It's the magnetic push and pull of its different sonic layers and shifting moods that really defines the record (for better and worse), and rewards repeated listens.

While two discs might have been more effective, the sheer overkill of this collection is par for the course for Cave and his supporting players.

Akron/Family has definite talent, but less forced naturalness, tighter song structures and greater emphasis on appealing harmonies could only help the group in its quest to conquer the known musical universe, or, at the very least, the corner organic foods mart.

Yr Atal Genhedlaeth sounds like a one-off; a palette cleanser for the Furries’ frontman. It doesn’t rise to the level of Rhys’ work with his day job, but then again, it isn’t meant to.

It’s official: The robots have won.

Blue Eyed in the Red Room doesn’t quite congeal, primarily because Hollon’s two collaborative efforts are the most impressive moments. Reverse the 8:2 ratio of instrumental to vocal cuts, and we might be talking a long-striding keeper.

No matter what vehicle Hersh utilizes as an outlet, it’s obvious her creative wave has yet to crest.

It’s one thing to strive for the primal truth of a particular sound; it’s another to vainly bludgeon a thoroughly pulverized style in search of unsullied beats.

Fusing elements of Human League’s sophisticated new romantic aesthetic and Belle & Sebastian’s unapologetically arty preciousness, Montreal-based Stars deliver their most consistent effort with Set Yourself on Fire.

Fleshing out Monade only reinforces what great chemistry Stereolab possesses. And that’s a few steps in the wrong artistic direction, especially if Sadier’s interested in distinguishing herself apart from the Groop.

Proponents of Mars Volta’s Frances the Mute will claim that anyone who doesn’t like the album simply can’t handle the lyrical depth and amazingly multi-layered musical complexity; critics who pan the release will claim it’s overlong, indulgent, and -- did we mention indulgent? The truth, as usual, falls somewhere in between.

Back to Me is a solid successor to Failer, though at some point Edwards is going to have to toss aside the sour-relationship crutch if she truly wants to distinguish herself from the rest of the country-rock crowd.

If Youth and Young Manhood was Kings of Leon tentatively using well-tested implements, Aha Shake Heartbreak is the sound of a group boldly forging a unique identity from common tools that have been stripped of all pretense and decoration.

A dewy dream-pop affair that favors vaguely defined lyrical sketches of people, places and things over concrete foundations and specific arrangements.

Rather than leaning on his appealingly gruff Neil Diamond pipes to articulate personal stories of drunkenness and hardscrabble redemption, Bachmann takes a more imaginative approach here.

It's a deeper, more rewarding listen, rivaling End of Amnesia for Ward's strongest release to date.

Woman King is an ideal transition record for Beam, interweaving colorful new threads into a familiar pattern and hinting at powerful and majestic songcraft to come on his next full-length.

Hardly an essential addition to the Mogwai catalogue (diehards excluded, of course).

Space-rock aficionados will dig the zero-G atmosphere, but it meanders through excessive pockets better left unexplored.

Nashville validates the promise Rouse has exhibited since Dressed Up Like Nebraska, encompassing a gift for emotional detail and a fondness for simple, unadorned lyrics. It's an understated, impeccably played collection of heartfelt tunes about a time and place that can never be returned to.

Fast Cars is volatile, angry, and certainly unappreciative of the current administration (especially its war policy). Fortunately, Aesop Rock manages to criticize without losing the beat.

LCD Soundsystem doesn't quite overcome the high bar set by its bonus disc. That might sound rough, but fortunately, just compiling all of Murphy & Co's singles on one handy CD provides a valuable service for newcomers to his eclectically retro style.

It demands the right frame of mind, temperament and that ideal rainy-day traveling environment, in which nothing works out. When you're in the middle of such a moment, Hood's there to provide the soundtrack for your emotional nosedive.

A Healthy Distrust reinforces Sage Francis’ standing as one of the most verbally gifted rappers currently in the game, but it lacks the cohesive flow of Personal Journals and complains about a host of worldly ills without offering much in the way of a positive solution.

Eggs fails to engage with the unpredictable inventiveness of Swimming Hour, and lacks the skillful brevity of Weather Systems.

The warmest, most life-affirming album of his still-budding career.

I Am A Bird Now is a beautiful-sounding record, and though it doesn’t contain anything as remarkable and emotionally piercing as the debut’s “Cripple and the Starfish,” it nonetheless reveals a band and lead artist refining a musical universe populated by drag queens, cabaret dancehalls and a tolerant and open community.

