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.

Sorry I Make You Lush runs on fresh sounds and non-drowsy wit.

The only real problem with i is the sheer volume of excellence we've all come to expect from Merritt.

The Creek Drank the Cradle is very surreal, mythical, haunting; it creates a mood of warmth and comfort, and makes me feel as if I've been transported to another, far more peaceful plane of existence.

Far more mysterious and (perhaps not coincidentally) alluring than most Buckner outings, Dents and Shells is a claustrophobic comedown album wrapped in disillusion and sorrow.

The beauty in all this melancholy is that, interspersed among the reverberating guitars and mournful keyboards, you'll find an assortment of cheerful instruments, such as the accordion, that help to create an underlying tone of optimism.

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

A welcome blast from the past.

Their most musically adventurous yet artistically grounded record to date.

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.

It takes Ta Det Lungt a while to lay down its grooves in your head, but once it does, they stay there.

Mercury Rev's unique talent lies in their ability to take a page from nearly every book and mold it into their own nuanced brand of music.

Give Up's one real pitfall is that, on the whole, it sounds almost exactly like you'd expect a collaboration between these two men would, or for that matter, should, sound -- which certainly isn't to say that the music isn't enjoyable, or memorable.

Add N to (X) have retained their sense of direction and honed their sound into a powerful and persuasive entity.

If you take your pleasure from the sheer palpability of the music -- the way it walks icy fingers up and down your spine, and paints pictures in the air, so real you could step into them -- Blacklisted will enjoy a long, happy stay in your CD player.

A mature, elegant effort, full of richness and depth.

You can listen to the disc over and over and never get bored; there's always a new musical idea to discover in a place that you didn't expect to hear it.

Most [tracks] work quite well with the multifaceted rhythms and constantly evolving beats that make each of the tracks here a true expression of creativity.

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

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.

These minimalist songs are surprisingly and undeniably funky.

This is a disc that springs to life under closer inspection but also serves quite capably as background music -- the kind that draws in casual listeners and gets them asking questions.

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

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.

While Davis's performance draws from a broad and intriguing range of influences, she has the makings of a singer in a class of her own. And rather than allowing Davis's uniqueness to carry them, the other members of Denali clearly favor a similarly eclectic aesthetic, riddling their music with pleasant musical surprises.

It's intelligent and novel and manages to avoid sounding clichéd -- a bona fide feat these in these postmodern days

It seamlessly combines the choicest bits and bobbles of other acts into an overwhelming patchwork of sound and fury, but in the process, the band occasionally loses sight of their own identity.

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.

Punk Rock bears little resemblance to the commodified dross that passes for punk in 2004; it's proud, smart, defiantly working-class stuff that'll remind you why the movement mattered.

It may not be the best album of their career, but it's certainly the most interesting -- and a reliable cure for your indifference.

Those of you who choose to get in on the ground floor of this superlative venture they call Music to Make Love to Your Old Lady By will not be disappointed.

It's filthy, low-budget fun that's still plenty fucked up, whether you're a first-timer or a hardcore Peaches fanatic.

Although not every track here is of the highest quality, all sixteen tracks are woven together expertly.

While they don't quite have the cross-gender appeal of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, the pouty disagreeability of the Strokes or the urbane refinement of the Walkmen, they heedlessly summon the spirits of post-punk monoliths like PiL, A Certain Ratio and the Pop Group without forsaking their gritty New Yawk-ian roots.

Compelling listening.

Expansively orchestrated, Nixon ultimately comes off as beautiful but slightly disturbing...

While Point may be less viscerally invasive than any of its recorded counterparts, it remains a beautifully orchestrated exercise in modern pop construction.

Wherever I Am, I Am What's Missing remains grounded in electronic composition, but the subtle distinctions between spacy trip-hop epics (see "Diamonds and Stones) and booty-shaking dance-floor numbers help to keep the band's dynamic fresh, even after ten years.

Aficionados of WGC's autumnal, melancholy sound will find this fifth full-length release comparable to the group's previous four, only more refined and maybe a little more assured.

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

His most diverse collection of songs to date.

A vibrant, engrossing album by a seasoned band whose best years are still ahead of them.

