Where Corpse works, it's merely a repeat of past successes. The few tentative steps into unfamiliar territory are marked failures.

Two tracks focusing on guest vocalists are stand-outs.... The other eight songs are more hit-and-miss, often depending on whether Bip's headed toward rock (the blah "Eyelashings," which sounds like a mediocre U2 song, without vocals or a chorus) or hip-hop ("The Move," a nice piece of synthesizer and vibraphone chemistry).

Despite the relatively spartan proceedings, there is a substantial amount to latch onto here.

The album's production, particularly the insistence on pinning Brown's hazy croon way on top of the mix, too often dulls any punch the music would otherwise have.

Over the course of Gemstone's 15 tracks, Green's heavily enunciated, lumbering delivery become more irritating than a busload of thespians on their way to an audition. Thankfully, Green's elementary-school melodies, which call to mind Jonathan Richman at his silliest, ultimately save this album from the topical hell to which it aspires.

For the most part, Outside Closer fails to separate itself from the pack of glitch-rock albums it now must share the market with.

When the songs work – it's some of the best material Faithfull has ever produced. But when they don't – you're left... falling asleep in the car.

All in all it's not the noise rush we were craving - and no, it's not as good as Source Tags - but did anyone really think it could be?

George has an indistinct voice somewhere between Suzanne Vega and Cat Power. Her lyrics are not mind-blowing, but not at all banal.

Despite mining decades-old forms, The Anomoanon's honest rock is hard to dislike.

It's funny and smart and a little annoying in large doses.

The sound, which blends a little of the pastoral, John Fahey-influenced digital music with calm, focused songwriting, gives a sense of romance to a fairly limited musical vocabulary.

You're a Woman, I'm a Machine might be the best party record on this side of '79 that your local abandoned warehouse has ever seen.

Those who can overlook this slightly dumbed-down approach will find This Island is not without its moments.

As hit-and-miss as its 2003 predecessor.

[Disc 1 is] a revealing, if not quite essential, portrait of the artist.... [Disc 2 is] an inventive, rewarding look at the Pixies esteemed catalogue.

The spoken-word Sonny and Cher act of Chains and Sue does gets tiresome at moments, lyrics like "you be the follower, let's kill the leader" aren't as clever as their authors believe, and the record does run on a fairly consistent mid-tempo bounce.

For every misstep on the mostly acoustic Spooked, there's an undeniable classic.

The album feels half baked, as though Morrison isn't quite sure which direction to take his nascent solo career.

A puzzling release.

The '80s idolatry is far too forced and distracting, and VHS or Beta comes off as trying too hard to imitate admittedly great, but definitely dated, pop music.

The songs are likable, but lack a core.

Despite the wailing vocals and insipid lyrics, the rhythm section nearly saves this album with its tensely coiled, ready-to-explode grooves.

It's still very plainly the Dulli Show, placing his cigarette-stained voice and oversized heartache front-and-center.

Kinsella carefully enunciates his lyrics to make sure we hear all the clever references he's making, forcing SAT words into musical phrases that stagger under the weight of their pretense.

The harmonies aren't as blissful and the songs more conventional than those of previous releases.

Forget Tomorrow is a record of two exceptional ideas that would sound better as separate records.

Whiskey Tango Ghosts is a quiet meditative listen, yes, but those who haven't followed Donnelly's career trajectory closely may find it difficult to reconcile the contrast between her old and new selves.