Julia and Lena's voices are nothing special, and their lyrics are still derivative -- suitable fodder for Charmed or a Rachel Leigh Cook movie, but not the sort of thing that makes a lasting impression.

After a while, the songs begin to sound the same, and while Martey's vocals are consistently strong, the fact that she almost always sings in the same range robs them of much of their effect.

Gray is wise to continue experimenting and testing the boundaries of his art, but his changes don't need to be this bold. In this case, he comes up short: his minimalist mastery does not translate to resounding baroque success.

Although the group's previous outings routinely got bogged down in forced experimentalism, Broken Ear Record at least keeps the pace sufficiently frantic, which allows us to excuse some (if not all) of its more self-indulgent moments.

Outstanding production, clever lyrics and catchy melodies should add up to the sort of record capable of making a serious splash. Unfortunately, Invisible Invasion demonstrates an unwavering adherence to established musical traditions.

They hit all the right notes and create the right hooks for success, at least in theory, but for all the passion in Jake Snider's voice, he might as well be singing about the ham sandwich he ate for lunch.

There's nothing distinctive about it.

An expansive album that ultimately recycles itself.

O'Connor's lack of subtlety eventually grows tiring.

There's a lot to admire on Jackinabox, although it's ultimately less than spectacular and even occasionally embarrassing.

Though Maximo Park has enough electricity to light Manhattan, there's a faint but inescapable whiff of calculation about them.

It's not necessarily a welcome change, as drugged-up, dubbed-out majesty has always been Fearless's stock-in-trade, but there's something oddly captivating about these dusky grooves and forlorn moods that makes it difficult to view the project as a failure.

The least interesting, least engaging Sleater-Kinney album ever.

Middling music that shoots for epic and edgy, but takes far too few chances and falls short of its fans' expectations.

While Face The Truth rarely presents a side of its creator that has not already been seen, loved, and cried over, it's a passable, even better-than-average album.

You'll either find it cloying and saccharine or heartfelt and precise, or maybe a little bit of both.

The Milk Of Human Kindness grabs at elements of its predecessors, but they're often the wrong ones.

The Ponys have achieved a certain level of competence, and if you're willing to accept that in place of originality or innovation, Celebration Castle is worth checking out.

The album, while competent, is thoroughly flawed.

Shrill, sharp, twitchy compositions that can be as abrasive as they are compelling.

The songs here are resolutely pop, almost bubblegum, and though they're sometimes buoyant, hyperkinetic, even fun, they have almost no depth or resonance to them.

There's enough strong material on The Story of My Life to score Carter time on CMT and get her in good with the Borders crowd, cementing her cross-genre appeal.

While there are plenty of MTV2-ready tunes, the record doesn't bear much repetition.

With Frances the Mute, the Mars Volta have unfurled a big and bold artistic statement... Unfortunately, that bold artistic statement is rife with pomposity and glimpses of prog-rock at its most horrifically self-indulgent.

In the end, Tree City's quality makes its carbon-copy nature all the more frustrating.

Some moments are exciting, but overall it's a bit cluttered.

The fact that it hides among its excesses a handful of truly excellent rock anthems seems almost like an afterthought, as if, when the band ran out of crazy ideas, they found that there was nothing left to do but write actual songs.

Inara George's voice is so gorgeous and soothing that you'll immediately believe that you can listen to it forever. Unfortunately, by the fifth or sixth song on All Rise, you'll wonder if you have been listening to her forever.