Happiness in Magazines is the sound of a former sideman confidently flexing his muscles for anyone who's interested. More people should be.

Worlds Apart is the first TOD album that sounds like it was influenced by a marketing department.

But while it's appealing to hear Barlow sound so contented as he approaches middle age, Emoh can't help but lack in the emotional immediacy so typical of Barlow's earlier, non-eponymous work.

Over-produced and (regrettably) heavily dependent on synth-powered '80s grooves.

[Oberst] displays a mastery of material, a reigning in of indulgences that promises stronger work to come.

Other than a few impressive moments... Push the Button proves less than inspiring.

Knuckle Down holds together quite well, revealing an artist still developing a powerful and engaging self-analytical aesthetic.

Low goes overboard at points, and detrimentally so... [but] the dissonance and harmonies mostly gel.

On the whole, Before The Dawn Heals Us is a more unified, singular vision than Dead Cities.

The lyrics are urgent, but the delivery is complacent, and that makes for an odd (yet strangely rewarding) listening experience.

Another excellent offering.

Superwolf is the sound of two artists on the same creative page, both bringing unique abilities to the table and elevating the other's talents as a result.

There’s little doubt that Chaos Theory does what it's meant to do: provide solid background noise to special-ops, night vision-wearing virtual stealth warriors. Compared to the rest of Tobin’s catalog, however, it’s merely a mildly engaging diversionary maneuver.

School of the Flower is as pretty as its titular place of higher learning intimates and as substantive as bongsmoke.

Yes, there's a fair amount of filler here... But District packs a number of bouncy, accessible car-radio stocking-stuffers.

Atomic Bomb is a reduction of U2's most definable characteristics into a very basic formula: impassioned vocals lent extra gravity by Bono's wavering voice; guitars that chime like bells; thick, meaty rhythm section workouts; slowly seductive hooks that build to triumphant, emotional, endorphin-releasing choruses. And on that level, it succeeds admirably.

It's not simply the weakest album of his otherwise impressive career; it's one of the poorest performances from such a high-profile talent in recent memory.

It's his most consistently rewarding effort in recent memory.

They capably cover everything from noisy freakouts ("Turn It Out") to electroclash chillouts ("Sexy Results"), and manage to hold it all together better than bands armed with triple the sonic arsenal.

Unsurprisingly, Cave's overriding thematic goal of reconciling morality with desire on Abattoir Blues / The Lyre of Orpheus falls short of its mark. But with such a complex and difficult target, that's to be expected.

The group's edgy, fast-paced New Wave 2K brand of rock recalls the sharp, nerdy delivery of XTC, the impassioned focus of the Jam and ping-ponging hooks reminiscent of the Vapors.

Razorlight is more than The Strokes, London Bureau -- all nervous guitar lines and neither-here-nor-there bar-hopping energy -- but what's left of the mucho-hyped UK outfit's identity feels second-hand borrowed, as well.

Easily Leo's best album since The Tyranny of Distance.

Hill feels more like a retrospective than a steady gallop toward the next stage in Smith's artistic advancement.

Crimes is guilty of nothing save exhibiting the sound of a band that clearly isn't finished evolving.

Its sporadic pockets of accessibility aside, it's difficult to listen to Around the Sun without hearing it as a holding pattern, or worse, a piece of product released simply to keep the R.E.M. brand out among the public.

If Spooked isn't Hitchcock's most visceral effort, its spare acoustics make it nonetheless a diverting and likeable listen.

A noisy, stamping, querulous assault on the senses that could have certainly benefited from more than a little editing.

It's that sobering confessional quality that gives the album an unexpected dose of depth and grace.

This most confident debut presents Hope of the States as a band for the future -- a place it'll most likely find very comfortable.

The Grind Date is the sound of a rejuvenated heavyweight who may have lost his belt but has in no way has conceded the fight.

Other than the minor quibble that there's not as many immediately bracing hooks as on past efforts, Universal Audio has very little to apologize for.

Is Antics superior to Interpol's highly regarded debut, Turn On The Bright Lights? Well, yes, providing your criteria involve a tighter, less fussy sound and gimmick-free production.

While it may not be the ultimate symphonic confection nearly four decades of hyperbole have all but guaranteed, Smile is nonetheless an arresting, audacious, unabashedly whimsical slice of junk-drawer Americana and can-do pop craftsmanship.

Last Exit is noteworthy for taking on a sound that's easy to screw up (emoting over synthetic beats) and actually making it work.

