Recovering the Satellites.

By destroying the momentum of the of the new record by tossing in a trio of very weak songs that are the very definition the word "filler", what could have been a landmark hard rock double album becomes merely a good one.

If this album could have received the editing it needed, it would have made for an extraordinary EP.

Criminal Heaven is a band doing incredible things half of the time and okay things the other half.

It’s not that there isn’t anything to love in Songs from the North—there’s plenty, especially on II and III. Instead, the listener is given far too much. With such excess, “too much of a good thing” though it is, diminishing returns are bound to follow.

There are a handful of songs here that go a touch beyond just recreating an earlier style, and those are the best ones. If The Cactus Blossoms can expand their ear for detail more consistently into their songwriting and lyrics, they can be flat out great. But they aren’t quite there yet.

For the most part, the original album is not all that interesting and frequently can be lame with pretentious lyrics and generic jamming. There is nothing special for most listeners on the bonus disc.

As is, Solid Gold U-Roy has its heart in the right place; even if, as an unexpected epitaph, it doesn’t quite do justice to its namesake’s pioneering spirit.

"Family Farm" and "Heavy Covenant" are fun sing-a-longs that wouldn't have been out of place on the band's most popular records. As an album, though, Open Door Policy isn't very inspired.

Discover a Lovelier You will certainly satisfy Pernice's empathetic fan base, but when all is said and done, its highlights aren't nearly as insistently obvious as the Brothers' paramount achievements.

Even if the characteristic humor is gone, the album hits more than it misses -- but it's fairly bottom-heavy, leaving much stoner drone in the way of the eventual goods.

That stalled growth speaks to where M.I.A. ends up on Matangi, since even the best moments on it feel a bit rote and too reminiscent of her finest hours on the first two albums, as if she hasn’t been able to advance her creativity much further.

I have to think that as an EP, The Rip Tide would be a rousing success. But as it is, there are just too many bland, uninspiring tracks that drag down the whole experience.

Swift’s clever and insightful lyrics immediately grab those who pay attention.

Strange Disciple finds Nation of Language’s devotion to their craft and the acts that inspired them admirably intact, even dogged. It is probably their most listenable album from start to finish. Still, it leaves the sense that, cool as they are, a bold new turn may be coming due.

The Instinct isn't a bad record, especially if you like your music a tad frost-bitten; it's just boring.

The stylistic mix is dizzying, from Dylanesque odes to Motown soul, but more than that, Adams's influences are so prominent that you often feel like you're listening to other people.

Special is such a disappointment because you can hear the better album she’s capable of – but she insists on digging her heels in to crank out one-size-fits-all empowerment jams that can’t be resonating with anyone beyond someone just getting back to the elliptical for the first time in a year.

What may get lost in all this effect and craft is that at their base, many of Linkous’ songs are remarkably standard rock-song constructions.

On an album so brief, these less effective songs take up an awful lot of space, making for a record that is fun throughout, but still awfully uneven. Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea is hit and miss, but its missteps come as a result of admirable risks.

When all is said and done, The Fame Monster isn't going to win Lady Gaga any new converts, but it does prove something to her millions of fans: that she's not complacent with doing the same thing over again.

It contains at least one additional near-classic. But it falls into a type of rut that only long-lived bands can travel: Its primary purpose seems to be justifying its existence with an almost obsessive show of confidence. Which is a fancy way of saying it tries a bit too hard for its good.

Ash manage to connect more often than not, and when the songs do work, the riffs and hooks achieve a surprisingly effective balance.

Cognitive distortion is all over Emika and can at times be sublime... [However] there are points on the album meant to pierce that don't hit hard enough and moments of unease which seem swamped down by the overproduction muck.

By the end of the album I unfortunately just feel a little numb to the vocals. I’m willing to give this album a break because I love the production here, and when Sufi’s really hitting, he’s certainly a unique presence.

Desire Lines is a silver lining record, one that isn’t particularly compelling (especially relative to My Maudlin Career, which felt like new emotional territory for the band), but is impressively maintained.

If Franz Ferdinand were Pearl Jam, these guys would be the Stone Temple Pilots.

There are a couple of missteps, however, including the repetitive verse section of “Livin’ In Chaos”, which tires quite quickly. Then there’s “Save The Planet”, which features a refrain of, “We’ve got to save the planet! It’s the only one with beer!”, which is maybe a little too Dad-rock, or even Grandpa-rock, for its own good.... Still, This Is the Sonics is a fine and often fun record.

There are a lot of fascinating, really good pieces on Anthology, and several of them work well even removed from their film context. But the ones that don’t work as stand-alone songs end up calling attention to Carpenter’s limitations as a musician.

As an album, Comfort of Strangers comes across as a missed opportunity. For the most part the album sounds fantastic, and you really want the songs to hit the spot more than they do.

In the end, 30 Year Low might not match up to its predecessor, but it is surely a compelling album by a band both at its creative peak and its unfortunate end.

Potential highlights are held back by poor choices.

A Bit of Previous explores a candid, though less thoughtful, space in which guitarist Stevie Jackson’s Neil Diamond pastiche (“Deathbed of My Dreams”) is happy to sit alongside a congregational ode to Ukraine (“If They’re Shooting at You”) and a Huey Lewis-esque synth bop (“Talk to Me Talk to Me”).

