Some new ideas are welcome more than a decade into the Jersey outfit's career, but they could've been used to more exciting ends. [No. 150, p.59]

Mozart's Mini-Mart is full of short, witty synth-pop songs such as "When You're Depressed." Think Magnetic Fields at their most ephemeral. [No. 150, p.53]

What it's missing is haunting songs--calamity songs, the kind of songs that used to proliferate on Decemberists albums like soot-smudged Victorian orphans. [No. 150, p.49]

Ultimately, neither the album's ample, artful ambience nor its pasted-on continuous sequencing can help it transcend the ho-hum resignation of its title. [No. 149, p.59]

Among the filler that drags down the LP's second half, fulfills contractual obligations and pushes the Gwar story forward. [No. 149, p.57]

Luciferian Towers is a muddled mess of underworked ideas strung together. [No. 148, p.57]

The results are about as bold and memorable as a spent glowstick. [No. 148, p.55]

Fans and obsessive will love this, but it may not qualify as a return journey for the rest of us. [No. 147, p.55]

An emphasis on instrumentals is intriguing, but they're the pleasantries you'd fear. All are pretty in a disconnected, band-that-hasn't-released-new-music-in-13-years way. [No. 147, p.58]

Multi-instrumental wizards Kattner and Thorburn trade off on guitar and keyboards, with Plummer supplying the rhythmic anchor, to produce a spectral sound that complements their instrumental digressions and vocal anomalies. [No. 147, p.57]

The single-minded pursuit of a sound that was fresh about the time that Melkbelly's members started kindergarten makes for an album that's competently executed but easy to forget. [No. 147, p.55]

He [Emil Svanangen] has a high, expressive tenor that often slips into a keening falsetto that fights to be heard over the sound of the dark, frequently overwhelming synthesizer symphonies that fill the background. [No. 147, p.55]

The Gradual Progression manages to keep a curious balance between high-concept art and Fox's own fiercely independent spirit and virtuosic talent. [No. 146, p.55]

None of the tracks approaches the frenetic monstrosity of the Public Enemy song they're named after. But "Strength In Numbers" and "Who Owns Who" are some of the most ripping music anyone involved had made in years, and they're not all repeating themselves. [No. 146, p.59]

The duo is only revisiting what made Death From Above faves 13 years ago without realizing how poorly it has aged. [No. 146, p.55]

You have to admire the survivalist nature at hand here and the ability to craft an album that doesn't smack of inorganic hashtag laziness like those of many contemporaries. [No. 145, p.59]

The obtuse nature of the song structures, content and riffing are exactly what one expects ... just dressed up as a "surprise." [No. 145, p.55]

It's hard to imagine the album's latent pacing and fragmented lyrical content piquing the interest of many outside of AnCo's hardcore fanbase, but it stands as a compelling step forward. [No. 145, p.61]

More often the singing is submerged in the mix, making it impossible to understand the dreamy wordplay that makes Oelsner's lyrics so memorable. [No. 145, p.59]

Gangster Star features a much stronger single (the idyllic "Shine A Light"), while Jealous Machines waders a bit further into the narrative forest. [No. 144, p.59]

This is an honest and harmless record that isn't trying to be anything but the summer 2017 soundtrack for middle-aged males operating, patronizing or loitering within tattoo/piercing emporiums everywhere. [No. 144, p.59]

[The final track Love Is Love] has the sprightly energy that's missing on most of the record. [No. 143, p.61]

[Dave Davies is] mostly restrained here, content to strum as he and Russ sing together. [No. 142, p.54]

The lyrics are overwrought, and the music is dark but lacking the edge that would make the songs compelling. ... Thankfully they bracket the album with "Love You To The Sky" and "Just A Little Love," up-tempo gems that prove they haven't lost their magic touch. [No. 142, p55]

A set of wistful, stirring anthems. [No. 141, p.61]

It's a smooth-sounding work you can easily imagine serving as the soundtrack at your favorite hip urban restaurant or retail establishment. [No. 139, p.61]

The pulse of their motorik grooves feel more mechanical than menacing, and the decision to put '80s-vintage synthetic drums and pomp-rock synths up high in the mix distracts from evil intent. [No. 139, p.59]

With guitar ace Marc Ribot and pedal-steel master Eric Heywood along for the ride, she continues exploring the intersection of hope and heartache. [No. 139, p.57]

The production effects on the voice and guitar give the LP an eerie feel that complements Cunningham's tales of quiet masochism. [No. 139, p.55]

If you're not fanatical about the racket created by unfathomable guitar noise, you'll find songs on Motion Set overly long and veering frequently toward incomprehensible. [No. 138, p.57]

On "Kingfisher," the album's centerpiece, they prove when it's perfectly balanced with a subtle instrumental approach. [No. 138, p.61]

