The giddy shift towards pop and even traditional dance music structure that Mouse on Mars take here is so irresistibly fun and persuasive that the very thought of loyalists furrowing their brows and crossing their arms is comical.

It's a long, occasionally ponderous listen... but it's an impressive and rewarding journey that moves between prog, space-rock and subdural transmissions in ancient alien tongues.

City is a noticeably fleshier beast than its predecessor; the album is lush and sophisticated with hooks aplenty.

More sonically adventurous than its mainstream look suggests.

The only real problem with i is the sheer volume of excellence we've all come to expect from Merritt.

Green Imagination succeeds because it rarely seems obvious or disingenuous, even as it indulges in copious quantities of shamelessly retro fun.

White Hot Peach displays a precise and inventive nature that has a lot in common with Guided By Voices' Do the Collapse.

Unabashedly mellow and reflective, Burn the Maps may not hook mainstream music fans who've been conditioned to expect a tidily rhyming chorus ever thirty seconds.

The intimacy is startling. The introspection is as charming as it is insightful.

The melodies are hauntingly memorable; the band is smart enough to add just enough supporting touches to augment and support, without ever threatening to overwhelm.

Stereo/Mono is less polished than Westerberg's other solo efforts, but the song quality is consistent.

A discernibly West Coast-influenced affair, it's an album of anecdotal moments set to a glorious country-rock backdrop: graciously sun-kissed melodies, vocal harmonies, neat arrangements and refreshing, varied instrumentation.

Instead of embracing the angularity of the self-conscious Britpop and New Wave scenes of yore, Field Music embrace the sugary pop-rock that defined the first British Invasion.

By returning to the drawing board they used to create Ego War, Dinsdale and Franks have created a bigger, better version of their all-inclusive dance-pop/hip-hop.

What's most fascinating about Welcome to the Monkey House is that, in the midst of copious drug usage, heavy drinking and god knows what else, the Dandy Warhols have emerged with an album so cleverly coherent that it simply couldn't have come from anywhere else.

Nastasia's gaze is still directed inwards, obsessed with the vivid minute imagery of relationships and an increasing dark streak -- a still-blackening air.

As ordered as it is wild, as gorgeous as it is gruesome, Lay of the Land is indeed a ballsy record.

Broder gently provokes your senses with curious combinations of divergent instruments, creating a collection of progressive musical oddities that is entertaining as well as musically fascinating.

Wherever I Am, I Am What's Missing remains grounded in electronic composition, but the subtle distinctions between spacy trip-hop epics (see "Diamonds and Stones) and booty-shaking dance-floor numbers help to keep the band's dynamic fresh, even after ten years.

This is utterly original, honest, intelligent music that sounds like nothing you'll hear elsewhere. It's not an easy listen, but it's well worth the time it takes to get to know it.

One hell of a good album.... [It] retains the intelligence of Prewitt's Sea and Cake work and melds it to rock and roll songcraft.

Its startling brand of dreamlike space-folk, while reminiscent of earlier efforts like Stereopathic Soul Manure, is a wholly unique venture.

There's a definite demand for FLA's art, and on Epitaph, they're at the top of their game.

The music here is never outright parody, and there's evidence that real work went into creating this record -- it isn't a lightweight effort designed to cash in on retro-trendiness.

He barely sings above conversational volume -- a little bit raspy, rife with emotion and completely convincing. It's a perfect fit for his songs, and for the half-broken but lovely and endearing production style with which he has realized them.

Their bouncily hummable tunes and tortured lyrics about girls might evoke thoughts of groups like Weezer, but these guys aren't nerd-rock clones.

[Congleton's] studio wizardry shows in the bolder array of sounds he's plundered and the crispness with which they're delivered, while his improved songwriting shines through in bolder arrangements and a tighter instrumental focus.

If you can't get enough Xiu Xiu, this album is definitely for you.

A welcome blast from the past.

An intelligent brew of bare-bones Casio drumbeats, static-driven guitar lines and widescreen arrangements.

Tyrannosaurus Hives has hit garage rock's heart like a huge syringe of adrenaline, and even if it doesn't awaken the hibernating beast, its furious tempest is a blinding final gasp for a genre that has repeatedly rewarded mediocrity.

The songs are simpler, livelier, a little more direct and a lot more hummable.

This is one tight little record.

