Reznor and Ross have pulled off something fairly remarkable here, creating a record that could've existed on its own as an original NIN production, but serves almost perfectly as the sonic document of the evolution of an online phenomenon that began in the dorms of Harvard and eventually took over Silicon Valley.

If you bought Nouns and wondered what the big deal was, this is your chance to find out. No Age continue to grow as conceptual artists and songwriters, and after a summer of dumbed down garage band shenanigans (cough, Best Coast, cough) it's fun to have something that's both challenging and fun to listen to come out of that scene.

Only Deerhunter makes echoes without egos, grounding even Bradford Cox's most wayward divergences in an all-encompassing blend of simple rock stylings.

You always know when a Walkmen song comes on your shuffle, and Lisbon does nothing to dispel that. In fact, it adds another solid entry to an increasingly solid catalogue.

Show Robyn some love - she deserves better than one-hit-wonder tag she's been saddled with, and she's finally getting it.

Perhaps taking a cue from another seminal band, Talking Heads, The Suburbs is a more restrained, tempered affair. Yet the beat of their bleeding heart still remains...

Mainly, Crazy for You manages to reference weed without being lowbrow and her cat without being twee. Sun-drenched guitar licks go woozy and Cosentino's crystal clear vocals lament and wish and hope. You don't have to be West Coast-born to feel the weight of an "I miss you so much" chorus and a slow drum beat.

The lag spots that usually accompany albums like Pink Graffiti are negated by the surprising fun quality of the rest; a perfect wake-and-bake companion.

It's a shame if Dark Night of the Soul ends up relegated to a cult souvenir; it's truly exceptional as music.

It's every bit as enjoyable as the last two. Which isn't to say it's a masterpiece, just that the abrupt backlash is proportionate to the fawning affection she received on Kala and Arular.

How I Got Over is also the Roots' best listening experience since Things Fall Apart over ten years ago (a rap eternity).

After their breakthrough, The '59 Sound, the Jerseyian punks appear to have taken a Green Day-like career shift: finding a concept that struck a chord and beating it to death like one of the down-and-out ciphers in the B-movie quality Springsteen worldview they've constructed.

Robyn returned this year with two new EPs with an alleged third one on the way and while the construction of each flatters the contents, taken as a whole, they're wildly uneven. The stronger of the two is Body Talk Pt. 1, with three of ten best singles of the 2010.

The sequel is a graceful transition into more polished product with an emphasis on detail and melody-all while retaining the visceral screech of the debut.

This album's brilliance comes from the titanium-larynxed Tom Gabel's juxtaposition of the listener's jaded expectations of punk with too-direct-to-be-dishonest sentiments.

It's strange second-hand pop, deconstructed and represented as something entirely new, augmented by a range of melodies and affectations. Good for him and good for the world for the opportunity to be exposed to his music-pop music in its purest form, pop informed by pop.

there's nothing else like this band right now and possibly ever. The volume and power of late 90s rap metal without all the stupidity and endless chugalug. Vocals that not only sing sweet melodies but support them with harmonies that push and pull against the current of noise, only sassy and canny, like a My Bloody Valentine that's being marketed to pre-teens.

It's whether or not This Is Happening stands on its own merits as original composition consistent with the quality of the LCD catalog. It falls short on both accounts, unfortunately, in what basically amounts to a final victory lap for a band that made its mark and doesn't have much more to say.

Despite all the pomp and circumstance surrounding it (and boasting some admittedly rad cover art) their latest record is consistent in quality with their, er, lesser-selling efforts.

The end results in UNKLE's later years have been rather mixed, but Lavelle always miraculously pulls some new sonic trick to keep his pet project from falling completely out of favor.

It's a pretty good album if you can get the idea of its dreary additions to their setlists out of your head.

It's only now though that Patton's fully manifested his passion project minus the avant-garde overlay--and ironically scoring an unheard-of #2 debut on the Billboard classical chart in the process, possibly the strangest highlight yet of a strange talent's career.

For some reason, the band seemed to strip things down on this album, as the tracks are less sophisticated and experimental than on previous works, (which is fine for most bands, but for ones that aspire to keep their crown at the forefront of indie-pop, just not going to cut it).

