They won't matter in a year, or even six-months...but for the time being, Ima Robot are an utterly entrancing and joyously frivolous antidote to those pre-winter blues.

At their best, Some Girls can sound like the Stones fronted by Margo Timmins of the Cowboy Junkies -- a contradictory mix of rough passionate instrumentals and vocals that are airy and unconcerned.

Aside from being a strikingly orchestrated affair that ranks among Quasi's best work, Hot Shit! is the fully-realized version of Quasi that Coomes has envisioned since the beginning.

Seal IV... finds him retreading old ground and misguidedly attempting to claim new territory.

The Decline of British Sea Power is a record you'll probably tell your friends about, but it won't make you into a fervent, foamy-mouthed convert -- at least, not unless you're in a suitably receptive mood and play the record at its optimum volume...which, in case you wondered, means as loud as possible.

His vision appears to be his own, and just happens to coincide with both the director's and the author's visions also, resulting in one of the best soundtracks -- and albums -- I've heard in a long time.

For a band only three albums into their career, they're showing inordinate amounts of brilliance.

Their fizzy confections still bristle with the same unfettered enthusiasm for retro kitsch, only now they come wrapped in a timeless pop sheen and confetti-sprinkled sharpness that's as inscrutable as it is enchanting.

Indolent, perturbed and volatile, Amazing Grace finds Pierce checking his wide-screen Spectorian visions at the studio door; he has opted, instead, for a coarse mix of electrified Southern gospel and somnabulent balladeering that has produced the most urgent Spiritualized album since Electric Mainline.

No one else is making literate, story-based pop this good.

Yoko is a much, much darker record than anything else in Beulah's canon.

This is not a happy album, but it might be a great one, taking the Western swagger of Dog in the Sand into bleak and stunning territory.

These are neither wimpy pop songs nor iron-fisted punk songs, but a shimmying amalgamation of DIY attitude and velvety songcraft, not altogether dissimilar to Learning to Crawl-era Pretenders.

The Wrens experiment with sounds and textures you don't normally hear in so-called "rock" records, but unlike many groups, they manage to do this in a way that attracts attention without upstaging the actual music. And the songwriting just keeps getting better; there isn't a lackluster track in the bunch.

It's certainly a lot more wide-ranging and engaging than its predecessor.

Heart is an exceptional sophomore effort, bursting at the seams with pop content, but the prism through which it travels bends it, taints it and humanizes it in ways that are at once soul-clenching and unpretentious.

As wonderfully crafted an album as Reconstruction Site is, some listeners will be put off by its perceived highbrow attitude; it's too scholarly for the masses, too pop-smart for the avant garde set.

This is the album that should put Dressy Bessy on the big map.

What's most fascinating about Welcome to the Monkey House is that, in the midst of copious drug usage, heavy drinking and god knows what else, the Dandy Warhols have emerged with an album so cleverly coherent that it simply couldn't have come from anywhere else.

Fans will appreciate Tour De France's high standard of unadorned synthesis, thematic melody and Autobahn minimalism, with epiphanic pleasure and not a little nostalgia.

While it delivers the triumphant rock 'n' roll thrills and oddball incantations promised by the GBV "brand", the most surprising thing about Earthquake Glue is that, at a point in his career when his inventiveness really should be waning (along with his libido and his prostate), Robert Pollard's creative spark seems brighter than ever.

Everyone Deserves Music excels beyond simple good intentions because Franti and Spearhead are also at peace with their musical influences.

Shine A Light is metallic, screamo-ing, ear-bursting, confused and chopping. And man, it's great.

A safe, if frayed, rock album that bristles and pops with flashes of brilliance, yet never ignites into the full-blown firestorm they're quite obviously capable of creating.

HaHa Sound is a good example what a talented band can do in an era of infinite possibilities.

Most of the excesses inherent to the subject matter and songwriting style are cumulative; if you take A Mark track by track, it's quite an accomplished set of (admittedly similar) songs.

Killing Joke feels as fresh and exciting as 1981's album of the same name.

It's Golightly's most genuine, dark-struttin' My Generation-type record to date.

Lovers' vast scope quickly becomes a daunting proposition for its listener.

As mindlessly captivating an album as you're likely to hear all year.