The nine songs blur together over the 36 minutes, and they offer few surprises once you enter their heavy-handed world. [No. 138, p.58]

The vocals are random, directionless moans and the open-ended delivery hardly screams, "Listen to me again!" [No. 138, p.53]

The most psychedelic moments on the album come during the long instrumental fades on tunes like "Silence Can Say So Much," "Cast The First Stone" and "Love Is Like A Spinning Wheel," but the middy instrumentals mix often mashes the sounds together into an indistinguishable pulsation of spacey sci-fi noise. [No. 137, p.55]

As 1991 albums go, Out Of time in its own way is an era-defining as Nevermind, Loveless or Spiderland. [No. 137, p.58]

Only the last song, Wild Sun's straightforward, vulnerable take on "Easy Way Out," finally hits the mark. [No. 137, p.61]

Spektor's knack for orchestral arrangement is more vivid than her writing here. [No. 137, p.61]

Too frequently, though, the new material doesn't have the constitution to withstand the heavy hand of producer and former Dawes guitarist Blake Mills. [No. 137, p.55]

About 45 seconds into song after song, the chorus punches in loudly--predictably and, ultimately, annoyingly. [No. 135, p.57]

There's melody and rhythm, but mostly the overtones float through the ether, seldom resolving into anything approaching a song, although the overall effect is soothing and dreamy. [No. 135, p.54]

Vacancy has a more organic, "big indie rock" real feel to it as opposed to something automatically designed to blast from convertibles and iPods in high-school lockers. [No. 134, p.53]

"No Future V" and "Stable Boy" benefit from amping up the electricity and volume, which makes S+@dium Rock a solid TMLT companion piece but not a primary choice. [No. 134, p.61]

The songs have a somber, ambient feel, even on tunes with uplifting subjects. [No. 134, p.57]

The combination here of light electronic production, show-stopping African vocals, Mumford harmonies and heart-on-your-sleeve pop is hard not to love. [No. 133, p.59]

Much of Cistern feels deliberately nebulous, washed-out and distended. [No. 133, p.55]

Haden can find that sweet, glacial pace that makes a song seem both inevitable and important. But his deliberate delivery of lines such as "Oh the Depression, it ruined us, it ruined us, it ruined us" can be distracting and turn songs into history lessons. [No. 132, p.59]

As usual, it's mostly successful as a mood piece. [No. 132, p.57]

Atomic offers rare glimpses into the band's writing process and exists as an anomaly in Mogwai's catalog that's sure to intrigue diehard fans, but offers little more to anyone else. [No. 132, p.57]

It's a bit mad, but what else would you expect from the Melvins, which in-and-of -itself is a shame. [No. 132, p.55]

As meticulously milquetoast as the entirety of this is, there are deadly sharp adult contemporary hooks on "Over & Over" and "The Pin," though the pervasive electronic beats, the obnoxious layer of acoustic strumming and raise-your-beer-and-hum choruses are symbols of a band lock-stepping in with whatever goes over best with casual listeners. [No. 132, p.55]

It's an established formula: Regression to the mean is inevitable. That said, there are plenty of familiar pleasures for those who investigate. [No. 131, p.56]

Most disappointing about PersonA is that it oscillates between gutsy and lazy. [No. 131, p.51]

His penchant for quirky arrangements remains in place, as does his gift for shrewd lyrics and dark, ironic humor. [No. 130, p.55]

Hold/Still tries so hard to be ominous that it almost always forgets to be interesting. [No. 130, p.61]

There's enough here to keep diehard Coral heads satisfied, but a little more of the band's mercurial waywardness would've been welcome. [No. 130, p.55]

The album kicks off with an accomplished, but by-the-numbers nod to T. Rex/'70s glam, then proceeds to genre-jump through the filter of neo-alt-country/Americana in a well-done, but regrettably innocuous fashion. [No. 128, p.53]

There's a lingering, forced feel and more than a few questionable stylistic decisions. [No. 128, p.55]

The lyrics are often buried in the mix. [No. 128, p.61]

His [James Alex's] lyrics aren't particularly strong. [No. 126, p.53]

Isaak's 12th record is simply a solid, predictable Isaak album. [No. 126, p.59]

Yet another Maritime record full of amiable, breezy numbers, every note and octave in place. The soul and panache of yore, however, are sadly MIA. [No. 125, p.59]

There is a surprising amount of vitriol pent up--ever so politely--in these songs, and when that vitriol squeaks out into the universe, it is very genteel, very well-mannered vitriol. [No. 125, p.53]

Cliched lyrics and predictable musicality make every song here sound the same. [No. 125, p.53]

The Dear Hunter might be better served by working in rein in its vast pretensions. [No. 124, p.53]