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.

Another eclectic, bold and idiosyncratic concoction of modern jazz.

I hope that These are the Vistas doesn't go down in history as "that record where the jazz guys played Nirvana", because it is much more than that.

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

A rich, varied and emotionally resonant album that eschews AOR sugar fixes for smart, graceful songwriting and soulful but unshowy performances.

Bazooka Tooth not only gets better as the disc goes on -- the beats get thicker, the songs come together more fully and Rock stops proselytizing long enough to let your head bob and relax -- but it actually improves with repeated listens.

Another staggering batch of Nashville by-way-of New York twanging folk-punk ditties that will all but solidify his reputation as the Gram Parsons of the no-depression set.

The album sounds full whether you're in the next room or sitting right beside the speakers. Details -- a horn here, a steel guitar there, a lilting piano figure that appears out of the ether -- fill every cranny in a sound that's still as spacious as Giant Sand's Southwestern soundtracks.

Though it's fair to question their sense of tradition, they succeed where other blues-aping artists, like Gomez and Arnold, have failed, because they're not wholly indebted to the customs of the blues. They've merely co-opted its grisly spirit and transformed it into something unique.

On The Facts of Life, [Luke] Haines and musical co-conspirator cum multi-instrumentalist John Moore construct a vast sonic wonderland in which [Sarah] Nixey’s starry-eyed vocals are given free reign.

The band should be proud of Yanqui U.X.O. -- it proves that they're not hopelessly married to the fine-print details of their formula, and that they can still wring fresh ideas from familiar territory.

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.

The Power Out's most impressive feature is the musicianship and songwriting skill on display.

It is, like all the best pop music, silly, pointless and thoroughly lacking in high-level intellectual discourse. Thank heaven.

All the best songs here seem to launch from the point at which Technique left off; they have the same bounce, the same speed and many of the same hooks (especially in "Bert's Theme", "Kashmere" and "I've Got a Feeling") as that Hook-dominated New Order record.

Bold, adventurous, whimsical and witty, this debut offering from Circulatory System proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that there are still signs of life to be found in the Elephant 6 collective.

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.

Les Savy Fav is quite conscious of what you want, and they keenly deliver the goods on their latest batch of solid tunes.

As ordered as it is wild, as gorgeous as it is gruesome, Lay of the Land is indeed a ballsy record.

Not content to rely on the same old drum machine patterns and tired beats, TRR and I-Sound have concocted a vast sonic brew that blends elements of hip-hop, jazz and techno into a seriously stinging cocktail.

What this strange cast of characters eventually creates is a groovy mish-mash of up/down tempo breaks, hip-pop sound collages and the odd bout of guitar-driven frenzy that, while nearly impossibly to dance to, manages to expose most other DJs as the talentless, not to mention painfully derivative crate-raiders they truly are.

In short, this may not be an album you'll want to listen to every day, but its disproportionate number of "Holy shit!" moments should earn it a spot close to your stereo.

Control stands apart from previous Pedro the Lion releases because its harder material is among its most satisfying.

The music here is never outright parody, and there's evidence that real work went into creating this record -- it isn't a lightweight effort designed to cash in on retro-trendiness.

Fulfilled/Complete has a raw, compelling urgency.

Whereas the band once seemed to dawdle and wander aimlessly through beds of noise, this new tight formation sees hooks, standard song structures and recognizable melodies.

If you've heard the group's last few albums, Milk Man won't seem like a notable refinement or a grand statement of purpose; they're just breaking the pop song mold, over and over again, and doing consistently inventive things with the fragments.

The New Year's sound is fraught with contradictions, soft melodies and pretty strumming stretched over tricky rhythms and acerbic lyrics.

They sound poppy and upbeat and melancholy all at once.

Its ten tracks wend their way through a forest of oblique metaphors, kaleidoscopically fractured images and alt-country instrumentation, their path lit only by the wounding fragility of Orth's voice.

An album of didactic power and limitless ambition.

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

Revolutions is pretty breathtaking.

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

Zoomer has a warmth and spirit that makes the work endearing as actual songs rather than chunks of carefully manipulated data.

