When the compositions behind the words are as dull and lifeless as the album's core ("This Bum's Paid" and "Hair Dude, You're Stepping on my Mystique") the results are utterly disastrous, relying too heavily on tried dissonance over unimpressively staid tempos.

As you're listening, the songs begin to sound more and more like play-acting, as if Malin's trying to sound like his heroes more than he's trying to create anything that's all his own.

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.

An uneven mish-mash of musical ideas that is only occasionally thrilling.

On songs like "In the Afternoon" and "Time is Running out," Maclean fails to add even a shred of feeling to his chilly IDM clones.

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

Impressive despite its occasional lack of maturity.

If you are not in the right mood, Strange Geometry sounds like pretty melodies, plenty of atmosphere, and not a whole let else.

The tunes hop as often as they whimper, with stand-up bass, slap-happy drums and wordless vocals fleshing out the reverb-rich arrangements.

The album feels underwhelming.

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.

Starting with track six, Laughter's Fifth verges on unstoppable.

It's endearingly all over the place, but depressingly self-referential.

Adherence to stock chord progressions, interminably chugging guitars and a dearth of new ideas since 2000's The Sophtware Slump gives the impression that Sumday is Grandaddy-by-rote.

The result is a tad muddled, with the valleys unfortunately outnumbering the peaks.

There is a shortage of pathos, and relatively little ventured musically and lyrically from a songwriting team responsible for some of the most tortured, searching music of recent years.

Here we get the full range of peaks and valleys from Martina's vocals, but the songs are a bit syrupy for those prepared for the menace of Maxinquaye-era Tricky.

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.

A disappointing concept album with large patches of trivial explorations and experimental noodling.

Much of the record lands solidly in novelty territory.

Classical guitars, mellow piano chords and brushed drums lope across the proceedings like yawning animals still awaiting their first caffeinated jolt of the day.

Breaking new ground probably isn't the point, but the album still fails to generate any emotion or create a mood other than ennui.

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

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).

Restraint and frustration are the dominant themes, but the short, aggressive outbursts don't always offer enough release to justify the fatiguing buildups.

Ten turns out a few good songs, but there are better solo records by each of its members.

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

Labeling Again as entirely derivative would be inaccurate, as Tan folds flourishes of dub and krautrock into a lascivious mix of after-hours cool.