Sounds hollow and uninspired.

Reign of Terror is way awesomer [than Treats].

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

They are a hell of a band if you're looking for catchy rock with occasional sparks of brilliance.

It's a killer.

The mood ... is decidedly bleak- populated by disillusioned lovers and working class escapists, the lyrics splitting at the seams with dark religious imagery.

Who's Feeling Young Now? strikes a perfect balance between flash and form, running blistered fingers on otherwise scholarly templates.

It'll inevitably be pigeonholed as post-house or something equally asinine, but for now, it exists without definition, and for that we can be grateful.

Tennis are still cute as a button, but now they have songs to go along with the smiles.

For the most part, Ten$ion is a letdown in its utter normalcy.

The first comeback album in history by an iconic rock act that stands up against anything else on the shelves today.... This is the mighty Van Halen at their best.

Onwards is, at its heart, just one big suicide tease, which is what makes it so fantastic.

Be the Void might be the band's least accessible offering yet, but it's certainly their bravest--and given some breathing room, it might just prove their most rewarding.

Live instrumentation and organic jams keep it all from sounding très moderne, and though it touches upon some typical Air tropes (free-floating whispery shimmers, B-movie space sounds gone glitzy) the overall loosey-goosey methodology is refreshing.

Sometimes Out of Frequency wavers into old-school television-theme-song territory, like a ramped-up take on M Squad or some bad dating show at the turn of the '80s.

It's a bummer that Visions ended up as a fever dream of a record: unnecessarily oblique, listlessly long (48 minutes!), and painfully shapeless.

The spotlight stays fixed on his darkly soothing intonations throughout, keeping the smoky, low-key aesthetic unvarying despite some stylistic and instrumental adventurousness.

This barrage of relentless noise and pummeling rhythms, when coupled with Garden Window's amorphous arrangements, can make the album claustrophobic, monotonous, and overwhelming. But the record's redeemed by its range.

The key is confidence. Moments that would be cringe-inducing if delivered by the less intrepid come across as triumphant.

Regardless of their ability to stand out in a crowd, they write tunes sharper than a thumbtack, with words that ramble around in fascinating stream-of-consciousness webs.

The majority of the songs aren't much more than bare bones, with sparse piano and spacious, airy guitars, but it's the way the women work together so naturally that promises more than a one-off experiment.

No bad songs, but any other record they've made is better.

Sinners Never Sleep is a transitional album, though such efforts rarely bode as well for the future as this does.

Attack on Memory is simultaneously abrasive and sentimental; it's a self-deprecating soundtrack for a new generation of adolescent loneliness.

Veteran rock legend Alan Moulder and eclectic electro-guy Dan Carey make sure Something sounds as huge as its aspirations, bringing an impeccably massive sheen to every note.

A triumphant sequel.

Their wail-and-bash raison d'etre continues to bring more intense, absurd listening pleasure than any other noise band on the planet.

Just an okay record.

The indie-leaning direction of the album suggests that the Canadian singer-songwriter is coming into her own.

Future This is ultimately more melodic than its laborious predecessor. But around the "ballads" in the second half, you start longing for a point.

It works, sometimes.

Factory doesn't entirely squander the goodwill built up by their recent excellent reunion tour, but it's not significantly better than the standard Pollard solo album of the last decade.

These 11 new songs represent some of the strongest material of their career.

As precious as your grandma's finest china (and 10 times prettier), All Will Prosper nearly dissolves into shapeless clouds by album's end. But by then you've already dissolved into it.

They don't make bands like this anymore.

Unavoidable comparisons to the Icelandic princess and her early years aside, Both Ways Open Jaws sounds familiar while breaking new ground.

This is the same ol' Korn you've loved or hated (or felt indifferently toward) since you first saw that slo-mo bullet in the "Freak on a Leash" video, except with de-tuned guitars swapped for garish, beefy synths.

Black Thought comes as brutish as ever, and their now-standard cast of collaborators (P.O.R.N. and Dice Raw) sound more at ease over these lanky beats than they did on more combustible previous efforts.

Although only adequate run-throughs of the studio-album tracks, Stage Whispers' live performances do underscore a continuity between songs from both 5:55 and IRM that otherwise wasn't apparent. Stage Whispers' new offerings, on the other hand, are consistently interesting.

That patented caterwaul is in fine form.

The songs justify further replay and analysis just because the group knows how to deliver consistently smart, compelling imagery.

Good News is the sound of a gifted writer declaring his humanity in all its filthy, fucked-up glory.

[It delivers] 55 minutes of pit-in-your-gut tension from two of bass music's foremost masterminds.

The album itself--melodically inventive, melodramatic, and incredibly rocking--sounds about the same as it did when it was first reissued in the '90s.

Keys and Codes, which inverts the title of Death Cab's last record, feels slapped together, which is disappointing when you consider the array of talent present.

They were unadulterated shredders, too, as Capitol's extensive reissues of Siamese Dream (1993) and its predecessor, Gish (1991), remind us in bountiful fashion.

They were unadulterated shredders, too, as Capitol's extensive reissues of Siamese Dream (1993) and its predecessor, Gish (1991), remind us in bountiful fashion.

The trick to El Camino is how steady it runs; whereas past left turns have been distractions, this is what happens when the pedal is floored.

Throw on those headphones and head heavenward.

Albarn's work here with visual director Jamie Hewlett and a rotating cast of collaborators--Dan the Automator, Danger Mouse, Lou Reed, Snoop, etc.--is as remarkable as their 2001 debut selling six million records.

Every so often a bright, nerdy, nasal-voiced and infallibly catchy male songwriter appears to less critical notice than he deserves for his remarkably concrete lyrics and thoughtful melodies.