Pole is the sound of a restless musical talent and intellect seeking out like-minded collaborators, expanding their horizons, and producing an otherwise impossible synthesis.

If you're fifteen years old, female, and want to rebel, So Stylistic probably makes a lot more sense than a Bright Eyes record. If you're any older, it'll probably just make you feel dirty.

It's rare that a band can recreate such a broad measure of emotions with such a soft palette.

The Mars Volta have not only revived prog-rock as a viable commodity; they've injected it with an electric vigor that the lumbering dinosaur hasn't witnessed in ages.

Terroir Blues is an excellent album released by a man who knows he's at the height of his powers, whether anyone else knows it or not.

Harmless and happy, with an underbelly of serious sadness, Keep it Together dares to be average, and comes out sounding and feeling pretty decent.

Menomena is a wickedly creative band.

AmAnSet gives us dance music that's perfect to sit down and listen to, opening an imaginary club in our heads.

It's the stuff that a thousand indie rock records are made of, basted, breaded and cooked to perfection.

Though the group largely downplays their skull-splitting excesses, their songs resonate with a fury that a lifetime worth of broken power-chords couldn't match.

England's Saloon combine the post punk rhythms of Stereolab with the poppiness of The Sundays, creating a melodically soothing murmur that, while derivative, is very enticing.

Waiting For The Moon is a welcome and singularly strong addition to one of the most impressive catalogues in modern music.

It's nowhere near as interesting as Ghost of Fashion or Your Favorite Music, but it has its own tranquil, slow-burning charm.

Welcome Interstate Managers is a watershed accomplishment, surpassing the band's debut in terms of whimsical pop songcraft, lyrical astuteness and blind melodic ambition.

These minimalist songs are surprisingly and undeniably funky.

One of the major differences between this and other Grandaddy releases is that Lytle finally seems comfortable in his role as production auteur.

Despite some great moments... L'Avventura never quite comes into its own -- there just aren't enough perfect Phillips/Wareham moments here to cash in on Romantica's promise.

Does little to sully their reputation as one of the "great white hopes" of the indie dance nation.

A charged and melodic album full of anthemic choruses, hummable verses, and passionate rock.

Nastasia's gaze is still directed inwards, obsessed with the vivid minute imagery of relationships and an increasing dark streak -- a still-blackening air.

Love and Hate sounds fantastic, alternately steeped in warm, old school funk and terse, bubbly electroclash.

Despite the amount of rock and soul that Gahan tries to inject into the stew, Paper Monsters only occasionally breaks free of the Mode paradigms.

Even if their big 'n' bashy brand of party-happy tech-hop gets a bit familiar by album's end, it's destined to be a staple of 2003's party mixes.

While it's not Everett's most focused effort, musically speaking, Shootenanny! triumphs by projecting an uncharacteristically jovial mood.

It's as important to women in hip-hop as Joni Mitchell, Madonna and Sleater-Kinney were to their respective genres.

This is an odd album, weirdly compelling and madly frustrating.

Rarely is so-called "difficult music" so rewarding, and rarely is it so simple.

It's rather spotty (both in production and songwriting) and unfocused.

Yours, Mine, and Ours is a fantastic album. In fact, it's one of the best things I've heard so far this year. On the other hand, I can count at least three other albums that bear the Joe Pernice stamp that are better than this.

A novelty act, a misfire and a waste of time.

Fans of their debut will probably be glad to learn that their boisterous sound has changed very little, but many of the best moments are still the quieter ones, which serve as respites from the surrounding chaos.

This music sounds a lot like something Edward Scissorhands might compose if he could just play the damn piano.

This is sensual, prophetic, dense and romantic, sumptuous and altogether eerie.

While Politics of the Business follows in the conceptual footsteps of its forbears, its all-too-literal sense of moral responsibility does get a tad tiresome, occasionally sagging into diluted dogma.

If Tall Dark and Handcuffed was Cex's Slim Shady LP then Being Ridden is most-assuredly his Marshall Mathers LP -- the point at which the protagonistic and absurd becomes personal and nihilistic.

Look, there's no question whatsoever that this is a well-put-together, carefully arranged and tastefully executed album created by a consummate craftsman. On the other hand, its palette (and, I fear, its audience) is limited to the placid and gently swaying.