Laura Burhenn just smolders over a piano-heavy groove. It really is as close to Dusty as they get, but what makes this record special is the way that even when the lyrics clunk up some of the smooth blue-eyed soul (opener and sort-of title track "What We Gained in the Fire" comes to mind), the production is so plainly gorgeous that it really feels like nitpicking (even if it really isn't).

The Canadian math whiz and artist formerly known as Manitoba proves he's just as calculated as he is cerebral, crafting music that feels equally clubby, fluid and submerged to back up the ideal album title.

Travellers appears top-heavy, with a mid-section whose only correlation to time travel is that its melodies could've felt predictable in the 1890s, with the limitations of straight 4/4 beginning to wear. But listeners are rewarded for not giving up after that stretch.

Still, don't expect the bruising cut (or any herein) to set any tone whatsoever as Thing arguably represents Trans Am's most eclectic offering yet.

MGMT seem determined to break the mold they made for themselves, and while they deserve credit for trying, the outcome just isn't as much fun as the MGMT whose tunes could punch up movie trailers.

Thomas' craft is tremendous for a newcomer, especially in an indie-rock moment that needs it.

While there's no immediate pop hit present a la "Feel Good Inc" or "Clint Eastwood" to get sucked into straight off, Albarn's ability to juggle his rotating ensemble cast and still spin a cohesive yarn for all of sixteen tracks remains something to behold.

For such a dense, demented album to have a definite ending should assure listeners otherwise afraid of institutionalization that further listening will not only be safe, but worth it even if it wasn't.

It's not the easiest listening by any means, but how fitting that on an album that pays tribute to Darwin, The Knife unveils their most significant evolution yet.

At times the running-on-fumes punk benefits The Monitor's overall sound. But the problem is that the songs that surround the defined centerpieces sound undeveloped or just plain fall flat, particularly early on when we hear about a supposed hero covered in excrement and piss as a dramatic plot-point.

Diehards will lob all the complaints about sequencing and omissions, but if we're being honest here, what this compilation isn't leaves no blemish on the quality of what it actually is.

The one unique thing about Stewart's lyrical style (a sort of homage of shallow, U.S. suburban vernacular that paints a very specific picture to those of us from the suburbs) seems to be missing on Dear God, I Hate Myself. Sure, maybe it's even tongue-in-cheek, but I sure hope he's not joking.

Newsom's brilliant but reckless songwriting resulted in eighteen tracks, each with an EP's worth of creativity and talent. But why stop editing an overlong listening experience there? Treating each song as an independent entity isn't such a bad idea.

At the very least, it should win new converts just in time for the long-awaited reunion.

Thanks largely in part to founding member/mainstay Robert "3D" Del Naja, there still remains that indefinable, singular aspect to Massive Attack that still carried the group over the hump of 2003's tepid 100th Window and onto the superior Heligoland.

As casual pop, Causes of This pleases effortlessly, though the listener doesn't get the sense that that's what Bundwick is all about here.

Maybe the growth is only obvious to those who've been following, but that doesn't take away from the obvious upgrade of accessibility found here.

Kieran Hebden's latest and best opus since "Rounds" is dare I also say his danciest.

Realism is a significant departure from the bands previous outing, Distortion, which was quite a departure from its predecessor, "i." And although the group continues to change sounds, Merritt's enthralling voice and songwriting dexterity continue to shine.

While Smith & Co. may overuse a keyboard riff or two on In This Light, we shouldn't really let that sully this dark, majestic detour.

Even at its best this whole record sounds like a band who wants to make an impact by trying to be everything to everyone. And because they're not too good at everything they do yet, this lack of a definitive identity that makes it difficult to take them seriously (or if this is their definitive identity, they're just boring).

Transference is a challenging, mature statement from a band generally known for more for refining their approach with each release.

Contra flourishes in its effort to ease up on "A-Punk"'s stiffness as the quartet engages in sonic experimentation of unprecedented playfulness even compared to the debut's.

Nothing is hodgepodge about Heartland, and rather than an outlet for the former Final Fantasy's many cool ideas, Owen Pallett presents one outstanding, unified one: all of him at once.