Kinsella and his crew finally seem to have found a way of expressing themselves that doesn't feel introverted and exclusive.

It takes Ta Det Lungt a while to lay down its grooves in your head, but once it does, they stay there.

Give Up's one real pitfall is that, on the whole, it sounds almost exactly like you'd expect a collaboration between these two men would, or for that matter, should, sound -- which certainly isn't to say that the music isn't enjoyable, or memorable.

It pulls from a grab bag of influences, from Bob Dylan to Broadway, The Who to honky-tonk, and tosses them around with apparent abandon. In spite of this (or maybe because of it), The FFs spin all of this into a sound that's consistent, yet almost magically unique.

At times strong, at other times vulnerable, and invariably honest, Donelly both affirms and fulfills the promise of her songwriting talent with Beauty Sleep.

A mature, elegant effort, full of richness and depth.

All the best songs here seem to launch from the point at which Technique left off; they have the same bounce, the same speed and many of the same hooks (especially in "Bert's Theme", "Kashmere" and "I've Got a Feeling") as that Hook-dominated New Order record.

Aficionados of WGC's autumnal, melancholy sound will find this fifth full-length release comparable to the group's previous four, only more refined and maybe a little more assured.

Another eclectic, bold and idiosyncratic concoction of modern jazz.

Many fans may be turned off by the abrupt shifts in pace and style, but engaged listening reveals an overarching sensibility that guides the project from beginning to end.

You'd think there wasn't much left to do with the roots-oriented rock formula, but Albatross proves that there's plenty of life and passion and intelligence left in the genre.

For sixty-two glorious minutes, Barry Adamson can add a little danger, a little glamor and a little seamy excess to your humdrum existence.

This is Lanois's most accomplished solo recording in a decade, and in its finest moments it even eclipses For the Beauty of Wynona in terms of sheer goosebump-inducing musical soliloquy.

Despite the diverse array of styles on display throughout Lost Planets..., this is Sprout's most cohesive set of songs to date.

Rejected Unknown is a musically rich, catchy-as-hell, sad-as-all-fucking-get-out journey.

A truly solid album.

There are no breathers in Hypermagic Mountain. There are only a series of knuckle sandwiches in the form of throbbing, distorting, gesticulating low-end ear bleeders.

If you set the more gratuitous avant-gardities aside, you're left with a fair amount of haunting, beautiful and challenging music.

While Davis's performance draws from a broad and intriguing range of influences, she has the makings of a singer in a class of her own. And rather than allowing Davis's uniqueness to carry them, the other members of Denali clearly favor a similarly eclectic aesthetic, riddling their music with pleasant musical surprises.

The last thing you'd expect from a roster of 27 is breathing room, but Son of Evil Reindeer is full of it; I've found a lot of unexpected touches in the short time I've had the disc.

Picking up where Wasp’s Nest left off, Hyacinths and Thistles finds Merritt constructing a complex sonic playground in which a host of guest vocalists have come to frolic. While the songs might initially be Merritt’s, each vocalist manages to transform each piece into something uniquely personal.

Elephant isn't one of those albums that'll change your life, or your tastes, or even the face of your music collection -- it's just a strong and consistent collection of powerful rock songs.

It's as enlightened and as interesting as Ministry has been in years.

If you skip the first track and stick mostly to the first two-thirds of the record, A Question of Temperature ranks as one of the most enjoyable albums of this still-young year.

Twitchy, insistent and more kinetic than a dancefloor covered with electric eels, Anxiety Always should establish Adult. as the anti-Fischerspooner -- an '80s-inflected duo whose garish stylistic flourishes are far outweighed by their extensive resonant merits.

It's intelligent and novel and manages to avoid sounding clichéd -- a bona fide feat these in these postmodern days

I hope that These are the Vistas doesn't go down in history as "that record where the jazz guys played Nirvana", because it is much more than that.

As mindlessly captivating an album as you're likely to hear all year.

Buy Turn On the Bright Lights. It's great. You'll enjoy it. But don't mistake the next best thing for the Next Big Thing. Interpol still have a lot of proving to do.

Underworld's music rarely makes dull listening, even at its most linear.

Bold, adventurous, whimsical and witty, this debut offering from Circulatory System proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that there are still signs of life to be found in the Elephant 6 collective.