IATWTC do '80s-influenced dance music the way '80s dance music artists wish they could have.

It pulls from a grab bag of influences, from Bob Dylan to Broadway, The Who to honky-tonk, and tosses them around with apparent abandon. In spite of this (or maybe because of it), The FFs spin all of this into a sound that's consistent, yet almost magically unique.

Kids, parents and nerdy long-time fans alike can take something out of this.

While the music behind the lyrics doesn't exactly bristle with innovation, it's the best blend of acoustic and electronic instruments I've heard.

Despite the obviously electronic origins of most of the sounds, there are clearly thinking, imagining humans behind the scenes; this is about as un-clinical as electronic music gets.

A modern-rock radio record for folks with a few more brain cells to rub together than the Andrew WK set.

While the band's sound isn't exactly the most original noise out there, they deliver with such impassioned conviction that you'll be more than willing to forget a few "sound alike" misgivings.

Coxon's effortless cool comes to the fore, imbuing each song with a wiry, infectious energy.

While Educated Guess may not be her best album to date (a near impossible-to-achieve expectation for an artist 21 albums in), it marks yet another transformation of her talents.

The album consistently takes control of your emotions.

If the Throwing Muses are not still at the top of their game, they are very, very close.

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.

Darnielle's willingness to throw himself so completely into collaboration is what makes this effort such a triumph.

Winds Take No Shape's compositions are not as varied as their debut, but it's a more atmospheric, cohesive and significant work because of it.

Like Hot Hot Heat with a less annoying singer, The Fever offer a glimpse of everything that's good about dance-punk.

At times strong, at other times vulnerable, and invariably honest, Donelly both affirms and fulfills the promise of her songwriting talent with Beauty Sleep.

For all the divergent styles and blatant hero-worshipping to be found on High Society, the group never sounds derivative or misguided -- a rare feat, proving that despite numerous comparisons, Enon have indeed carved out their own fractured and unique musical identity.

A fascinatingly cinematic, image-laden and claustrophobic album that feels like the someone else's nightmare.

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.

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.

Homesongs is his minor key playground, filled with masterpieces in the making. All you have to do to enjoy them is slow... down...

Their bouncily hummable tunes and tortured lyrics about girls might evoke thoughts of groups like Weezer, but these guys aren't nerd-rock clones.

While it has a few rough patches, the Hartnoll brothers' latest effort proves that they're still at the top of the electronic music heap.

It's definitely nothing like the laid-back experience of listening to him live, but it's his best album yet.

The joy of Lost in Revelry is its balance. It's assured, but freely flaunts its imperfections; it's polished, but clearly revels in its most amateurish moments.

Producer Jim Diamond has distilled the manic energy of one of the world's greatest live bands in Electric Sweat, and if the result is not letter-perfect, it is raw and true and powerful.

No more fancy studios, no more high priced producers; this is truly GBV as nature intended -- reckless, hook-laden and drunk as hell.

While my inclination is to recommend A Feather in the Engine to everyone without reservation, the disc is actually best suited to more advanced listeners -- that is, those of you for whom sing-along pop songs are not a prerequisite for enjoying an album.

A meticulously crafted pop album that's as well suited for curling up on a bleak winter night as it is for driving with the top down on a bright summer day.

Green Imagination succeeds because it rarely seems obvious or disingenuous, even as it indulges in copious quantities of shamelessly retro fun.

It's all so beautifully simple, especially moody acoustic guitar/piano laments like "Fewer Words", that you almost miss how effective the arrangements are -- gorgeous, heartfelt melodies yield odes to a life that's consistently surprising and alive with optimism.

The resultant songs encapsulate the pop-rock aesthetic that made The Strokes' debut so much fun; every tune is tailor-made for dancing.

It's also pleasing to see that Andi Toma and Jan St. Werner want to expand their sound beyond the clicks, pops, squelches, hisses and squiggles that have become their trademark.

The giddy shift towards pop and even traditional dance music structure that Mouse on Mars take here is so irresistibly fun and persuasive that the very thought of loyalists furrowing their brows and crossing their arms is comical.