It convincingly exhibits the breadth of affection Costello has for homegrown American musical forms, but lacks a tight-enough center to stand among his sturdier, more disciplined works.

An energetic, musically ambitious pop-rock record that employs its expanded vistas in the service of animating punk's well-worn thematic underpinnings.

Nino Rojo may not appeal to the "freak-folk" crowd that so heartily embraced Rejoicing and its shambling predecessor Oh Me Oh My..., but Banhart effectively displays a willingness to broaden his musical horizons that will undoubtedly serve him well on subsequent releases.

The cumulative effect of Trust Not is a wearying one.

Fans of So Much for the City's warm, Beach Boys-esque charms may be disappointed with The Thrills' musical progression, but most should enjoy Bohemia's varied charms.

Whereas Boy In Da Corner was the sound of a young man expressing the fear and frustration of growing up in a dangerous and bleak environment, Showtime reflects the confidence and ebullience of a maturing artist optimistically embracing a bright and hopeful future.

In terms of sheer ambition -- and the realization that if you're going to use strings, you might as well go completely over the top with them -- The Arcade Fire is a promising, unapologetically melodramatic sure bet.

There's an unwavering confidence and muscular focus behind the music that holds from start to finish.

Rubber Factory finds inspiration in decay, and signals a hopeful future for the Black Keys.

This stylistic-tryout grab-bag exposes a quartet that has yet to find a voice solely its own.

One of the most exciting discs in recent memory.

A triumph tempered by doubt, an accomplished collection of conflicted feelings and guarded optimism.

Buffs the rough edges of Words & Sounds, Vol. 1 but sacrifices some of that record's spirited adventurousness.

Bjork’s great achievement with Medulla is in taking a self-imposed limitation and managing to craft a full-bodied, multilayered work from such a basic toolset.

True to form, there's a fair amount of unexploded duds mixed in with the direct hits.

Winchester Cathedral may be a transition album, or it may just contain a few curveballs to keep discerning listeners on their toes -- only Clinic knows for certain.

A compellingly listenable record whose thematic signal points add up to one of the very, very few viable theme/concept albums composed solely of cover tunes.

More than 40 years of combined experience results in an album that works well as music for the road or for a party thrown by discriminating baby boomers.

While the record finds Earle at his most outspoken, it also finds him treading water stylistically, comfortably wearing down the same groove he's occupied since 1997's El Corazon.

South undeniably positions the group as a hard-rocking roots act, and further as one of today's most assured rock bands, period.

It's all very commendable, but one wishes McGraw had taken a few more chances with the material, most of which is as lightweight and ultimately disposable as much of modern country.

Rilo Kiley's most consistent and sharply executed release to date.

The second disc... is the sound of a band at the height of its powers, employing a ten-piece band and backup singers, and exhibiting an absolute mastery of its material.

It's a distillation of the singer's subtly different moods and modes, a cohesive and comprehensive work that stands as the most representative look yet at his musical persona.

Whiskey Tango Ghosts is a supremely intimate, homespun album, one that isn't meant to arrest the senses so much as it strives to assuage the pain of turning on the nightly news and being bombarded with grim tidings on a global scale.

One Plus One Is One may not sparkle with surprising brilliance, as Bewilderbeast did, but it is certainly the most thematically and musically grounded album Gough has yet created.

What the band lacks in originality (not to mention coherence and subtlety), it more than makes up for with committed chops and indefatigable energy.

Dead Cities reinforces the French pair's penchant for distorted vocals and cheesy synthesizers, but the tracks here ultimately add up to far less than the sum of their assorted parts.

Scissor Sisters' debut is a brilliant ode to a musical era defined by vapid decadence and disposable dance tracks.

Tyrannosaurus Hives should add up to more than simply a tighter record with gaudier production values. That it doesn't could spell trouble for a band eager to avoid being sent back down to the minor leagues.

While it may not be the orgiastic smorgasbord of pop delicacies The Fiery Furnaces aimed for, it's nonetheless one of the most ambitious pop albums released this year.

It's a sonically interesting, lyrically diverse collection.

There's definite promise here, if not the stunning masterpiece of popcraft that a sudden deluge of impressive notices might indicate.

Ultimately, The Tipping Point is an ironic title, given the fact that the Roots sound like a group recharging its batteries rather than triggering a momentous shift in how it approaches its music and the world at large.

Porcelain's aggressively hopeful, generic alt-rock anthems just aren't very interesting.

Much of The Cure slogs along at the same churning, monotonous pace, and Smith, rambling in a croak-shout variation of his normal singing voice, does the material few favors.