An eight-song album that flounders too much in mid-tempo purgatory. [No. 107, p.55]

The album's got its share of earnest torchers, but the upbeat "Salt Of The Earth" is the standout--spooky, yearning, bluesy, almost trip-hoppy and a little bit weird. [No. 106, p.54]

The effect is rather like Post-Super ae Boredoms, which is a great sound to achieve, but they only nail it sporadically. [No. 106, p.55]

It helps that the androgynous vocals carry a hook here and there.... Otherwise, it's hard to pull any other redeeming qualities out of Galore. [No. 106, p.59]

Jamaica Plain feels fittingly tentative and exploratory. [No. 105, p.58]

Lightning Bolt is only more competent than Foo Fighters, Vedder and Co.'s rival for the planet's straightest rock band. [No. 105, p.57]

Fantasy would be far more appetizing as a photo-negative of itself, with a dearth of feedback and studio obfuscation and Ambrogio's poetry as front-and-center spoken word. [No. 105, p.57]

After a few tracks, you may find yourself seeking relief with your favorite method of self-obliteration. [No. 105, p.56]

Their grandiose mini-operas and stadium-size choruses can thrill. But to hear the relentless string of outsized anthems in a row is exhausting. [No. 105, p.55]

Sonically, it's all pretty enough, but the songs rely too much on goofy valentines and cliches. [No. 104, p.55]

Glow & Behold feels like a safe play. [No. 104, p.60]

The bulk of the album feels much more controlled, and though it's technically accomplished record--as well it might be given the lineup--there's more brain than heart in the final mix. [No. 104, p.60]

It boasts riveting tempos, gripping atmospheres, imaginative chopped 'n' screwed vocal tracks and a vague sense of currency via a bass drop or two. But it also feels incredibly rote and through-the-motions. [No. 103, p.58]

The Speed Of Things has no teeth.... But the choruses are strong and the melodies catchy enough. [No. 103, p.54]

Ultimately, this is really only of interest to random member of Teenage Fanclub and die-hard obsessives alike. [No. 103, p.52]

May's singing is the unifying thread, a balmy, melancholy-drenched tenor that brings a touch of sunshine to every word uttered. [No. 102, p.58]

[Neko] Case misses Carrier, and it her. [No. 102, p.55]

Overall, this still feels very much on the level Placebo was at with 1999 single "Every You Every Me," minus more artfully constructed, impressive instrumental compositions and lyricism. [No. 102, p.59]

AM's wheel-spinning is a bit of a letdown, but a handful of tracks keep it from being a total throwaway. [No. 102, p.52]

Those looking for Kaufman's brand of gleefully absurd fin will surely be disappointed, as these tapes are strictly for completist diehards. [No. 101, p.57]

The album's most obvious failing is the way in which the vocals are presented and mixed. [No. 101, p.55]

"Does this make this more or less weird than what I've come to expect from JOA?" the answer is yes. [No. 101, p.56]

The Style Council-style blue-eyed soul and precise power pop of the debut now have some company that doesn't work, like the '70s Nashville countrypolitan exercise of the title track. [No. 100, p.51]

It's not an overall disaster, it's certainly never dull, and there's plenty to keep the loyalists happy. [No. 100, p.58]

While Femi's flame doesn't burn quite as strong as his dad's, the Kuti family still holds the belt as reigning champs of Afrobeat. [No. 100, p.55]

A few more tracks like ["Chicks, Man"] would have made Elvis Club great, rather than good. [No.99, p.54]

This somnambulant slice of dreamy, low-key synth rock is a logical follow-up to Weekends. [No.99, p.58]

From a fan's point of view, this [playing the same songs for years] rarely works. And it rarely works here. [No.99, p.55]