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

A discernibly West Coast-influenced affair, it's an album of anecdotal moments set to a glorious country-rock backdrop: graciously sun-kissed melodies, vocal harmonies, neat arrangements and refreshing, varied instrumentation.

Upon first listen, it seems easy to say that you've heard this before -- but if you take the time to let it sink in, it is obviously not the same band or sound as Belle and Sebastian.

Yes, this is a funny record, but it's not a comedy record; Har Mar has an acrobatic voice that rivals pretty much any male in R&B today, and he writes some genuinely catchy, sticky melodies that lots of other acts would kill for.

This is a welcome addition to the Giant Sand corpus, and an impressive demonstration of the continuing relevance of the band, more than two decades into its existence.

Magic is liberally scattered throughout the album.

Radian boasts a sound far deeper and richer than most of their push-button contemporaries.

Flashes of the energy and precision JOA exhibit in the live forum are, arguably for the first time, perfectly realized here.

The Emotional Rescue LP asserts the fact that the band not only has exceptional songwriting talent, but has finally concocted a potent mixture of poppy melodies to complement their core of tranquil notes and minimalist orchestrations.

Summer Make Good blurs the distinctions of digital and analog to the point of opening new categories.

While they consistently get dismissed as "generic indie rock" by folks who lack the patience to seriously dig into their oeuvre, they are as multi-layered and subtle a band as you'll find.

Like waking up one morning to discover you suddenly like coffee, this is one of those albums that feels natural; the discord and the overwrought weepiness, the experimentalism and the simplicity -- everything works. It fits.

Write good songs. Record them simply. Don't preach. There's a concept that works.

Rarely has rampant misogyny and self-hype sounded as fantastic as this.

It's as enlightened and as interesting as Ministry has been in years.

City is a noticeably fleshier beast than its predecessor; the album is lush and sophisticated with hooks aplenty.

McNeely and Matz have found their calling and left a lasting impression with this fierce yet fragile album.

The disc's effectiveness comes from the subtlety of the theme as much as its pervasiveness.

This is utterly original, honest, intelligent music that sounds like nothing you'll hear elsewhere. It's not an easy listen, but it's well worth the time it takes to get to know it.

While the disc's increased emphasis on electronic textures, balanced songwriting and non-linear production is a welcome breath of fresh air, it lends itself to a feeling of sameness that becomes increasingly apparent as the record progresses.

The Ladybug Transistor's relative lack of instrumental bravado suggests renewed confidence; the group doesn't make an obvious attempt to hook us with atmosphere or instrumental stunts, because the album already has enough going on to keep us listening.

There's still plenty of grating screaming and yelling on From the Desk of Mr. Lady, underscored by a strong punk ethos.

The unpredictable song structures are fresh and innovative, too, twisting off in unexpected directions mere seconds before you can remember what they remind you of.

Geogaddi isn't a classic.... Disappointing, however, it is not.

The last thing you'd expect from a roster of 27 is breathing room, but Son of Evil Reindeer is full of it; I've found a lot of unexpected touches in the short time I've had the disc.

The Real New Fall LP is as solid and interesting as anything the group has released in the last ten years.

The songs are simpler, livelier, a little more direct and a lot more hummable.

There's a little something for everybody hidden within this mysterious box.

This time out, Moby manages to establish himself not only as a talented multi-instrumentalist and genre-jumper, but as someone who can write interesting songs in a variety of genres -- a point he's missed in the past.

Although much of the album sounds amateurish, and sometimes painfully so, the Unicorns regularly remind us that it's all shtick.

This is one tight little record.

You won't be sure whether you blacked out from a seizure, gave birth to twins or simply had one of the best musical experiences of your life.

Where Belle and Sebastian alienate their listeners with emotional detachment and indie superiority, Memphis's songs leave the posing and the cuteness at the door; they are accessible and honest.

Devoid of obvious weak points, Lost In Space sounds sad without ever becoming schmaltzy.

Stereo/Mono is less polished than Westerberg's other solo efforts, but the song quality is consistent.

Before the Poison is a wonderful disc, the sound of a well-established artist continuing to grow and explore.

She Loves You's real triumph is the fact that it sounds like a Twilight Singers record first and a covers collection second.

