Ejstes is a remarkable talent, and it will be worth listening to hear if he leaves his ardently retrograde Dungen identity behind and pushes toward more forward-leaning concepts.

To the 5 Boroughs is continuously distracted from its titular dedication by political concerns, severely dampening not only its replay factor but also proving to be the least fun album the normally surefire trio has made.

It's brilliant.

It's [Kim] Gordon's tracks that make the strongest impact.

There's a rigid sincerity to his work that refuses to allow him to drift too far from the statements of purpose he so carefully lays down in the studio.

Quite simply, Drill a Hole is White's distinctive, Panhandle-troubadour vocals performed over the jazzy, late-night tones of a Joe Henry-assembled band.

Fans of the New Pornographers will find Slow Wonder not quite as rocking (though "Miracle Drug" features some crackling guitar work), but possessed of just as many memorable hooks and choruses.

But if Uh Huh Her doesn't rise to the level of Harvey's best work, it does possess a grim, unvarnished beauty; a beauty that, while it might repel a few of the fans she gained with Stories, capably rewards devotees of her earlier, unburnished and uncompromising works.

Mostly, it sounds like no more and a little less than one might expect (or hope for) from such a union: Scott Weiland singing over some relatively crunchy Slash guitar templates.

Now, this wouldn't seem so bad, or filler-friendly, if !!! offered an advancement on "Giuliani." Alas, no.

I Com thus presents a new model for electroclash artists: it still exhibits some hallmarks of impersonal club music, but it also offers a (presumably genuine) glimpse inside the private diary of Miss Kittin.

Before, it sounded like Animal Collective sought only to please themselves. Sung Tongs sounds like a concession to the rest of us, and that's not a very exciting prospect from such a unique and potentially great band.

There isn't much variety on the disc, which many will find a bit thin after repeated spins, but there's no doubting the band's clean, confident sound.

There's precious little rocking to be found, and the turgid numbers that make up Baptism's bulk are bogged down by insipid clichés and half-hearted tempos.

Possibly Hatfield's best work since her solo debut.

Granted, there are still "classic" two-minute exercises in self-immolation (the bleak "Icarus Smicarus" and pulverizing "Lucky Jim" stand out), but nothing that exceeds -- or approaches -- Dallas' chaotic brew.

Since We Last Spoke is more sonic retreat than bold reinvention, an intriguing, if not entirely triumphant, tip of the hat to the sound and spirit of the Year of the Dragon.

Split the Difference simply isn't very engaging.

What could be utterly pedestrian, so-what material in the hands of a lesser talent is instead imbued with cheeky mythic significance by Skinner -- blessed with an uninhibited gift for gab and a willingness to reveal all facets of his character, grotty warts included.

Despite the intervening years, Quarry sounds cut from exactly the same cloth as the last couple of Morrissey albums, which is to say that at best, it represents a bit of a holding pattern and at worst, it continues the slow artistic decline begun with 1995's lackluster Southpaw Grammar.

i is a well-crafted work with its share of strong moments, even if its impressive attention to craft holds the listener back from emotional investment.

Rejoicing in the Hands is a remarkable album, and Banhart displays a range and gift for melody that belies his twenty-three years.

This is the real deal, played by men who haven't lost their edge after a two-decade absence.

Clips and clatters, glitchy mechanics and breathy cooing have displaced the beautiful melodies that are Múm's strong suit.

Heroes to Zeros may not wholly reconcile mainstream expectations with the Beta Band's desire for personalized expression, but it does come as close to aligning those twin poles as anything the band's recorded thus far.

Trampin' is an improvement on Gung Ho, Smith's previous release, if only because she hasn't sounded this committed and politically charged in years.

The most personally felt, universally inclusive record of her career.

Taken as a whole, Inches is a fantastic collection, achieving what other full-length Les Savy Fav albums have not: Delivering a wholly satisfying listening experience.

Faking the Books is a small forward step rather than a dramatic leap for Lali Puna -- which, all things considered, is still a step in the right direction.

Allison Moorer abandons the glossy textures and pop friendly hooks of her last album Miss Fortune for a grittier, more lived-in sound on The Duel.

While it may not match the exuberant authority of a band at the height of its powers, set by Millions Now Living eight years ago, it does manage to prove itself worthy, in its own way, of the distinct creative voice that high-water mark captured so well.

On My Way lacks the spastic spontaneity of Sha Sha, and falls short in the lyrical department.

