He still dabbles in more-chin-stroking fare, but he's able to ground his adventures in enough melody to preserve the album's flow--and your bearings.

So if Thr33 Ringz fails to shock, consider also that it fails to disappoint.

These tricks crop up throughout the album--sly moves familiar to house fans are retrofitted to a pop framework, and the result is an entirely new (and very livable) structure

This could prove strenuous, but the album is more contemplative than didactic--a (k)no(w)here that’s difficult to study but easy to inhabit.

Beyond a couple of guest-vocal spots from fellow Ronson client Lily Allen and an out-of-place rap from English MC Sway, Off with Their Heads covers pretty much the same territory as the Chiefs' first two discs.

Even with a dozen records behind him, Smith, when he puts his mind to it, remains a master at crafting concise masterpieces of bouncy pop majesty.

Give Pink three spins and half a chance and by track five's killer New Order riff, you'll be singing 'Please, Don't Leave Me' back at her.

When it comes to production values, Broken Hymns is a marked improvement from 2005’s self-financed "Head Home." Still, songs kinda meant to evoke the 1930s aren’t necessarily better or worse off with snazzier studio treatment.

GaGa ups the ante in terms of catchy songwriting and sheer high-in-the-club-banging-to-the-beat abandon.

With a clearer eye to the cultures whose stereotypes they’re furthering, the Bells could have made a provocative connection between the European forms they’re comfortable with and any number of traditional Middle Eastern and Indian instruments and forms they’re interested in but not serious about.

This feast isn’t without a good deal of filler.

Saint Dymphna is the sound of a band of psychedelic dabblers finally getting their shit together.

Although driven primarily by Meluch’s intrepid acoustic guitar, Temper is a many-layered affair, an engaging concoction of delicate electronics, birdsongs, and tape experiments that resonate with impossible harmony.

Even though his heavy drug phase seems to be largely over, Borrowed is his "Sgt. Pepper"--not because he’s spelunking far-flung experimental trenches, but because he finally understands that life is larger than his ego (self-depreciating as it was).

In 'Your Big Hands,' she and her pals work up a rowdy roadhouse groove worthy of Car Wheels–era Lucinda Williams. And 'Mexico City' has ringing ’60s-pop guitar twinkles that give her melancholy travelogue a welcome splash of whimsy.

Un Día takes everything the former Argentine TV star used to establish her musical style in the 12 years since she released her first album--her sometimes grainy voice, folk-leaning acoustic guitar, odd sampled sounds, and an impossible degree of looping-- and shows Molina’s music in its weirdest, most mesmerizing, ideal version of itself.

In Ear Park improves on Grizzly Bear’s psychedelic folk æsthetic by both fleshing it out and making it more accessible.

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.

Blending in traditional strings and flutes, singular soulful vocals, trenchant dub pockets, and inventive production flourishes, this is the most powerful contemporary release out of Ethiopia in years.

Even Folds’s knack for a well-placed f-bomb has devolved into a lazy device masquerading as irreverence. His attitude may remain young at heart, but his irony’s over the hill.

Ejstes seems more concerned with texture and feel than with hooks. Translation: it all sounds better once you’re stoned.

This is DiFranco’s most sophisticated album, a musical convergence of her best qualities: warm singing, graceful writing, experimentation.

Koushik finally attempts to transcend his impeccable record collection.

Eschewing fleshed-out pop maps in favor of shiny fragments works oddly well for this duo, especially given the breadth and depth of the subject matter.

Eclecticism like this can be a drag when it’s forced or disingenuous, but Friendly Fires’ enthusiasm is disarming.

Although it’s not a major departure, Dear Science, does have a more open, brighter sound than "Return to Cookie Mountain."

Seaside Rock amounts to a log of underhashed production ideas from the test kitchen.

New Zealand multi-instrumentalist Pip Brown a/k/a Ladyhawke presents us with a treasure trove of found blips, as if the 1980s had been nothing but a gigantic mirror ball to smash and paste back together.