The melodies are hauntingly memorable; the band is smart enough to add just enough supporting touches to augment and support, without ever threatening to overwhelm.

Key ultimately demands direct attention; while some songs seem to call out for the openness of a long car ride, this is a headphone masterpiece.

Kinsella and his crew finally seem to have found a way of expressing themselves that doesn't feel introverted and exclusive.

Sounds like it's coming from bluesmasters who've lived twice as long and seen three times as much.

Our Endless Numbered Days won't knock you off your seat with ribald lyrics or rambunctious riffs, but its confident, measured chords and precise tones will hold your attention long after they've grabbed it.

Abattoir/Orpheus is not as immediate as some of Cave's previous triumphs, but you'll take pleasure in unearthing new sentiments and innuendo within its walls.

Dizzee's voice still sounds like a helium-inflected hiccup, and the beats still sound like they were recorded directly from a Nintendo, if not an Atari.

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.

To their considerable credit, TVoTR don't run out of innovation before they run out of songs, so even "Wear You Out"'s final minutes, during which a flute, a sax and various oscillating tones bang away at each other, are inventive and enticing.

More sonically adventurous than its mainstream look suggests.

[Congleton's] studio wizardry shows in the bolder array of sounds he's plundered and the crispness with which they're delivered, while his improved songwriting shines through in bolder arrangements and a tighter instrumental focus.

Never, Never, Land not only escapes the expectations and pitfalls that dogged Psyence Fiction, but succeeds on a new set of strengths.

Though it sounds strange at first, Skinner's delivery is so absorbing that the accent issue will be an afterthought before opener "Turn the Page" has ended.

Real Gone may not rock your world in the way that 2002's musical one-two punch of Blood Money and Alice did, but you'll still be glad to hear it.

Intentionally or not, it creates a sort of natural, autumnal closure -- like a gorgeous, lazy, completely uncommitted fall afternoon delivered in three- to five-minute slices.

While not as thrillingly consistent as its predecessor, Man Mountain is another beautiful synthesis of man-made ingenuity and machine-generated textures.

Nothing's Lost is slick and rich, packed with melody and rhythm.

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.

A short but vibrant live album... Tigers captures the boisterous good cheer of Case's live show, proving once and for all that there's more to her music than dead bodies, wounded relationships and creepy, palpable stillness.

Tyrannosaurus Hives has hit garage rock's heart like a huge syringe of adrenaline, and even if it doesn't awaken the hibernating beast, its furious tempest is a blinding final gasp for a genre that has repeatedly rewarded mediocrity.

Sung Tongs resembles the freakiest of '60s psyche, the outward fringes of Elephant Six-dom, the craziest excesses of Tom Ze -- yet it is a warm, deeply human work that winds its way into your heart.

Listening to Funeral takes a bit of patience. With most of the songs, the payoff doesn't come right away; in some cases, it sneaks up on you after several spins.

Their music is interesting, intelligent and exciting, and it'll make you smile really, really big.

It's quite a treat to hear the duo create such refreshingly original music with rock's "standard" instruments.

Buy Turn On the Bright Lights. It's great. You'll enjoy it. But don't mistake the next best thing for the Next Big Thing. Interpol still have a lot of proving to do.

The beats aren't as strong here as they were on his debut, so Skinner lives and dies by his delivery. It's a clear sign of his ability that even in the album opener, when the tempo is strange and the backing track is kind of dull, you feel compelled to listen because you want to know what he's saying.

Despite his gray hairs, Moz's approach to You Are the Quarry is youthful and energetic -- perhaps even punk.

Power is only a slight variation on its predecessors, yet sounds more vibrant and alive than almost anything in the band's canon.

A sensitive, fully mature contribution to the pop music lexicon, it proves that, like the rare child actor who actually works well into adulthood, The Cardigans have weathered a difficult transition.

Overall, the album is more centered and collaborative and celebratory than anything Banhart has done before.

The result is so refreshing original, it not only cements Gold Chains' position as one of today's best and brightest indie-tech gurus; it also says, coolly and effortlessly, that genre boundaries are "no big thang".