Although the loud tracks are the most immediate, the subtleties of later numbers like "Reptiles" prove nearly as rewarding,; don't even think of stopping play before "Gunman" shows what these pros do with a dance number.

In far fewer listens than you'd expect, BiRd-BrAiNs sheds its outer shell of defensive harshness and becomes an easy, enjoyable and addictive listen.

One of the rare cases of a best-of being an artist's definitive statement, it's not hard to explain that Fela's other albums simply couldn't have fit enough of them to qualify.

While the celestial exploration is briefly juxtaposed with sci-fi experimentation on the Autechre-like 'Rough Steez' and 'Phantom Limb,' those detours only here to provide respite from and not actually disrupt an ultimately delightful, delirious headtrip designed to push your fuckest of buttons.

While the slower, wandering songs certainly make the composition and mood of the record, it's the more upbeat tracks, never Cox's previous forte, that shine on this disc.

[Palomo's] instincts fill Psychic Chasms with the kind of intangible pleasures that make for a dynamic, lyrical-sounding record and a wholly enjoyable listen in spite of any cynicism towards the fad it encapsulates.

Depending on how interested you still are by the record's third act, this can be either good or bad. It depends on your taste for disorientation.

The XX is for lovers and non-lovers alike, though even its surefire appeal I wouldn't call this a pop album. I would deem it sensual, musical in-out.

The Life of the World to Come isn't exactly a head-nodding compendium to the Good Book as much as a shoulder-shrugging desire for surrender. For some, an album with such strong religious overtones may distance those disenchanted with the church.

While the Raveonettes do little to shake things up on Control, they still have the unique and eerie ability to sugarcoat the most serious of songs with their infectious brand of music.

As with songs like "The Orchids" and "Spider's House," the continued confidence in slow, sleepy numbers, hinting more towards the ambient side of experimental folk, like the devastating "Krill" or the aforementioned "Evidence" suggests that as Rutili ages, his music will only grow in accessibility, relying less and less on the clatter of his youth. Songs like "Gauze" used to be austere nuggets buried in the noise, but these days, the noisy abstractions are, for the most part, the odd-man out.

Despite their tendency to wade dangrously close to parody, the Black Heart Procession's continuing themes of despair, gloom and doom are still what make them so appealing as they continue to defy their sunny upbringing.

Some of the songs even stack up against the band's original catalogue.

The album is at many times more open and engaging than some of those earlier gems and has a lighthearted nature that retains the balance of sating old fans and sparking new ones.

An entire album as powerful and immediate as Scars sounds enticing in theory, but Basement Jaxx knows better than turning a single, creative sound into a stale, contrite formula, especially when an unprecedented amount of talent is at their beck and call.

While not as fleshed out as some other remarkable debuts, Album is a fully realized personal vision.

Why? the person always had unique ideas, but, for the first time, Why? the band complements these thoughts and feelings with consistency, creating an accessible, exciting and complete work.

Earlier pieces that amused or excited the listener have given way to more approachable sounds constantly on the verge of blending in completely. While seldom bad and almost wholly listenable, Vapours proves to be a bland disappointment from a group of usually creative musicians.

Ultimately at this point, the songs that I'm most attracted to are still the slower, more intuitive weepers showcasing Vedder's voice, and alas, such simplicity is scarce on Backspacer.

While there's merit to the charges that songs suffer from sameness and that musicianship is a secondary facet of the band, the Girls' detractors don't consider tradition; walking in the footprints of Bikini Kill, Ramones, and other like predecessors who faced similar criticisms, their flaws serve to be their most interesting, differentiating features.

On Get Color, though, the frenetic impulses from two years back have been carefully tempered, the percussive backbone more sharply honed and the ear-bleeding textures more cleverly implemented.

Hospice sits squarely in this camp, a heartbreaking aural experience that hits us on a deeper level.

Wolf, ever so self-aware, makes The Bachelor's most intimate moments its most powerful ones, where the frivolity stops and the artist reverts to his eccentric, idealistic nature.

An hour or so later I finally succumbed to my bed, content. I can only imagine Riceboy does so in kind.

Hometowns has an earthly fragility, folksy without being folky. Score another one for Canada.