The Stones mined its [sessions] results for years to come, creating little else of value otherwise and entering the nostalgia-act phase of their career, effectively making Some Girls the last gasp of credible new music by the self-proclaimed World's Greatest Rock and Roll Band.

You're still way better off listening to the studio version.

It's Bummer Time, and in 2011 there is no better soundtrack for banging your head to oblivion.

There's so much going on, all of it so intricately plotted and clean, that you're left to wonder: by the time the rest of the electronic community catches up, what will Sepalcure be onto next?

Their stuttering, airy synths would serve as an appropriate soundtrack to a nightclub in Heaven.

Though Eno is adequate, moments where he takes over the collaboration (such as on "West Bay" and "Watch a Single Swallow . . . ") are too under-nourished and ponderous to suggest that he's giving us something new.

Part of Caveman's appeal, other than having the coolest debut album title in recent memory (a respelling of the moniker of the '80s WWF superstar), is making the complicated simple.

Musically, the septet are as colorful as ever, only more resonant and with fewer xylophones--plus a newfound emphasis on rhythmic muscle.

Part Lies, Part Heart, Part Truth, Part Garbage fails by making the obvious choice at every turn.

True to its title, Violence Begets Violence is the Philly powerhouse's most aggressive effort yet, a morally polluted playground that no sane unarmed person should dare to frolic in.

So Outta Reach isn't so strong that I'd recommend it above its predecessor [Smoke Ring for My Halo], but its songs are very much cut from the same cloth.

Here Mega Dave isn't even that annoying. Perhaps it's because the music is so strong, or maybe it's that he's giving exactly what you expect and doesn't try to be anything else.

Yet even when relying less on atmospheric synths and playing with a full-band set up ("The Shakes"), Parallax misses early rock's tautness and grit.

Only the nuttiest of fans will find any new details (the more-present backing vocals on Agaetis Byrjun stunner "Svefn-g-englar," or the beefed-up church organ swirl in "Ny Batteri"), even if the band's live majesty is captured in full-force.

Harding sounds invigorated and in great humor.

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

For a while, it's promising: "Only If for a Night" pits Welch's soulful-and-strange vocal gymnastics against a firecracker beat and a gang of chorus chanters. But elsewhere, Ceremonials feels drained of personality.

One must reconcile with the absurd fact that Lulu exists before realizing how genuinely brilliant it is--when it's working.

This is a mixed bag.

Bad as Me, his first album of new material in seven years, is a tour de force of wise ol' swagger and new-century blues.

Justice never lose sight of the big picture, aiming to blow your minds and sub-woofers with equal determination.

For now, these four remaining songs from their indie days are perfectly competent, reminiscent of the Pixies, and hard to remember even though they're perfectly tuneful.

Rapprocher does what last year's (s)excellent debut EP Journal of Ardency did so well, letting Harper be the pretty face of electronic compositions that, with her aid, become liberating, confident, oozing with inviting overtones.

This New Jersey quartet is one well-oiled muscle, and they flex it to hypnotic effect for 40-plus minutes.

Danilova has crafted perhaps the year's most emphatically romantic record--defiant, loyal, indomitable.

As always, Apathy wins on account of the metaphors he spatters across tracks like so much blood, sweat, and tears.

In the M83 universe, emotion comes before logic, and for all 72 fascinating minutes, Gonzalez has you in the palm of his sweaty hand.

They might have lost a little bit of character, but thankfully Big Troubles remain reliable writers of catchy pop songs.

High Places v. Mankind, took just criticism for being a run-of-the-mill indie record with no charisma, Original Colors is a more than respectable rebound.

On the whole, Forever is downcast, introspective, and melodic.

There is no mistaking, Parade is Keene at his best.

It's a grower--don't go in without some time to invest, or the desire to listen multiple times and peel apart these lavishly constructed layers.

Shadow's densest and longest work at first sounds like an overstylized, underwritten retread with lots of superfluous cuts sporting names like "Tedium." But it eventually rewards hard listening.

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

The 10-minute penultimate track "Tumtum," in particular, is a tiny masterpiece of mood, stamina, and insistent rhythm, built sparingly on overlapping percussion and waves of sound. More of this kind of thing is what will squeak Boom Bip farther from the then and the now, and closer to what comes afterward.

Ashes & Fire is as close as it gets to the brilliance of his first post-Whiskeytown offering, Heartbreaker.

The Devil's Rain is chock full of good, campy horror business.

Unlike liars, fakers, and bullshit artists, he backs up his name and claim with anecdotal gems aplenty.

Balam Acab have crafted a fully fleshed-out record, with enticing dimension and its own subtle meanings.

The Whole Love feels like a truly audacious studio record, jam-packed with instruments, ideas, and the sort of restless creativity that marked 2002's game-changer, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Dee Dee delivers an album that sounds like Chrissie Hynde backed by Hüsker Dü. Only in Dreams could make you wonder what other indie bands would jump up and thrive if only they had steamroller production.

Langford and co-vocalist Sally Timms lead listeners through tales of country, God, and man with a weather-beaten grace that would make Nick Cave fans squeal.

It's one of 2011's finest pop records: 10 tracks of dreamy, weirdo hi-fi pop that grooves, sparkles, and hums with clipped beats and smooth drums.

At times, the free-association gets to be a bit much, but it's all held afloat by trampoline beats from a stud cast that includes the likes of Diplo and El-P, all channeling Magoo-era Timbaland, Kelis-era Neptunes, and Hov-era Panjabi MC.

Hysterical is built for the long haul, and it appears, after a patch of rocky terrain, that Clap Your Hands are too.

For the most part, Velociraptor! is a stellar representation of K-sabes magnificence and dexterity.

For the most part the band play it straight, delivering a fresh fistful of metal.