If you like smart, complicated rock and roll that nevertheless puts on a show, they are as good as it gets.

Primal and raw and powerful, the Gossip's third full-length is straight-from-the-gut punk desperation tinged with the hope of gospel salvation.

Rounds contains a new underlying sonic scrape that is brisk and windy and distinctly more dynamic than Hebden's previous, more placid outings, but the signature dense soul of his work is the same.

Electric Version does little to alter the successful New Pornographers formula. It's a longer, louder and (most importantly) more assured album than its predecessor, but if you liked Mass Romantic, you won't be disappointed. And if you disliked Mass Romantic, you may have a difficult time telling the two albums apart.

Herren takes what amounts to a series of completely artificial electronic noises and whips them into one of the most soulful, funky, relentlessly compelling albums since the Neptunes' last outing.

If you can imagine Gary Numan, Prince and William Orbit teaming up to write and produce a record for Donna Summer, little on Black Cherry will surprise you.

The Coxon-less Blur is a less focused Blur, but Albarn, James and Rowntree can still pull moments of sterling derision from beneath the fog.

As Higden struggles to make his way to the forefront, his bandmates appear greedy, desperately reaching for moments of startling stateliness -- much to the detriment of the songs themselves, which are lost in an atmospheric morass with delusions of (Radiohead) grandeur written all over it.

It probably won't sway rock and roll, and it most likely won't change your life, but it's a solid disc from a consistent band who haven't let their major-label affiliation change them.

If you can't quite muster truly fervid enthusiasm for Send, it's probably due, in some part, to the matter-of-factness of its presentation. There is much here to be excited about, but carefully cultivated detachment seems to be Wire's preferred modus operandi.

This might be the most varied record they've ever made.

While a few of the songs -- like BMG's team-up with Esthero for a cover of "White Rabbit" -- may generate momentary interest, they all sound a little too much like commercial radio fodder, their quirks depressingly predictable.

If your tastes favor frenzied, rabid or berserk rock, grab yourself a copy of Black Eyes and tie it up tight.

Does nothing if not cement her place as one of the most unique, intelligent and subtly disarming artists in music today.

While the album's bouts of strangulated sexuality are initially stirring, this lack of melody eventually dooms Do Rabbits Wonder? to wallow in a torpid swamp of half-formed ideas and analog squall.

This shit is boring.

Twitchy, insistent and more kinetic than a dancefloor covered with electric eels, Anxiety Always should establish Adult. as the anti-Fischerspooner -- an '80s-inflected duo whose garish stylistic flourishes are far outweighed by their extensive resonant merits.

The hour-long Love & Distortion never loses steam; it delivers on its title, and is unique enough to avoid lyrical banality.

You can pinpoint a little Beach Boys here, some Nick Drake there and a bit of Sunshine Fix in-between, but the Fruit Bats sound like the Fruit Bats.

The more time you spend with Summer Sun, the more fun it turns out to be.

People who listened to Sahara Hotnights' albums in their proper sequence will appreciate their improvement, but those who heard Jennie Bomb first may well end up preferring it.

Though it isn't the staggering atom bomb that was Turn on the Bright Lights, Sunlight Makes Me Paranoid is intermittently brilliant and wholly accomplished, establishing Elefant as more than a flash in the pan.

While The Secret of Elena's Tomb is over in less than 20 minutes, it's more impressive than what most bands do in an hour.

Elephant isn't one of those albums that'll change your life, or your tastes, or even the face of your music collection -- it's just a strong and consistent collection of powerful rock songs.

An intelligent brew of bare-bones Casio drumbeats, static-driven guitar lines and widescreen arrangements.

No, it's not the new White Stripes record -- it's something infinitely better.

Opener "Glisten" is anybody's masterpiece.... This instrumental brings so much anticipation to the rest of this record, it's no wonder I'm partly disappointed with The Listener: Gelb can't and doesn't deliver a dozen more songs like "Glisten".

Pig Lib is the kind of album you think about even when it's not on, that slowly develops for you and creates synapses and connections that maybe Malkmus never intended.

A monster of an achievement.

As good as Loss was (and make no mistake, it was very, very good), Us improves on it in virtually every way.

The songs may pay excessive homage in spirit, but their composition and divergent tones are wholly original.