To simply not want to skip tracks isn't exactly saying anything, and certainly not that Wilco has made any kind of return to relevance. But Jeff the person is doing just fine, and instead of chastising this release, let's be happy that the guy who gave us more serious, occasionally harrowing masterpieces such as Summerteeth and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot finally seems to be having some fun. Next time it'd be nice if he let us in on it.

The end result is a rewarding record fraught with introspection and melancholy but also one that perhaps signifies that Moby's shaken off his early 90's sentimentality...for now.

Textual descriptions may be difficult to understand without listening through the album's 11 songs, but for someone who has been a faithful listener since their eponymous 1994 debut it is important to know that Beacons Of Ancestorship is surely a keeper.

This new bag of tricks is implemented with due subtlety that bolsters the charming simplicity qualities, while filling the tracks out and, cautiously, adding some curves.

Bitte Orca signifies something exciting and all too infrequent in popular music: striving for a sound that doesn't have a definite audience.

The Eternal is absorbing and raw, from the slower, affable 'Antenna' to the pounding 'Poison Arrow.'

Rainwater Cassette Exchange certainly finds creative ways to transform their music and expand their already impressive catalogue, even if most of the songs are quite short and leave the listener yearning for more.

While Veckatimest contains just over fifty-two minutes of some exceptional music, it lacks one critical component that's essential to any form of art: emotion.

It's Frightening kicks into high gear from the get-go, and never looks back.

Despite the similitude of both discs, their respective modesty and muscularity present variety without overreaching. To put it into trite punny terms, Well has some depth.

As for the claim that Romanian Names represents the pinnacle of Vanderslice's recorded output to date, the argument certainly holds water. The dozen songs are all inviting, catchy even, in their own way, and aurally consistent with the history of "sloppy hi-fi" production at Vanderslice's Tiny Telephone studio.

Mostly, the overkill of professionalism just makes me yearn for the early Green Day material I grew up with: sloppy, abrasive, and most importantly, aware of what they can and can't pull off.

Meanderthals are a collaboration between Idjut Boys and Rune Linbaek, with a sound that is a bit of a fluffier than what we have traditionally come to expect from the Smalltown Supersound label roster. That fluffiness adds a fresh breeze to the otherwise unassuming mix of throwback downbeat and Scandinavian folk strumming.

Even though the album may be too erratic to cohere into anything thematic, its eccentricities do an excellent job of keeping it interesting.

2009's Entertainment finds the duo reverting somewhat to their more flamboyant origins while still trying to stay current. It's a divergent approach that fortunately works more for the record than against it.

Screw the band name, McBean is a temporal writer, and he channels his unique vision into equal parts regardless of his color-coded outfit. It's a bold and brash move that is working wonders thus far.

Clever, catchy, and moody, Maudlin Career is what contemporary pop music should be. It is wholly as satisfying as Campbell is unsatisfied.

The complex emotional duality of the disc is nothing less than penetrating. Most of the tracks are danceable as well as lonesome, and can be enjoyed in a variety of settings.

The slightly pretentious concept, though, is balanced by the equally lavish music and specifically Khan's voice.

As with any such wildly anticipated album, the reverse motion could be a case of perspective, of personal expectations being insurmountably high, because Now We Can See is by no means a bad album. It just seems a little pedestrian for such a talented and unique band.

Every song is steeped in melancholy, but the underlying beauty that ties it all together is in the courage of Ashworth's characters to face the unforgiving reality they occupy.

If this is the band's "Parallel Lines," they've brought tunes worth comparing.

Lost Channels is still comforting, except now instead of misery finding company, Great Lake Swimmers have made an album that reaches down, and pulls you out of the darkness and into the light that was always there.

Casting off songs entirely for 17 parts that to their cult make a sum, I was sure this would be the one where I could finally take my other foot off the doorstop....[But] the fresh voices and staged character interplay keep Meloy's pretensions from boiling over, and loathe as I am to admit, two of the four title tracks culminate in something like hooks.

If they ultimately self-destruct as they appear to be these days, their legacy is hopefully remembered for self-produced fuzz-rock and sloppy onstage antics. More importantly, hopefully they're remembered.