It's like a late-aughts hipster cocktail.

When it's not ripping off Panic, Love Drunk seems to be catering to other mainstream audiences and the hipster crowd.... But once you get past all that, you'll find a few solid pop-rock tunes here.

When listening to Hippies, it's difficult to forget that Harlem have professed their love for Nirvana, and still more difficult to suppress the urge to tell them to turn down that bass already.

Respectable, serious, accomplished and... no fun.

Although the occasional inspired lyrical hook pokes through, all too often the need to match the amped-up production leads to generic blah in the words department.

Gemini's theater-rock is no pain to listen to, but true drama queens will want to get their fix elsewhere.

Everything about Free Dimensional is cheesy--from the mousey bedroom beats to the predictable synth lines to O'Regan's (hard) Soft Cell vocal delivery to the awkward, bumbling raps. Regardless, several songs are stunning.

Like labelmates Passion Pit, Freelance Whales trick out their wistful, post–Postal Service electro-pop with just enough record-nerd insularity to fend off cred-endangering Justin Bieber fans.

Metals packs more sonic punch than its 2007 predecessor, but the problem here is not with recording quality--it's libido.

It's kind of cool, kind of confusing, and kind of boring.

Costello’s flubbed lines are left intact and the album’s mixes can be wildly uneven, but missed perfections make for a pretty riveting whole.

Minimalist guitar work (it brings to mind the tonic-based, repetitive structures of later Don Caballero), tape-distressed drums, and banged metal work together to reduce the album's throwback feel and give an edge to the sing-alongs. Too often, however, the band either let these sounds overwhelm the songs or cobble them into throw-away vignettes that interrupt the otherwise drifting cadences.

Their new project has much of the same visceral energy of their old gig, but Mi Ami present it in a much more harmonious, affirming manner.

Hit the Waves is so heartfelt as a pastiche of '80s alternative music that it almost muscles its way into being brilliant.

As a wholly serious project, Warp Riders is self-indulgent and only passable.

Aside from the highlights, though, other cuts here fall short of album quality, especially the last three selections, which are paint-by-number displays of chops and over-seriousness.

The Tigers have no trouble doing vivacious and catchy without being cloying, so it's a shame they've shelved that skill.

Eschewing the live-in-the-studio roughness of 2004’s On My Way, he returns to the fuller production of his solo debut, 2002’s Sha Sha.

Joe is one of the last remaining beasts from the East, and as he demonstrates on the DJ Premier ringer "I'm Gone" and "At Last Supremacy" with Busta, he sounds better in his back yard than he does in trying to appease pedestrians with unnecessary Wayne and Jeezy cameos.

From moment to moment, Never's oddball quality can be a blessing, but it becomes more of a curse when the moment passes and there's little besides disparate pieces to hold onto.

[Their] strange blend of influences can be fascinating... but Instinct - clocking in at a bloated 14 tracks and 56 total minutes - runs out of gas way before reaching the finish line.

The result may surprise some just looking to get lost in Glowstick Land: sure, there are plenty of K-hole zone-outs, but just as often Zimmerman puts songcraft and danceability ahead of the usual sci-fi-filter tricks.

Just an okay record.

The disc is an appropriate soundtrack for springtime and new beginnings, and this Sigur Ros–lite of a solo project does carry Jonsi across the equinox without his bandmates-turned-family-men. But it sounds more like the work of a chick hatching than a free bird.

Dr Dee's well-defined boundaries mean it lacks the sense of adventure found in previous efforts, but Albarn deserves kudos for such artistic fearlessness.

His melodies, whether delivered in an affected falsetto (closer to Animal Collective than the Beach Boys) or a grumpy baritone, are simple and hummable to a fault--without the energy of the distorted cassette recording, I have a feeling the songs would be a bit too cloying.

The disc largely lacks the memorable song- writing Merritt is known for, and that deficit is only compounded by the misguided production.

Fans will welcome the grotesquely titled 'Ultra Vomit Craze' and 'Gag Shack,' reveling in subtle mood shifts found amid the ferocious racket. Skeptics and nay-sayers will remain unconvinced of the genre's ability to move beyond bratty outbursts.