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.

Shut Up’s biggest downfall is it’s speed, or lack thereof. The songs lilt and twirl with Krug’s yelp, xylophones and processed guitars, but rarely does the pace exceed ballad-like levels.

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.

The Collective's aspirations come off as bland and blurry, as if aspiration alone was the sole goal for this jam, spread out over three quarters of an hour.

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).

Most of these tracks can be found on the Internet in their original Iron & Wine incarnations, and all but one sounds 100% better that way.

While Chrome Dreams II was clearly modeled after his more "classic" sounding work, it finds Young sounding like little more than a knockoff of his former self.

The Secret Migration has the power to cast a spell over you with its dreamy, wraithlike keyboards. Many won't fall for it, though, and will undoubtedly find them too melodramatic.

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 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.

Once through, we realize Ideal Lives does not feel unified, which is exactly what makes it so interesting but also so difficult to fully embrace.

For every hit, there exists a miss.

Decent and decadent, Good Apollo is still ultimately the least of the band’s 3 full lengths. It continues the band’s tradition for experimentation, with melodies breaking through the chaos but it is less successful and equally disappointing with no new tricks.

Everything goes smoothly on In the Clear, with no real highs or lows, so to speak, and as such it unrolls without much fanfare or energy.

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.

Rollie has yet to find his voice, though.

Numbers tout themselves as a dance-punk outfit, but they won’t get you on the dance floor anytime soon.

Although they do show some potential, the Capitol Years do not rightfully deserve the hype they are getting.

As it is now, decidedly un-personal, In Our Nature falls flat.

X & Y is uninspired adult pop that drops jaws only in its capacity to elicit yawns.

The problem is simply that Gang of Four got Entertainment! right the first time, whether they like it or not.

A Colores’s most glaring failure is its reluctance to shift from the narcotic tone it so quickly assumes.

Decidedly unremarkable.

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).

Nine of Arm's Way's twelve songs start with legs, but ultimately suffer from an inability to respect their limits.

Once Upon A Time is simply derivative, a rehash of the band itself.

The band is learning to play their instruments better, but they’ve lost some aggression, which was the key to the little charm they had from the get-go.