The pop tunes are as good as any that Folds has written.... The "Concerto" tries too hard to be Gershwin or Richard Rogers, but lacks the flow of "Rhapsody In Blue" or the drama of "Slaughter On 10th Avenue." [No. 124, p.57]

Too much of Everybody's Coming Down limps along on wounded extremities, with quirky cleverness displaced in favor of sloppy indie-rock tropes that answer the eternal question about what Ween would sound like minus a sense of adventure. [No. 123, p.59]

The Monsanto Years is another head-scratcher of an album. [No. 122, p.61]

The relationship songs are distressingly generic; she backpedals on her "edgy" (for country) envelope-pushing; and she sings about what's she's not. [No. 122, p.57]

Even as it completely eschews Mohawke's maximalist, hyperkinetic style of old for a newfound soft side, Lantern registers as a limp, populist gesture for how ham-fistedly it attempts to reconcile the two. [No. 122, p.57]

This laudable open-mindedness [to try anything] may have finally backfired. [No. 122, p.55]

The album's back half tones it down a bit, though the overarching tropical themes get a bit extreme. [No. 122, p.55]

I don't feel moved by Lee's progress toward enlightenment. [No. 121, p.56]

Last Of Our Kind has heavy and abrasive moments that are heavier and more abrasive than anything in The darkness discography. [No. 121, p.53]

This is about as '80s nostalgic as you can get without voting for Margaret Thatcher and hoovering up a pile of Peruvian flake. [No. 121, p.61]

Kindred is fun, but best in small, sugary doses. [No. 120, p.59]

Standout moments exist but the apparent slap across the face of preparedness results in meandering transitions, misplaced sax bleating that's part downtown jazz, part "Careless Whisper," and the feeling that there was a fair amount of sleepwalking through the process. [No. 119, p.55]

It's hard to imagine reaching for No Pier Pressure when you could choose from all those great(and even not-so-great) Beach Boys albums from 40 or 50 years ago. [No. 119, p.60]

The back half gets slower, darker and weirder--integral ingredients all. But there isn't one track here that stands out from the rest. [No. 118, p.59]

The arrangements here never add anything to the songs that you haven't heard a thousand other bands do just as well, if not better. [No. 118, p.55]

There's still plenty to get excited about here.... But the stinkers here--like would-be Bowling For Soup b-side "Karaoke, TN" and "Coat Check Girl"--nearly soil the whole thing. [No. 118, p.57]

Mansion Songs isn't a great LP, but there's a damn good EP buried in here. [No. 117, p.55]

These tunes would work better if the influences weren't so obvious. [No. 117, p.55]

It undermines its poppy ideas with unorthodox chord changes, meandering melodies and a jarring minor/major push-pull. [No. 117, p.61]

Much of this album comes surprisingly close to the woozy heights scaled by Barat's old gang--but not quite close enough because, if there are criticisms here, it's that there's too little light and shade. [No. 117, p.52]

Hexadic too often misses the point by honing in on formlessness and esoteric explanations instead of solid consistency. [No. 117, p.61]

Essentially, this is one for obsessive completists only. [No. 116, p.55]

If you're not already a fan, this won't convert you. But if its obtuse kraut-rockabilly's your particular addiction, this will be pure manna, pilgrim-uh. [No. 116, p.57]

Flesh is musical, but also minimal, a soothing pink noise that won't put you to sleep or interfere with your daydreams. [No. 116, p.59]

It's still, ultimately, a novelty rather than something that's likely to become part of your life. [No. 115, p.55]

Twenty years later then, Glory remains, for better or worse, a totemic symbol of a n overinflated, overexcited era that now seems long, long gone and scarcely conceivable. [No. 114, p.51]

There are moments where small breakthroughs are made, but as Sway proceeds, it takes a turn toward the dour and depressing. [No. 114, p.61]

The emotional mood of At Best Cuckold never breaks away from the spell of his comfortable lethargy. [No. 114, p.53]

After The End is disappointing because Merchandise has already proven it can do more. [No. 113, p.59]

Sadly, "Everything Is Wrong" announces another second-half fade, the back side congealing into the same zombie histrionics that sank Interpol. [No. 113, p.57]

At it's best, Barragan sounds like typically inventive musicians sleepily phoning it in. [No. 113, p.54]

Crush Songs trades intensity for wistful longing. [No. 113, p.51]

Their command of sonic mood is commendable, but without something more to grab hold of, Annabel Dream Reader is just a relentless gut-punch. [No. 112, p.61]

The duo's intoxicating sense of endless sonic possibility remains, but the many lovely moments rarely amount to memorable songs, and several shout-outs to its still-enchanting debut fells like cruel teases. [No. 112, p.57]