Good News could well be looked back on as the band's rite of passage, filled with energetic but reckless noisemakers and more studied, stylistically adventurous tracks.

Sexsmith isn't pushing the musical envelope as intensely as he has on past efforts, and while his songwriting is as delicate and graceful as ever, there's simply nothing here that he hasn't done better or with more flair elsewhere.

Snow Patrol's most direct and aggressive album yet, a clear and decisive bid for the kind of wide mainstream appeal enjoyed by the Coldplays of the world.

In its reverential tone and the sheer joy expressed by Clapton and the all-star collection of session men joining him, the album proves utterly incongruous with the form it champions.

The Hiss is certainly one of the most promising of the current wave of rock revivalists; it's easy to see why this disc is already a hit in the U.K.

What sets him apart from other, more gifted MCs is the refreshing degree of naked self-examination and social commentary he brings to the table.

The album dies far more often than it flies, mistaking a crazy-quilt musical approach for creativity, and wrongly miscalculating the strengths of its anemic vocalist.

Long before it's time to part, Till Death sags under a heavy sense of déjà vu that hinders even its interesting moments.

A warm, gently beautiful album that rewards the patient listener.

Madlib creatively melds electronic and jazzy elements, entertaining voiceovers akin to the kind heard on Batman or Superman cartoons, and snippets of Sun Ra to fashion a wildly diverse yet coherently executed tableaux of brainy, original noise-art.

Venice doesn't hold together as well as Endless Summer, but it still proves another fascinating, creatively gallant album from one of the more vital artists currently operating in the world of electronica.

Fall Back Open builds its Brian Eno-esque architecture into a warm, vulnerable document of searching and fear of connection, resulting in a pleasantly engaging and subtly memorable offering.

Although it threatens to flicker out in spots, Pawn Shoppe Heart mostly blazes with an intensity that avoids sounding contrived or dated.

Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes extends and refines both the lyrical smarts and programmatically adventurous nature of Young Liars.

Franz Ferdinand's music possesses an intriguing, passive-aggressive kind of wasted elegance that never quite pays off.

Fans of Simple Things, Zero 7's debut effort, won't hear anything new or different, but considering that Falls makes for lovely background music, it should satisfy those fans just fine.

Though it might not be the most easily digestible subject matter, it melds thought and execution as well as any concept album in recent memory.

Ultimately Monsoon proves an easy, agreeable listen; soft rock for graying indie-rockers everywhere.

Musically, Fabulous Muscles is Xiu Xiu's finest hour.

If Aw C'mon pales in comparison, it's due to a pronounced downbeat atmosphere and an over-reliance on cutesy, clunky titles.

The charms of No, You C'mon are much more readily apparent: the songs themselves are more concrete, more dynamic.

There are moments when Feels Like Home feels too maudlin ("Humble Me") or overly subdued ("Carnival Town"), but it's a generally winning collection of finely polished (albeit innocuous) gems.

There's no mistaking McKay's talent as a songwriter, even if, as on "The Dog Song," she still falls too easily prey to cloying preciousness.

Magic and Medicine reveals a tightness of strong structure and definition of purpose (still all things '60s, but more folkie than psychedelic) lacking on the group's debut.

Musically, this is as solid a hard-rock offering as fans of Motorhead and obscure Swedish crunch fans could ask for. Lyrically, however, Probot is a different story.

Even if you slipped the album into your player without the slightest preconceived notion of who Courtney Love is or was, Sweetheart wouldn't be able to help but strike you as a document of sheer desperation, of a frantic need for approval. Worse, it's the audible sound of a talent in serious decline.

College Dropout is a competent if overlong debut, which serves up solid but by no means groundbreaking production work a little too dependent on familiar hooks from '70s R&B staples.

Ghost remains one of the more chaotic and interesting outfits working today, and Hypnotic Underworld proves another worthy addition to the group's idiosyncratic catalog.

We Shall All Be Healed emphatically proves that Darnielle can create compelling, dynamic music beyond the comfortable confines of his living room couch.

Musically, the Walkmen are not only tighter, but also more purposeful.

The Beatles don't meet Jay-Z as equals; they're sliced and diced, the innate musicality of their work all but compromised into nothingness, into vaguely familiar square pegs crammed into the comparatively round holes of Jay-Z's original vocals.

The sound of a band throwing itself relentlessly at the limitations of its genre.

Talkie Walkie isn't on a par with Moon Safari, and proves far less daring than 10,000 Hz Legend. But it manages to hold up, in its own punch-drunk, electronically unstable way.

