If the album is frustratingly uneven--if, despite moments of exuberance, it can also feel like a mundane grind--well, I suspect that also mirrors life in Mali. And almost everywhere else, too.

45:33 is as much gallery-crawl as beach-run; purpose-built in gliding tempos and warm-down synth shimmers for iPod-strapped runners, yet appropriate for a cruise through the Whitney, too. [Review of UK release]

Here, most gestures remain a bit too consciously panoramic—elegant enough for comfort but often not chancy enough to be breathtaking.

Case... still approximates a Northwestern Patsy Cline with a graduate degree, and while the stories she tells are mournful, her delivery remains buoyant. [Apr/May 2006, p.101]

For diehard Elliott Smith fans, New Moon is an absolute must... For remaining listeners, it's merely instructive, sublime in parts but not solid enough or surprising enough or interesting enough, musically, to merit multiple listens. [May 2007, p.58]

The two discs offered here brim with ideas, some more navel-gazing than others. [#16, p.143]

On songs like these, she resists the temptation to play the spurned frontierswoman out for revenge. She’s a little wounded, a little scared, a little less of a caricature and a little more human.

A preciously solemn soundtrack for blustery days. [Dec 2005, p.124]

While any given song on the album contains a memorable melodic passage or a compelling idea, some of them are more mixed in their results.

The urgency and bile are palpable. [Oct 2006, p.84]

In a year that has also brought the envelope-pushing production work of Edan’s album Beauty and the Beast, the rehashed soul sometimes comes off limp, too content with itself and its well-worn form to challenge the genre’s status quo.

Aside from better production values, little has changed about the Scotsmen’s formula.

Andorra belongs on a hip continuum but something about it still feels slightly cold--it's a druggy album that's too precise to be made with drugs, a lush album that’s too filigreed to be emotional.

Other artists, such as Florence and the Machine are creating better, more interesting music with the same techniques. Seek them out instead of wasting your time on this one.

Throughout Father of the Bride, a record with half-baked political commentary (“Something’s happening in the country / And the government’s to blame”) and lazy wordplay (“All I do is lose but baby / All I want’s to win”), it feels as if Koenig turned away from what made his band so great in the first place, instead electing to adopt a sound that doesn’t necessarily fit him, one that comes off as derivative and frequently boring.

A sidestep that’s as easy to admire as it is hard to love.

Prewitt's songs take their time unfolding, giving the album a meditative quality that's pretty admirable. [#14, p.105]

It’s an ideal time to simultaneously start over and glance back, which Walker does on Sycamore Meadows, trading the glammy style of his prior solo work for competent, traditional radio rock....Then again, you’ll need a high threshold for boorishness to enjoy his frequent autobiographical nostalgia for substance abuse, pubescent defloration and venereal disease.

In terms of mere diversion, though, the perfectly titled Hold On Now, Youngster… is best administered in small amounts; otherwise, you run the risk of overdose.

By track four, a whimsical-by-numbers reverie called “Dinosaurs on the Mountain,” American Head starts to fall off an American cliff. The tempos are slow enough to deflate even Coyne’s considerable charm, and the record’s rootsy, pastoral spin on the Lips’ sound is undermined by the band’s maximalist production ethos. Nearly every song is overstuffed with queasy synth textures and sleek, digitized strings, and Coyne can’t resist warping his vocals in a grab-bag of ugly processors.

It’s not terrible, it’s mostly pleasant to listen to, it’s beautifully produced and it’s easy to recognize the skill it takes to craft their saintly, synth-driven sound. But when you couple a critical reputation like theirs with the band’s own claim of making a big artistic jump, mostly pleasant to listen to shouldn’t cut it.

Some of Brad Albetta's production veers toward generic pop and threatens to bury both Wainwright's distinctive voice and her lyrics. [Apr/May 2005, p.131]

Most of Songs balances caustic lyrics with beautiful power-pop interludes. [Jun/Jul 2006, p.119]

Put in context, White Chalk serves her purposes, much as Bruce Springsteen’s "Nebraska" served his. On initial listen, the album is not a step forward, nor is it a step back, but rather a lateral move intended to leave breathing room for her next attack.

Citrus is the crossroads where My Bloody Valentine and Sonic Youth mingle. [Aug 2006, p.88]

It's on solo turns like "High Days"... that the elder statesman resounds much like... Bob Dylan recently did, stymieing a new generation with his continued craftsmanship. [Dec 2006, p.93]

This album rocks harder than 2003's The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place, and it's more sinister, too. [Mar 2007, p.67]

On the heels of 2011’s critically hailed D, Corsicana Lemonade is a plain, uninspiring disappointment.

