It's evident that the band's traditionally simple sound has been augmented with greater influences and a desire to overstuff, miraculously without overkill.

Aww, our little freak is all grown up.

It shimmers and sulks, adding a rich dimension to the group's already delicious sound.

This album is alive.

[A] psychedelic rap reality worth wigging to.

Rogue Wave has reinvented itself with soft-edged, yet masculine, music that's far from fluffy.

Birds Make Good Neighbors is autumn wrapped up in cashmere: rich, comfortable, welcome.

The Life Pursuit is certainly nothing new in the pop lexicon, but Murdoch's keen observational eye gives these songs vivid life.

Ten tracks equal one very explicit diary entry of lust – for life, as much as intimacy – nearly every single line worthy of another song cycle.

T.I.'s Southern drawl bends pedestrian phrases into irresistible melodies hotter than the summer streets to come.

It's music-making for the pure joy of it, and that delight overflows in a manner that's truly rare.

The lengths of hiss and silence can be unnerving, especially when his ethereal prose floats into a void. Yet when the swells come and Walker breaks the waves, it's a thing of absolute beauty, and the black turns neon.

Like That gives new meaning to the word "alive."

Avalanche,... is all over the place musically but never loses the singer-songwriter's jaw-dropping vision.

Like Blondie circa 1981, Allen breathes needed fresh air into the game.

Solid and gaseous, dark and light in all the right places, this is the Comets' brightest so far.

One of his most accomplished recordings.

Not since the maniac thrash of 1986's genre-eclipsing Reign in Blood have these SoCal wastrels managed music that sounds so frighteningly out of control and yet wholly, idealistically pure of intent.

Ben Kweller is breezy and buoyant, hallmarks of grand pop albums. And this is indeed a grand pop album.

A haunting disc that lingers long after the laser dies.

The Crane Wife could be the best Robyn Hitchcock album made in several years; the lyrical marriage of whimsy and death bear the fruits of a master class led by the former Soft Boy.

How a band from such an incestuous scene produced an album with such keen pop instincts that nonetheless stops well short of ripping anyone, local or national, off continues to boggle the mind.

A near-perfect sonic snapshot of London under Blair's blowback blitz.

If Richard Swift isn't on your radar yet, time to adjust the antenna.

We Were Dead sounds like Modest Mouse, only better.

Thirty-six minutes of a detailed, agonizing shot in the arm, a veritable buffet of musical stylings, each song bettering the one before, from a band that just as easily could've released a new version of "Gimme Fiction."

Shinsian popsters rejoice. Here's another dreamsicle caked with sugar sugar.

Chicagoan West innovatively samples Elton John ('Good Morning'), imports Coldplay's Chris Martin for the 'Homecoming' hook, and plays to Young Jeezy's ad-libbing ability on 'Can't Tell Me Nothing.' Lyrically, West sticks to his "I'm so self-conscious" tip, but unlike 50, he knows his rhyme schemes.