For all the divergent stylistic ground Wood/Water covers, nothing seems forced, signaling that the changes in the group's sound have come on their own terms and are not simply change for change's sake.

Lacking the full-on roar of Motor City compatriots like the White Stripes and the Go, the 'Wings employ a more classic pop-oriented approach to their songcraft, resulting in songs that replace the aforementioned groups' immediacy and vigor with simple restraint and cultivated sophistication.

Most of Loewenstein's work here simply puts a happier spin on Sub Pop's raw, rough-edged rock formula -- the sort of thing Kurt Cobain might have written if Prozac was free.

With a musical attack this meticulous and charged, I know I'd enjoy The Ex even if I was their target...

Rarely has the indulgence of rock ‘n roll dreams sounded this concise.

Combining the acoustic and electronic worlds of pop, Faux Mouvement plays like a moody soundtrack for film noir.

White Hot Peach displays a precise and inventive nature that has a lot in common with Guided By Voices' Do the Collapse.

A truly solid album.

It's hard to put into words exactly what makes this album so appealing. The mindlessness of it all is a major selling point.

If Kurt Cobain had been popular in high school, Ronald Reagan had funneled billions of dollars into improving America's inner cities and the Chemical Brothers had found fulfilling positions in video rental management, all albums might sound like 604.

What’s Next to the Moon is Kozelek achieving the impossible; he has actually managed to make AC/DC sound romantic.

The sounds that pour forth from the teamwork of David Eugene Edwards, Jean-Yves Tola and co. echo another time so completely, that at times you might think these sounds were recovered, rather than newly created.

All of these songs sound like her -- from any era or any album of her career. Her presence is too recognizable to be disguised by production or gimmickry.

It's a long, occasionally ponderous listen... but it's an impressive and rewarding journey that moves between prog, space-rock and subdural transmissions in ancient alien tongues.

It took ages to arrive, but LCD Soundsystem isn't the album you've been waiting for -- it's far, far better.

Unabashedly mellow and reflective, Burn the Maps may not hook mainstream music fans who've been conditioned to expect a tidily rhyming chorus ever thirty seconds.

The album certainly isn't a waste of your money if you aren't already a fan. This is one band that clearly doesn't save their lesser material for obscure release. Lost Marbles and Exploding Evidence functions very, very well as a weird little LP.

Admittedly, not all of Cloud's most ambitious tracks work ou.... But in the end, it's Garnier's ambition, combined with his talent and professionalism, that make this an album worth seeking out.

Heart Like A River is a full-throated and diverse expression of the songwriting talents of Daniel Littleton and Elizabeth Mitchell, though bassist Karla Schickele's two contributions are nothing to sneeze at, either.

If you skip the first track and stick mostly to the first two-thirds of the record, A Question of Temperature ranks as one of the most enjoyable albums of this still-young year.

At first listen, it's thrilling, but not quite the statement we were made to believe would shift the world's axis by its very existence. The best thing to do is clear your mind of hype and expectations, and listen to this record -- this fun, addictive, thoroughly entertaining record -- again and again.

They've traded amped-up aggression for seething sexuality without losing any of their muscular bite.

Vocalists Torquil Campbell and Amy Millan connect with their audience with the breathy ease of scenester storytellers, sketching out their tales in economical but well-chosen strokes, and the tunes behind them, invariably elegant, are often deceptively cheeerful.

Picaresque is dense and complicated, but only rarely threatens to tip under its own weight.

Let Us Never Speak of It Again is the sticky, panting, sexually deviant album Louden Up Now should have been.

One of the most playful end-of-the-world concept albums ever created.

At nearly two hours long, Church Gone Wild/Chirpin Hard is anything but a precise masterstroke. It is, however, a flawed, majestic account of what can happen when a band splits down the middle to compose on their own terms, with no artistic differences and no coalescing of ideals.

It is unsettling, starkly beautiful, intricate and minimalist all at once, and if it lacks the immediate impact of Fugazi, its aura lingers long after it's over.

These songs are reminders of a time when death wasn't a distant bogeyman but a mundane reality of everyday life. Alasdair Roberts's versions are somewhat modernized, but utterly immediate.