Prefuse 73 is in a rut. And a bad one at that.

It’s hard to imagine The French Kicks making a great album, given their limited changes so far. That doesn’t change the fact that Two Thousand is a very good one.

Easily Strait’s worst album in over a decade.

"Progressive" doesn’t mean clocking in at over seven minutes no matter what. It doesn’t mean hitting every goddamn skin, tom-tom, and cowbell on your drum set. Being "Progressive" doesn’t justify an album cover that looks like a stoner stumbled upon a documentary on Mayan civilization. I’m not sure, but I think "Progressive" is about growth and change.

With Friendly Fire, we get a number of concepts and stabs at self-aware dynamics, but we mostly just see the over-privileged slacker.

Standing out might be the biggest obstacle facing the bulk of Right About Now's 12 tracks. It's significantly shorter than Kweli's best album, Train of Thought, but has far fewer shifts in sound or mood to keep it interesting.

It’s not a real consistent journey, because of the eclectic styles, but the masterful sequencing makes it flow smoothly from track to track.

Carrabba’s keening grandiloquence may have lost some of its most explicitly cathartic qualities, but The Shade of Poison Trees remains his best work in years.

Fanfare aside, even though the naked version is an improvement, Let It Be remains the Beatles’ worst album.

Fans of Verlaine's Television-era storytelling will be disappointed to hear him so simultaneously unchanged and unforthcoming.

While the music remains modest, there are a few moments of gratifying lyrical incision and indecision befitting this being Jones’ first album bereft of covers.

Despite being four years in the making, Traffic and Weather finds Fountains Of Wayne offering more of the same and yet decidedly less, working your nerves to the point where you’ll wonder whether you ever truly liked them in the first place.

Suitcase 2 does exactly what it sets out to do, documenting the incredible breadth of Bob Pollard’s songwriting.

It’s all quite beautiful and inoffensive, and that in itself may be an admirable goal. But what it lacks is the experimental--or at least, improvisatory--bent of Tortoise, as well as lacking a lot of what made the last Brokeback record so great.

Avril is not some brilliant songwriter, and her voice is good, but not amazing, and her ‘tude is a little ridiculous at times. Despite this, she is the most refreshing and exciting girl in pop rock today.

Too many tracks on It’s All Around You don’t quite measure up to the compositional quality or imagination of previous works.

Camper's new work is not only as strong as ever, but also more relevant than ever before.

RUOK? sees Dangers with his abilities at their fullest, but with aspirations in a less interesting direction.

Turn the Light Out scales everything back—the drums, the guitars, the vocals—leaving us with a clean-cut, grown-up Ponys, trying to get comfortable in their own skin when they were just fine in someone else’s.

Not quite the apocalyptic inverse Screamadelica that XTRMNTR was, it’s still a damn site more radical, experimental and dangerous than anything produced by any other mainstream rock band this year.

The problem, of course, is that Shatner knows he’s Shatner now. And so does everyone else. It’s the joke that stops being funny after you hear the premise.

Few songs on the album are as perfect as [the opening] two, but many of them are nonetheless excellent.

The only song worth a second listen is 'Smithereens.'

The Spree remain a vital, relevant artist only for Volkswagen advertising execs and anyone who takes the last five minutes of “Scrubs” episodes too seriously.

A vibrant album that at times sounds like it’s a young band’s first shot at the cherry.

Unfortunately, even when they attempt to paint a serious social commentary, they can’t seem to suppress their sophomoric potty humor.

National Anthem, is monochrome and even somewhat sterile, characteristics often overcome by Whiteman’s increasingly excellent craftsmanship.

Jacket Full of Danger is an unfocused album that lets his own kitschy gags grab him by the ankles.