She layers airy, tightly harmonized vocal hooks over sleek synths, strummy guitars, and booming hip-hop beats, and the songs broadcast their emotional content--anxiety, melancholy, resilience--with a straightforwardness you rarely hear outside children’s music. That simplicity doesn’t detract from the ample melodic and textural pleasures, but it does give Down to Earth a limited shelf life.

Of special note is the 10-minute instrumental 'Suicide and Redemption': listening to it, you almost forget that there are supposed to be words in rock songs, since it’s filled with building riffs, escalating volleys of tension and release, and moments of frantic drum abandon from Lars Ulrich that should do a lot to redeem his standing in Modern Drummer’s Drummer of the Year polls.

Knowle West Boy is a survey of Tricky’s sonic versatility--straightforward rock and oppressive, moody atmospherics all have a home here--and it is frequently gorgeous.

The band bring the tang of that elsewhere pop back to Carried to Dust, however, planting big-hook sensibility and the willingness to evolve within its Southwestern mood pieces.

This record is a sequel to 2007’s "The Stage Names," and it shares its predecessor’s concerns: artifice, authenticity, and above all, the sniveling insincerity of hazy-eyed media zombies.

Any initial quaintness complexifies into something richer, more layered.

Besides sounding more like laptoppers Fennesz and Tim Hecker than proto-drone cousins Sunn O))), All the Way even dips into the glorious filter sweeps of trance music, here twisted toward sonic decay rather than utopia.

Brian Wilson and his karaoke-smooth backing band the Wondermints have instead given us something on par with 1970s Beach Boys--kinda bloated, kinda silly, mostly out of date, but with enough earnestness and pop intuition to be so, so, so puerile that hating it would be like hating Raffi.

Elsewhere we get lots of the usual earthquake bass and keening synth arpeggios and staccato horns, and, of course, Jeezy’s hypnotically commanding flow, all of it amounting to one of the hardest mainstream rap albums in years.

Slightly less coherent than his previous stunner, "Awfully Deep," Slime & Reason has tracks intended to fill dance floors and cuts that are more layered, their intricate beats and rhymes better suited to headphone enjoyment.

Featuring actor Rhys Ifans, who's purported to be SFA's original singer from way, way back, the Peth (Welsh for "thing") make what sounds like psychedelic rock recorded in a pub, all claustrophobic and ear-ringingly fantastic, after the pile-up of pints has turned drunkenness into a not-so-silent lucidity.

Motorizer, much of which the band recorded at Dave Grohl’s Studio 606 outside LA, is Motorhead’s first studio album since... well, actually, only since 2006, when they released "Kiss of Death," which sounded pretty much exactly like this one (not to mention the 22 before it).

This is his best since his 2000 collaboration with Eric Clapton, "Riding with the King."

Youth Novels, one-ups the competition by being sillier, funkier, and less comfortable--more “Konichiwa Bitches” than Keren Ann.

Easy review: three tracks, each between 10 and 29 minutes, every moment electric.

Thibodeau’s melodies, which have always been pretty, are now beautiful.

With the help of Moreno, Harland, and bassist Matt Penman, Parks turns the sound of contemporary pop into real jazz--his own.

Although some may find the noisy rambunctiousness and jarring bursts offputting, Hill imbues Straits with an irresistible playfulness, and his talents as a drummer (and a frontman) will leave listeners dumbstruck.

The lyrics are nonsense about grotesque surgeries and a futuristic interface of man and machine; they’re sung with a weariness that suggests that even the singer is fatigued with this kind of thing.

It’s just an Omaha boy playing some good old country pop--for once.

Yet as welcome as it is to have Newman’s acerbic wit back, it remains a singular pleasure to listen to a simple, devastating ballad like 'Losing You,' which is wrapped up in sympathetic strings and absolutely devoid of irony.

Oneida have always been a thick stew of different influences, but usually with a dash of originality to bind it together; Preteen Weaponry never rises above pastiche. Nevertheless, the band’s hypnotic drone sweeps through the album like a swift current — it’s enough to generate anticipation for their future travels.