The intensity of his voice never completely gels with the bright instrumentation. [Apr/May 2005, p.138]

Hitchcock returns to his trademark: arpeggiated guitars swirling around hyperactive basslines with whimsical lyrics cloaked in harmony that turn dark without warning. [Oct 2006, p.76]

Only a tender take on Tom Waits' "(Looking For) The Heart of a Saturday Night" gives Peyroux the glimmer of modernity Perfect World so desperately craves. [Oct 2006, p.80]

These songs feel heavy and significant enough--due to dynamic production and hooky choruses--even if we don’t know exactly what they mean.

It's the band's fussiest, most elaborately conceived work to date. [Nov 2006, p.83]

Outside of a filmic context and stamped with the name Pearl Jam, several of the songs fall flat, dragging down an otherwise upbeat and enjoyable release.

Where these two songs [“Darkseid” and “4ÆM”] burst with fervor, Miss_Anthropocene’s other tracks often stumble and limp.

Everything I loved about Fever... is minimized on this follow-up, replaced by a more temperate jangle. [Jun/Jul 2006, p.129]

Benson doesn't win any points for innovation, but his deft musicianship and confident vocal presence are sure to please those who never tire of a good tune. [Apr/May 2005, p.137]

Strikes a nice balance between Shakira's more straightforward earlier sound and the bluster of her big crossover hits. [Aug/Sep 2005, p.122]

Crows isn’t without merit—Moorer’s voice is beautiful, and the themes are on an emotional canvas that anyone over 13 with a normal amount of chromosomes has experienced, making her album relatable if not particularly memorable.

She has the potential to be the next Ann Peebles, a real superstar in the blues world. But first she needs to snap that leash.

Even the bright spots in the album’s composition—the off-beat piano cascades in “Death By A Thousand Cuts” and the pulsating synth of “Cruel Summer” (thank you, St. Vincent) are particular standouts—are overshadowed by the musical anticlimax on most tracks, especially on “The Archer.”

Ultimately, Russian Circles pummel too politely.

Entering Heaven Alive is seldom actively bad, but the most interesting component of either of White’s 2022 albums is that, well, there are two of them.

On The Haunted Man, Khan continues to pursue a similar approach to combining ambition and concision, but, unfortunately, the result is a disappointingly tepid album.

Whereas that album [Several Shades of Why] revealed the Dinosaur Jr frontman's surprising musical and lyrical range, Demolished Thoughts only reveals Moore's particular limitations.

Where Want One emphasized his ability to soar, Want Two drowns him in costumes; his range actually sounds restricted when you hear the same droopy-lidded croon against such varying backdrops.

Other Worlds is an immersive, expansive listen, filled with warm electro-dub grooves and plenty of ear-tickling headphone details--but it can also be a snooze.

With the title character appearing in several songs amid frequent descriptions of desert landscape, Josephine sounds like a concept album, at times tedious or academic....The Co. redeem these songs by creating beautiful scenery for Molina’s long, hard drive.

Infuriatingly inconsistent. [Dec 2006, p.90]

He set out to depict the pains of contemporary Chicago, but he ended up just making another Common album.

Rice, singing [on "Light Industry"] about “Bennie and the Jets and dreary weekend sex,” plays perfectly into the song’s hesitant mood. It’s the one moment on Gulp! where his audible exhaustion fits, a song that makes you wonder what the rest of the album would have be like if only the band could translate Rice’s weariness into something more suited to their strengths. Instead, Sports Team take a swing with Gulp! and barely make contact.

At root, the gritty, back-to-the-garage drive of these pop tunes adds a layer of grease that makes them stick. [Apr 2007, p.58]

Ornate but unremarkable headphone listening. [Oct 2006, p.80]

What emerges from Set ’em Wild, Set ’em Free is the realization that Akron/Family is maddeningly unknowable and, essentially, a product of all these influences rolled up into one gigantic, take-it-or-leave-it stringball.

Generally less intense and more coy, ponderous and forced [than Keep On Your Mean Side]. [Apr/May 2005, p.132]

This is either one of 2007’s most refreshing or most grating albums, and there’s a hair’s breadth in between. Swerving but creative, Rise Above may wear on repeated listens but still it connects more than it should.

Tonally, however, Bish Bosch offers nothing dramatically new, just (a lot more) of what Walker's done before.

Blessing is merely good, solid rock.

Pierce could still use lessons from Stereolab or Aloha on how to shape textures into songs. [Aug/Sep 2005, p.133]

While never unpleasant, Lucky represents a slowdown from the roll Nada Surf has been on.

Though much of the blandness can be attributed to Matt Rollings' MOR production, one is left wishing an artist of Carpenter's considerable talents would eschew the aural dreck and truly shine. [May 2007, p.68]

Dirty Projectors, his self-titled rebirth, is therapeutic and at times frustratingly insular, full of dazzling and meticulous electronic textures that bely the melancholia underneath.

This record is not for everybody--including, I suspect, the majority of Arctic Monkeys fans. Nonetheless, Turner deserves props for unleashing his inner Bowie and embracing artifice with such nerve and verve.