Body of Song is a record that plays like a book.

One of the year's best knock-down-drag-out rock 'n' roll records.

Kids, parents and nerdy long-time fans alike can take something out of this.

Vanderslice's stories differ from those on earlier albums largely in setting, but Pixel Revolt's musical elements have taken an astonishing leap from their predecessors.

On The Facts of Life, [Luke] Haines and musical co-conspirator cum multi-instrumentalist John Moore construct a vast sonic wonderland in which [Sarah] Nixey’s starry-eyed vocals are given free reign.

Coxon's effortless cool comes to the fore, imbuing each song with a wiry, infectious energy.

Never, Never, Land not only escapes the expectations and pitfalls that dogged Psyence Fiction, but succeeds on a new set of strengths.

While the disc's increased emphasis on electronic textures, balanced songwriting and non-linear production is a welcome breath of fresh air, it lends itself to a feeling of sameness that becomes increasingly apparent as the record progresses.

There's a little something for everybody hidden within this mysterious box.

Fulfilled/Complete has a raw, compelling urgency.

There's a feeling of constant evolution over the course of any given track; subtle changes in swing, intonation and attack let you in on the secret that this is no automaton, but a living, breathing entity that's being brought into existence.

Their fizzy confections still bristle with the same unfettered enthusiasm for retro kitsch, only now they come wrapped in a timeless pop sheen and confetti-sprinkled sharpness that's as inscrutable as it is enchanting.

Revolutions is pretty breathtaking.

Upon first listen, it seems easy to say that you've heard this before -- but if you take the time to let it sink in, it is obviously not the same band or sound as Belle and Sebastian.

While they consistently get dismissed as "generic indie rock" by folks who lack the patience to seriously dig into their oeuvre, they are as multi-layered and subtle a band as you'll find.

Abattoir/Orpheus is not as immediate as some of Cave's previous triumphs, but you'll take pleasure in unearthing new sentiments and innuendo within its walls.

Kidnapped By Neptune is one of those rare albums that's both sexy and dirty, and isn't guilty of trying to be either.

If the Throwing Muses are not still at the top of their game, they are very, very close.

A fascinatingly cinematic, image-laden and claustrophobic album that feels like the someone else's nightmare.

They sound poppy and upbeat and melancholy all at once.

You can pinpoint a little Beach Boys here, some Nick Drake there and a bit of Sunshine Fix in-between, but the Fruit Bats sound like the Fruit Bats.

Does nothing if not cement her place as one of the most unique, intelligent and subtly disarming artists in music today.

Punk Rock bears little resemblance to the commodified dross that passes for punk in 2004; it's proud, smart, defiantly working-class stuff that'll remind you why the movement mattered.

It's a languid and elaborate affair -- a throbbing amalgamation of wiry, Au Pairsian art-funk, steely Gang of Four resolve and Cabaret Voltaire-inflected industrial howl.

A rich, varied and emotionally resonant album that eschews AOR sugar fixes for smart, graceful songwriting and soulful but unshowy performances.

Whereas the band once seemed to dawdle and wander aimlessly through beds of noise, this new tight formation sees hooks, standard song structures and recognizable melodies.

Even though Lemonjelly.ky's cover looks like something straight out of Wavy Gravy’s closet, its sound owes much more to the work of '60s luminaries like John Barry, Esquivel and Jean-Jacques Perrey.

McNeely and Matz have found their calling and left a lasting impression with this fierce yet fragile album.

You won't be sure whether you blacked out from a seizure, gave birth to twins or simply had one of the best musical experiences of your life.

A sensitive, fully mature contribution to the pop music lexicon, it proves that, like the rare child actor who actually works well into adulthood, The Cardigans have weathered a difficult transition.

While it has a few rough patches, the Hartnoll brothers' latest effort proves that they're still at the top of the electronic music heap.

Its ten tracks wend their way through a forest of oblique metaphors, kaleidoscopically fractured images and alt-country instrumentation, their path lit only by the wounding fragility of Orth's voice.

The joy of Lost in Revelry is its balance. It's assured, but freely flaunts its imperfections; it's polished, but clearly revels in its most amateurish moments.

The band should be proud of Yanqui U.X.O. -- it proves that they're not hopelessly married to the fine-print details of their formula, and that they can still wring fresh ideas from familiar territory.