The altered states of Cameron Stallones' latest Sun Araw effort Ancient Romans are an acquired taste.

There are no distinguishable hooks or chorus lines anywhere on Coming Apart; instead, it’s just Gordon and Nace simultaneously subverting and creating musical forms that will surely polarize listeners who want to “get it” and those who refuse to.

For all of the thought required, the album is still very natural and accessible.

It has stylistic cohesion on its side, even though that’s where it’s at its most derivative, but it’s like an antique firearm--it might look the part, but it’s not much good for shooting.

The surviving Hackneys-bassist/singer Bobby and drummer Dannis-sifted through their early jams, rehearsals and demos for this ragged set of odds and ends.

For every minute-long section of pinwheeling brilliance, there is some expository musical element that keeps us from getting at the core of what makes the group work so well. [#20, p.99]

Will Maas be forever obsessed with the good–evil dichotomy? The answer’s in their moniker--and their monitors.

The band proves once more that you can't get by on just clever quips and happy-go-lucky hooks. It's too bad, because these catchy compositions would be worth replaying if only they had more substance.

Get Color may not be as revelatory as its predeccessors, but its slight merits gradually ooze into the wounds it so fiendishly creates. [Fall 2009, p. 102]

Not as good as their first.

While We're New Here is spooky, it's more chill-out mix than futuristic minimal-rave, and comes as a less interesting culture-clash than, say, The Dirtbombs doing covers of Detroit techno songs.

The traditional folk-rock methods begin to falter as the album wears on, leaving Mason's stirring tales of troubles and joys feeling rather one-dimensional. [#24, p.98]

Woodland tunes are not rare and only a few tracks here get the heart racing and stave off a bad case of bradycardia.

Personal Life comes across dark, lost, and-shockingly for The Thermals-boring. At least Don and Betty Draper shared a bed for a little while.

[Class Clown is] like all GBV releases, a mishmash of melodic, A-side-worthy compositions and half-formed snippets.

With no standout tracks, Reptilians just becomes 40 minutes of innocuous, digital background music that's been done before.

The result is a seamless yet stark poeticism that best represents MSHVB's overcast outlook on the world below.

The greatest 1996 era melodic rock since... 1996. [#22, p.98]

Nick Weiss and Logan Takahashi sadly lack their forefathers' mastery for emotionalizing machine-made sound.

From the Midlands to the Midwest, the mediocre couldn't be more on fire.

Funstyle's what would happen if M.I.A. joined a musical sequence on Saved by the Bell.

This debut could've, should've and would've been more appropriate as a moody summer release for trips with the car windows down, but instead we're forced to keep 'em up as winter nags at our sleeves. [Holiday 2008, p.100]

Overall, Forfeit/Fortune feels too much like a collection of songs that were thrown together without thought or directoion. [Fall 2008, p.99]

It's shame, however, that the goofy aspects of the album distract from its sonic frame, as Wiliams is not only a talented producer but also has a keen ability to weave masterful pop instrumentation. [Winter 2007, p.94]

Six Cups of Rebel isn't bad, but it is heavy-handed--and nowhere near his strongest.

The 29-member jonkoping, Sweden, collective opts for a darker and altogether less interesting vernacular. [Fall 2008, p.92]

This one settles for regrettably generic high-plains fiddle and wistful sighs of pedel-steel guitar. [Summer 2009, p.94]

Some kind of Californian 5th Dimension/Phil Spector hybrid. All apologies, guys, but it comes off about as genuine as Phil Spector's current legal defense. [#11, p.94]

Blessed certainly isn't a curse, but it doesn't exactly leave you feeling a higher power, either.

In Our Nature is a compelling but not fascinating portrait of an artist at ease in his element.

While Pleasure and C.U.T.S. evoke the nature of the dream, Angel, obsessive and occasionally trite, tends to tell rather than show.

Complete hit-or-miss studio play. [#8, p.104]

Mastodon's most accessible album to date finds the ATL-iens as unfocused as ever--and out of gas.

It's somewhere between impressive and impressionistic how Glover inhabits each style, but pit between street chaff and crooner cheese, between respect and restless imitation, one can't help but wonder where all of Glover's talent is headed.

While there's magic in Darnielle's always-blissful eye for detail--takes the kaleidoscopic, blood-red sun on 'San Bernadino'--far too often the album works up a head of steam only to wander into unflattering territory. [Winter 2008, p.95]

Ranaldo and his band are unparalleled musicians but have fallen prey to a disaster that normally besets younger bands--a great sound and nothing said.

Where's the NoDoz? Chillwave may have officially become too chill, bros.

You want to praise them for their attempts to define a unique voice, but a unique voice isn't necessarily an interesting one. [#11, p.96]

Unfocused and uninspired, Machineries lacks the sprawling majesty and well-forged hooks of earlier efforts.

Gone are the fun hooks of [Nixon], and the genre jumping majesty of 1999's What Another Man Spills. [combined review of both discs; #9, p.108]

It may sometimes sparkle, but it never shines. [Spring 2008, p.102]

The Sword akes the safe, oddly paradoxical decision to stay off the cutting edge. [Winter 2008, p.97]

Back To Forever strives for mainstream acceptance, and in doing so dilutes Lissie’s strengths.

Five of the songs don't feature Lanegan's vocals, and when Willy Mason shows up to sing two of them, it's a wonder why Hawk wasn't more truthfully labeled as "Isobel Campbell & Friends." Thematically deficient throughout, this is an outtakes release at best.