The album has the instantaneous feel of a blog. [Aug 2006, p.93]

Unfortunately it feels mostly like an over-concentrated mess of misplaced ambitions.

The Blind Boys of Alabama are probably the world’s hippest septuagenarians.

The Outsider consistently grabs at transcendence only to watch it recede. [Aug/Sep 2005, p.110]

Levon coaxes an intricately textured tone from his saxophone on 'Over Her Shoulder,' but generally, Joe’s erudition gets the better of him on this strangely dim and twinkleless album.

Whereas BSS' two previous albums indulge the group's pop sensibilities while showcasing its knack for rock anthems, Forgiveness cremates and scatters these strengths over an intimidating and overwrought runtime.

Making a Door Less Open isn’t as memorable as its predecessors on its own: Toledo’s vision as a whole never feels truly fleshed out, representing the first legitimate misfire in the career of one of this generation’s most talented indie-rock songwriters.

Sounds more ambitious than Coxon's effortless riffs let on. [Apr/May 2005, p.131]

So by all means pick up With the Lights Out, but go ahead and trash the curiously un-Nirvana-like packaging, discard the heat-sensitive (!) box, pitch the liner notes, maybe even throw away the DVD.

Something is a generally enjoyable, but nonetheless generally unremarkable next step for the band.

All of Tin Can's shifting tempos make you feel like you're getting a new song each time, but really, you've heard it all before.

The lack of sticky material that has beset each of her albums since 1992’s "Ingénue" continues with the self-written, self-produced Watershed, preventing it from rising above the level of tasteful mood music.

Meadow may amount to less than the sum of its parts, but those parts are often pretty great. [Sep 2006, p.78]

With Real Emotional Trash, he proves he can retain both, leaving behind the controlled one-man-band environment of 2005’s Face the Truth and issuing his most eclectic and unpredictable album yet.

Young uncorks his storied one-two punch, mounting a pair of sweeping, detailed social narratives while ripping away at the guitar strings, laying his psyche bare. Long may he rave.

A lusher, synthier and all-around grandiose slab of shoegazer emoting and New Age cinematics. [#14, p.120]

For being one of the first big punk albums in post-Trump America, Wolves doesn’t howl nearly enough and rarely shows its fangs.

Wonderful as they are, imagining the 76-year-old “Rocket 88” creator singing the weary gospel of “Remember When (Side A)” or the reflective “Things Ain’t Like They Used To Be” makes Dan Auerbach’s vocals sound tragically demo-like.

Her voice isn't a particularly versatile instrument, but it radiates a certain dignity and keeps the focus on her well-crafted songs. [Nov 2006, p.85]

At times, Mascis and Co. sound perfectly at home amidst a wall of distortion (see the bouncy, hook-driven 'I Want You to Know'). But for the most part, they sound exhausted.

The bulk of Roadhouse Sun, however, hews too closely to bland bar rock, as if they’re drinking Bud Lights instead of Shiner Bocks.

These are lifeless non-revelations married to engrossing tunes.

The band’s latest is a slight improvement, though the self-indulgence and lack of focus are still in evidence.

Even with Gab’s phonetic prowess and all that time to prepare for launch, Escape 2 Mars doesn’t reach the transcendent heights of its sublime, lushly orchestrated predecessor, ultimately feeling less like an epic interplanetary voyage and more like space camp.

It’s a recipe for Joyce Manor at their slickest power pop yet, even as it lacks the narrative depth we’re used to.

Centipede Hz is not their worst album as some will believe--or as its dense ugliness will first sound--and it may continue to reveal itself over time like TV on the Radio's Nine Types of Light or Spoon's Transference.

There’s a genuinely evocative album buried under the obnoxiousness.

This should go down in Mountain Goats lore as "The Quiet Album." [Sep 2006, p.82]

Track after track is slathered in layers of horns and guitars and synths until the songs underneath are no longer discernible.

Its ideas tend to outnumber its hooks. [Apr/May 2006, p.102]

But cliché is not the only thing that mars “Thames” and other tunes... It’s the lethargy of the tempos, the navel-gazing compositional complexity, the empty flashiness of the acoustic-guitar runs and over-enunciated words.

There’s some beautiful string parts, synth that rolls off sullenly into a distant horizon, and a pretty mean glockenspiel on “For You Always,” but the vocals ruin it. They don’t fit at all. It makes the album hard to swallow in the end, like an amazing deep dish pizza covered in green onions.

Too often though, the digitized productions act as ?ller, sounding forced.

The end result is an incredibly inoffensive album, one that’s perfectly lovely without offering any striking new ideas or features that make it memorable.

Its coda features a lone, breathy synth that unfurls like a tattered flag planted high atop a snow-covered peak, and, like the band’s best work, the song is comparable to little else in the pop/indie landscape—a far cry from the tepid feel that permeates too much of this Mess.