Gordon isn’t much of a tune man; his melodies rarely take a memorable shape here, and his adenoidal singing turns what he does have into open-mic mush. The lyrics, too, are on a pretty low burn.

Perhaps in the winter this will all seem a lot less charming, but right now, it’s a nice soundtrack for a drive out to the coast or for porch sitting late in the evening.

At first, the minimalist, glitchy grooves sound like a lot of the neo-electro trend these days. But Mason’s off-kilter lyrics and psychedelic sense of melody soon overpower the thrift-store Gary Numan and Depeche pastiches and the trite S&M vibe.

The lyrics run, uh, let’s say straightforward, but Black Kids know as well as any good sentimentalists that delivery is everything; teenage yearning couldn’t hope for a much better vehicle than their pouting power pop.

Breakout is a puzzling mishmash that makes sense only if you read between the lines and see the 15-year-old trapped in a machine that is partly of her own design.

Throughout Love on the Inside, Nettles and Bush trick out their twangy tunes with shiny new-wave guitars, creamy pop harmonies, and robust rock beats.

It's a gorgeous performance that anchors Mothertongue with its strength and solemnity.

For the most part Life Death Love and Freedom makes good on--and somehow makes entertainment of--its sober sense of purpose.

The Greatest Story would be a stronger statement if it werenâ??t for the conflicting cornerstones of conscientious-rapper soapboxing and standard-issue gangsta themes heâ??s laid at its foundation.

The music is neither bastardized nor precious, just a riveting reflection of the ongoing allure and paradox that is the Congo.

Modern Guilt is a hot thing of indefinite course.

The result is some kind of cosmic machine music, reflecting not just a stoner’s world of internalized minimalist headbanging but an entire universe of culture, texture, and possibility.

The results are surprisingly tame, if not un-rocking.

The smart, funny, fanclub chants herein, each as catchy as Willie Mays in the ’54 Fall Classic, are gemlike tributes to the characters who’ve made that diamond shine, from Satchel Paige to Fernando Valenzuela.

Last 2 Walk is a club-banging record, but it’s hard to recommend something so by-the-book.

The rotating cast of vocalists and the Saturday-night spirit of the instrumentation are together more welcoming than anything the DFA has dropped in years.

Here, as on 2005’s "Takk," Sigur Ros have chosen to distill their rapture epics into shorter, more accessible bursts of swelling beauty. Yet this album still offers all the signature touchstones that make the band so deliciously unlike their post-rock contemporaries.

Humor, melody, and weirdness rule, and that makes Ceramic Dog lighter than both Ribot’s Los Cubanos Postizos Afro-Cuban band and his aggro-noise outfit Shrek.

Although the record is on the slight side--there’s simply no replacing the inexorable, existential pushing forward of 'Dallas' or 'Smith & Jones Forever'--Berman still has a knack for catching you off guard with moments of strange beauty.

At Mount Zoomer will give you those same goosebumps you felt when you heard the band’s debut.

It’s a ridiculous album, sure, but take "Defenders of the Faith," replace the Metallion with Nostradamus, double the number of awesome riffs, add the occasional pan flute and symphonic embellishments, and you have the most grandiose metal record likely to be released this year.

Pollard has long been in the business of writing songs, but here he seems invigorated; and for the first time in a long while, his business is mixed with pleasure.

All rappers ride on the claim that they’re the best, but on III Wayne makes his case.

Every song, no matter how familiar, is transformed by one detail or another.

It’s brimming with curious melodies (like the darkly cute skews of the title track), rich poetic detail (as lush as the orange carpet in '16A'), and a truly generous spirit (you can listen to the whole damn thing over and over).

Rook is flush with the hallmarks of Shearwater’s style, from high-wire drama to near-hymnal stillness. Although its songs aren’t as uniformly good as those on 2006’s "Palo Santo."