It's possible that fans of mellow, laid-back rock will savor this album, but overall, lethargy overwhelms inventiveness on all but a handful of tracks.

If Never Let Me Go at least finds a musical footing, what really dooms it is the songwriting—or lack thereof. Molko uses the same stilted, broken phrasing in too many songs as if he is pausing mid-verse to try and think up a vocal hook.

If Mesirow let herself explore these weird sounds more fully instead of relying on the tried and true synthesized percussion, this album would reach another level of interest.

The result is a mish-mash of commercially viable tracks and more whimsical excursions that her fans will cherish but might leave others feeling warm, then cold.

While it is, at times, a challenging listen, there are enough catchy moments to prompt enough listens for the thing to grow on you.

The returns are decidedly mixed. Some listeners may get a satisfying-enough taste of what they loved about the first LP, while others will likely be disappointed and maybe even a little puzzled by a familiar favorite made uncanny.

On the whole, I Can Feel You Creep Into My Private Life is a truly good album and a number of the songs on it are notable successes, but the stark shift in sonic style sets it apart from the rest of Tune-Yards' discography and not in a good way. It seems safe, it seems almost timid at times.

It may not be as varied and as inventive as its more radical forerunner, but it nonetheless offers a very penetrating illustration of the post-social, estranged urban environment we often inhabit, doing what it does very well despite doing it a tad too much.

It’s awfully tough to categorize Smith’s songs, which make for adventurous sailing over rough seas.

Time to Go Home seems like half the album it could have been.

Unfortunately, the last third of the disc stumbles badly with a clutch of well-produced but verging on laughably bad tracks.

But it's in the repeated listens that Apollo Sunshine begins to slip into place. Once the ear is ready for the stylistic differences, you can put aside your surprise and start listening for the individual pieces, and that's where the magic of the band continues to show itself.

Whereas I am the Fun Blame Monster was unmitigated fun, Friend and Foe attempts something more soberly contemplative. This regrettable attempt at maturity comes off as forced and feigned rendering the band as boring as any other affectedly serious artist.

Nothing is disguised. However, that does mean there isn’t very much to dig through, and this isn’t necessarily an album that rewards repeat listening.

What proves to be frustrating is that this isn’t a bad album nor is it a bland one. It mainly lacks any real musical innovation.

An atmospheric and intimate experience that may not contain any true killer moments, but never slips off either and remains a beautiful and pleasant thing to sink into at night throughout its length.

For all of its faults, Multi-Love is far more engaging and interesting than anything being created by Unknown Mortal Orchestra’s so-called contemporaries.

Guitar Slinger is not a classic album, but it has enough strong melodies to leave fans pleased.

Constant Future is by no means a bad record. It is a record that oversells itself.

It's all essentially background music, in the end.

This is a decent snapshot of a great band doing what they do best, but instead of providing a three-dimensional, in-depth picture, it's a two-dimensional one that only hints at the actual greatness the band achieves.

Mean Love never fails to be smooth, and it displays a particular kind of open ear. For some, that will be enough.

This unpretentious attitude permeates the album’s writing and terse production whose results are self-evident: it lacks the unique resonating timbres one is accustomed to with Beck.

For all its strengths, though, Kingdom of Rust also leaves us with the uneasy feeling that Doves are starting to feel more comfortable with the idea of merely staying the course instead of exploring bolder ideas.

Mandatory Fun is not his best album (even if it, by far, has his most well-conceived meticulous promotional launch), but it is still very fun, virtually every parody being completely on point and capable of holding up to at least a few replays.

I'm Bad Now finds Nap Eyes somewhere in between their two former releases.

By stripping away all those additional bells and whistles from Sun Kil Moon's sound, an unintentional side-effect is achieved: the whole thing turns out to be a bit too monochromatic.

The two albums fail to cohere both sonically and conceptually. Throughout, Butler’s approach begins to wear a bit thin.

It turns out the emotions here are real, but conveyed through a deeply (and cleverly) contrived performance.

Does one really want to listen to gorgeous musical crescendos and a falsetto singing “all I do now is dick around/ dick around” or a bouncy plea that “barometric pressure has no relevance to me”?

Privateering is a textbook example of a mixed bag--frustrating.

First of a Living Breed is an example of an artist failing to balance the best and worst of himself, letting both halves wander freely through a 46 minute album that goes nowhere, existing simply because the potential for a tenable LP has been exhibited in the past. That exhibition is rarely visible this time around, sadly.

Root for Ruin is an infectious, smart, and well-executed record. But in a discography that has always sounded like it was well executed while it was pushing towards something new, something more refined than the last sound, parts of this album make it feel like a plateau.

The Breaks is just a pretty good pop album.

It’s no surprise to find that Sexsmith is doing little to reinvent himself on this album, the cheeky charm of “Saint Bernard” notwithstanding. Still, the comforting warmth and tenderness of the strongest tracks here makes Carousel One an album worth some spins.

For those who were unable to track down the previously released material, RTZ is a boon (and for vinyl lovers, a feast on triple-gatefold LP). For fans who are mostly accustomed to Chasny’s more concise, song-based albums (Dust & Chimes, School of the Flower), it will be slightly flummoxing.

The music isn't what anyone would call edgy. .... Sun on the Square's greatest strengths are Karen Peris's vocal melodies. After repeated listens, they have a pleasant way of nestling into your brain, regardless of the lyrical content.