Modern Art remains behind the veil, smoke and mirrors of nostalgia-not wholly accessible to audiences, modern or otherwise.

The Soft Moon's sophomore album Zeroes is an experimentation in industrial sound that doesn't fully hit the mark.

A high-pitched punky mess. [#16, p.103]

Instead, the religiosity that infuses the music recalls the forced eagerness of modern day evangelicals and the predictable plainness of suburban mega-churches. Only dedicated fans need ascend.

A double album slough of easy listening instrumentals. [combined review of both discs; #9, p.108]

While bombastic and ambitious as ever, Tao suggests that Trail of Dead have once again lost the taste for subtlety and texture that's past served to elevate their sound from the prog pack.

We've heard this swaggering, fumbling funk before from Kool Keith's gazillion other alter-egos. [#21, p.98]

Not one drop of Dracula is dance-friendly. In fact, it sounds just as disparate as the last Nurses effort.

Chris Martin’s voice is unremarkable but inoffensive on the non-instrumentals, and while some of Cosy’s tones are satisfying, they don’t redeem its shortcomings.

While Senior is sometimes reminiscent of Royksopp's stellar 2001 debut Melody A.M., it also feels like a poor man's attempt at an Air record.

Weller unveils an indulgent 21-track, hit-or-miss collection that has a scope, ambition and jazzy undercurrent which suggests Pete Townshend slumming in Vegas. [Summer 2008, p.98]

Listening to this record, made me feel like the Andy Rooney of dance/electronic music. [Winter 2009, p.92]

A touchy-feely orgy better left spooning in its afterglow 10 years previous when the feeling was still fresh. [#21, p.96]

Feathers isn't a bad album, just one without a discernable look--or hook. [#14, p.99]

Amos said she wanted to reclaim the songs from religious appropriations, but in the end, she just barely save us all from complete shame. [Holiday 2009, p. 98]

Nothing sticks on the LP, and the disc feels recycled, pedestrian and a bit exhausting--at best.

Ultimately, this collection is a series of album nearly-rans. This shouldn't undermine the songs, but it should reiterate how strong Weezer's records actually are (for the large part).

A disappointing product of the partnership betwen party boys Modeselektor and space cadet Apparat. [Spring 2009, p.106]

Precious and self-indulgent, this disc is bound for the sale rack at Starbucks.

What the crap is this? [#17, p.94]

The sense of movement is missing here, that raw immediacy that powered "Full Collapse's" better tracks; the howls and breakdowns feel almost like quota-meters. Still, though, there are enough feedback squalls and keyboard squelches in Dave Friedmann's production to suggest Thursday have yet to run their course. [Winter 2009, p.100]

In the end, this record is frustrating. [#9, p.111]

A faceless debut; a din of the same guitars, horns and urbane 20-something tropes--and lichen--as "Rules," but immobile and, sadly, ambitionless.

At points, the overly sappy lyrics are sung with fervor and match the passion put into the music, but ultimately, the album doesn't feel cohesive.

The best song is track 13, "Apology in Advance." It is still not that good. [#6, p.86]

The lyrical chops are intact but the production is far too dated.

What was once enjoyable as a one-off now seems forced. [#25, p.89]

Mid-tempo balladry and redundant choruses sap all the percussive vigor from this former song factory.

It's a mess--not without some tidy bits--but what's better: these songs could be the death throes, finally, of these guys' unfettered id.

Zeitgeist is mostly a grinding, straightforward affair that demonstrates none of the innovation and vision of the band’s previous efforts.

Pairing synths with Springsteen is a formula that's worked well for The Killers' frontman before, but here the Lanois production begins to grate amongst the constant God imagery and every third line being a cliché.

Singer Aaron Beherns is gifted with the evocative falsetto wail of Freddie Mercury, but wastes it unnecessarily here with hurried urgency, producing words as quick as he can instead of savoring each and every note. [Winter 2008, p.92]

Too painful to be background music. [#5, p.89]

The songs on Ten actually sound shockingly more insufferable this far out of their original grunge context. [Winter 2009, p.97]

Quality though it could be, if only the vision wasn't so occluded.

It’s a sad affair best summed up by the title track.

While Sound City Studios was unforgettable, this glorified jam session is not. It’s uneven and top-heavy.

They don't stray from what they know and they don't tarry from their blueprint. It's just that they don't know much and their blueprint was done in crayon. [#5, p.92]

This is a brutal disappointment. [#19, p.97]

A thin and innocuous stretch of yawners. [#22, p.97]

Whereas previous albums took a massive leap into noise and danger, this disappoints.

Texas-based group This Will Destroy You is somewhere past the breakers, floating on a body of layered soundscapes and ambient atmosphere.

If listening to sentimental techno ballads about giving up the days of tits and cocaine is what you want to do with an hour of your time, look no further.

This is an incredibly abrasive album.... There's screaming on this album, lots of it...nay, way too much. [Summer 2008, p.102]

Most of it just falls flat, neither recapturing the glory days nor squarely moving the band into a new era. [#21, p.102]

One is a kinder, gentler record and I mean that in the worst possible way. [#14, p.98]

This isn't a case of a band branching into a new sound as much as becoming a new band altogether. And this one just doesn't make the cut.

[A] failed attempt to straddle nostalgia and reinvention. [#21, p.95]

Weak poetry set to any music sucks, let alone this plodding folk-lite. [#13, p.90]

The worst record [Homme's] name has ever graced. [#10, p.89]