Singing gets no more graceful than Green’s hot buttered tenor, which he plies here with every micron of grace and soul he can muster. Add the Dap-King Horns (able backers of Sharon Jones and Amy Winehouse) and this is more than a soul album. It’s an album with soul.

No, Virginia ranks with Elvis Costello’s "Taking Liberties" as a B-sides/leftovers album that turns out to be more fun and more revealing than a thought-out official release.

'(Keep Eye On) Others' Gain' and the title track sound similarly hopeful. The gloom is still there on 'You Remind Me of Something' and 'Willow Trees Bend,' but it feels less crushing. There is also more variety to the sonic textures.

It’s a mere change of scenery, then, that separates this from much of the Wedding Present’s canonical work; the scabrous schoolboy humor of their 1987 debut, "George Best," has become the scabrous, middle-aged cynicism of El Rey.

It’s a sonic adventure thanks to Burnett’s current signatures: booming drum kits sans cymbals, knotty guitars, lyrics sung through amplifiers, and an open, airy quality that’s the antithesis of modern rock production.

After a few listens, the entirely synthetic remainder that is Supreme Balloon is not merely a relief but a delight. If anything, the limitation of having no limitations has revealed Matmos as more skilled, stylish, and sculptural here than on any of their past releases--not to mention versatile.

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.

Anyone expecting a return to the slick cinemafunk of ’90s Portishead will be taken aback by Third, but though the album never reaches the eureka moments of old, it’s a welcome step into new territory and a more than satisfying downer dose to set against the onset of sunny days and ice cream.

Rising Down is a grim mirror of a particular time and place, one that will still be worth the look when (if?) things get better somewhere down the line.

VYP nonetheless shows, perhaps by design, a pretty convincing arc of maturation.

The record bursts with energy and purpose, revealing the brilliance that advocates like the Roots’ ?uestlove have long suspected 9th had in him.

Recorded with his working band the Blokes, the album isn’t without its misfires (the obvious 'The Johnny Carcinogenic Show'), but it is Bragg’s most assured statement since hooking up with Wilco a decade ago to give life to lost Woody Guthrie lyrics.

Fans and detractors alike get exactly what they expect with bratty rockers like 'Outta My Head' and 'Rulebreaker,' but things seem to “get real” a bit with a more-introspective (if you can call it that) track like 'Murder (I Get Away With).'

But as a musical concern, the Conchords can’t hold a candle to [Tenacious] D, a shortcoming that’s much more apparent on this homonymous CD than it is on TV.

Unless he goes all Malcolm X on us behind the walls, this solid release will be just a prelude to whatever morbid thoughts Prodigy has to share upon his release.

This is an album steeped in a generation’s worth of nostalgia, but unlike most rehashed coming-of-age exercises, Saturdays = Youth manages, in its own small way, to offer something entirely new.

They don’t always succeed on Walk It Off, in part because producer Dave Fridmann’s oversaturated-in-both-senses-of-the-word indie-psych sound does them no favors in their attempt to establish an identifiable TNT brand.

Even Youngster’s more modest near-ballads, like 'My Year in Lists,' preserve the band’s boisterous style through outlandish lyrics (“You said, ‘Send me stationery to make me horny’/So I always write you letters in multi-colors”) and ecstatic delivery, making twee fare like long-distance relationships or working in a bookstore seem like serious pop paydirt.

What BYOP now lack is the element of surprise that made their debut such a kick; they no longer sound as if they had something to prove, and that drains their music of much of its charm.

His philosophizing is rarely twee, and his fine-oaked voice gives new authority to his pastis-and-mushroom-fueled musings.

Real Emotional Trash, with its long, winding guitar solos, extended jams, and emphasis on shifting psychedelic guitar textures, is as retro an album as Malkmus has ever recorded.

Good Time is old-school in the sense that he’s bypassed Nashville’s army of songwriters to pen all 17 songs himself, and modern in the sense that at least half of the 17 slide by your ears without making much of an impression.