Cast of Thousands is populated by a motley crew of fringe-dwellers, outsiders and no-accounts, looking for a warm place to drink and like-minded company to occupy the waking hours -- and Guy Garvey is the right man to tell their tales.

A blithe, energetic and wholly likable album.

Nightfreak is imbued with an appealing, frantic punk energy, but hamstrung by third-rate Zappa lyrics.

Heron King Blues may lack spark and consistency, but it's a decent (just not essential) addition to the Califone catalog.

In sticking close to home, Vanderslice has crafted his finest album yet.

One of the most refreshing hip-hop records in quite some time.

As tough a slog as the backend of Part 1 is, it's Part 2 that truly reveals just how rushed, haphazard and ill-formed Adams' stab at morose mope-rock is.

Far and away her most radio-friendly album to date.

Keys plays it far too safe here: There's nothing that will offend, and the content is patently generic enough that almost anyone, lovelorn or heartbroken, can build a personal soundtrack of romantic woe from its raw materials.

More than anything else, This is Not a Test! is a fun listen: Missy obviously enjoys poking fun at herself, and doesn't shy away from promoting a sexually empowered female persona.

I Can't Stop is impressively consistent: There's not a sub-par song in the bunch.

Blink-182 is a challenging listen, although not for the reasons one usually associates with Blink-182.

The casual fan could do just as well building his own sequence from the 1970 original, Naked and the third Anthology disc.

Carter's sulky obsession with proving himself against a field that has all but laid down and acknowledged him as its master detracts from the hard-won grandeur wrought by this nostalgic magnum opus of self-regard (to say nothing of the engaging beats and typically nimble rhymes).

The songs comprising both parts of Love Is Hell constitute the worst songwriting by Adams ever stamped with a price tag.

While there's nothing approaching the memorable hook of Solace's "Into the Fire" or the stalking menace underlying Fumbling Towards Ecstasy's "Possession," Afterglow stays true to McLachlan's impeccably designed songcraft and keen sense of melody.

Ghosts of the Great Highway is propelled by excellent songwriting, rich, heartfelt vocals, and solid musicianship.

Rock N Roll contains 14 Adams originals, it’s essentially a stylistic covers record, and a damn fine one at that.

That's the problem with Skull Ring: It's the work of an artist who should be looking within himself to create a modern-may masterpiece, rather than trying to catch a spark from either his chart-topping successors or the band he once fronted so triumphantly. Both acts, in their way, give a whiff of desperation.

Gentle harmonies and twinkling keys dot most every track, and Conor Deasy's relaxed vocals never get in the way of the band's engaging melodies.

If you don't know, or can look beyond, the staggering U-turn it represents, then Per Second is an amiable time investment for a top-down cruising summer afternoon. If you're hungry for weightier fare, however, you'd be best served by digging deeper into the band's catalog.

Room on Fire is the sound of a tighter, more focused band.

This handsomely eclectic collection merits inclusion as an essential addition to Yo La Tengo's richly diverse catalogue.

A downbeat, surprisingly ruminative affair, less concerned with dance-floor breakouts than the inevitable post-party comedown.

Unfortunately, when Clearlake misses the mark, it does so widely.

To be sure, Everything to Everyone certainly packs in the humorous moments that were largely lacking from the group's last album, 2000's Maroon. But it also shows principal songwriters Steven Page and Ed Robertson reflecting on weightier topics related to the band's double-edged popularity.

Bottom line: Some great beats propping up a not-so-tight band, making it sound much cooler than it actually is.

Chutes Too Narrow proves the Shins have more on their minds than singing the perfect harmony or writing the ultimate couplet, and it's that deeper sense of introspection that makes it a keeper.

Fans of the Scottish foursome will be disappointed with 12 Memories, which plays like a wimpy, distant cousin to Good Feeling.

She manages to gush with happiness while still maintaining a clear focus on her craft, thanks to the unwavering integrity she brings to her lyrical phrasing and musical arrangements.

While The Lemon of Pink might not sport individual tracks as strong as [Thought For Food's] "Enjoy Your Worries, You May Never Have Them Again" or "All Bad Ends All," it's nonetheless a stronger effort overall, revealing a band growing in confidence with the application of its ideas.

Sleep/Holiday finds Gorky's sticking to its idiosyncratic pop guns.

More a novelty than an essential addition to the Dismemberment Plan legacy.