Sorry I Make You Lush runs on fresh sounds and non-drowsy wit.

Producer Jim Diamond has distilled the manic energy of one of the world's greatest live bands in Electric Sweat, and if the result is not letter-perfect, it is raw and true and powerful.

As much as it hurts to admit it, not everybody will get so much out of Smog's latest understated masterpiece.

It's everything we've come to expect from Forrest in one gloriously hack 'n' sawed package, meticulously pieced together from his wide-ranging record collection.

Pig Lib is the kind of album you think about even when it's not on, that slowly develops for you and creates synapses and connections that maybe Malkmus never intended.

It may not be the best album of their career, but it's certainly the most interesting -- and a reliable cure for your indifference.

It's all so beautifully simple, especially moody acoustic guitar/piano laments like "Fewer Words", that you almost miss how effective the arrangements are -- gorgeous, heartfelt melodies yield odes to a life that's consistently surprising and alive with optimism.

Expansively orchestrated, Nixon ultimately comes off as beautiful but slightly disturbing...

While Rejoicing and Niño Rojo were clearer, simpler and more cohesive, Cripple Crow may actually be the better record. It feels exactly like the kind of album Devendra Banhart ought to have playing in his head -- a cacophony of cool sounds, a plethora of contradictory ideas, a patchwork quilt of psychedelically bright colors.

You can listen to the disc over and over and never get bored; there's always a new musical idea to discover in a place that you didn't expect to hear it.

There's still plenty of grating screaming and yelling on From the Desk of Mr. Lady, underscored by a strong punk ethos.

Though it sounds strange at first, Skinner's delivery is so absorbing that the accent issue will be an afterthought before opener "Turn the Page" has ended.

While Politics of the Business follows in the conceptual footsteps of its forbears, its all-too-literal sense of moral responsibility does get a tad tiresome, occasionally sagging into diluted dogma.

Control stands apart from previous Pedro the Lion releases because its harder material is among its most satisfying.

The sounds that pour forth from the teamwork of David Eugene Edwards, Jean-Yves Tola and co. echo another time so completely, that at times you might think these sounds were recovered, rather than newly created.

It's a well-thought out and solidly executed effort by an artist who hasn't allowed himself to become set in his ways.

The disc's effectiveness comes from the subtlety of the theme as much as its pervasiveness.

What could have been an awkward marriage of incompatible styles turned into a vibrant, invigorating blast of musical enthusiasm, free of restrictive genre definitions.

Rarely has such a painfully awkward adolescence led to such B-boy-ish eloquence, but as he always has, Wolf makes fronting his own band look effortless.

It's Golightly's most genuine, dark-struttin' My Generation-type record to date.

It probably won't sway rock and roll, and it most likely won't change your life, but it's a solid disc from a consistent band who haven't let their major-label affiliation change them.

The unpredictable song structures are fresh and innovative, too, twisting off in unexpected directions mere seconds before you can remember what they remind you of.

Year of Meteors isn't the sound of ground being broken; it's an artist growing ever more confident, but never overly comfortable, in her style.

Most [tracks] work quite well with the multifaceted rhythms and constantly evolving beats that make each of the tracks here a true expression of creativity.

While Educated Guess may not be her best album to date (a near impossible-to-achieve expectation for an artist 21 albums in), it marks yet another transformation of her talents.

Like waking up one morning to discover you suddenly like coffee, this is one of those albums that feels natural; the discord and the overwrought weepiness, the experimentalism and the simplicity -- everything works. It fits.

Far more mysterious and (perhaps not coincidentally) alluring than most Buckner outings, Dents and Shells is a claustrophobic comedown album wrapped in disillusion and sorrow.

Their music is interesting, intelligent and exciting, and it'll make you smile really, really big.

The Power Out's most impressive feature is the musicianship and songwriting skill on display.

Tanglewood Numbers' hummable songs and often-arresting lyrics are impressive, but Berman would be nowhere without a little help from his many friends.

Bazooka Tooth not only gets better as the disc goes on -- the beats get thicker, the songs come together more fully and Rock stops proselytizing long enough to let your head bob and relax -- but it actually improves with repeated listens.

Dizzee's voice still sounds like a helium-inflected hiccup, and the beats still sound like they were recorded directly from a Nintendo, if not an Atari.

In the best possible way, the album is a painful listening experience, forcing the listener into immediate and excruciating catharsis: you look into the eyes of a cold stranger, and see nothing but ugliness and painful regret.

It's filthy, low-budget fun that's still plenty fucked up, whether you're a first-timer or a hardcore Peaches fanatic.

It remains to be seen whether this is the record for which American Analog Set's fans have been waiting a decade, but Set Free is definitely one of the most consistent, mature albums they've made to date.

The hour-long Love & Distortion never loses steam; it delivers on its title, and is unique enough to avoid lyrical banality.

Imagine, if you will, The Creation, 13th Floor Elevators and Bruce Haack allowed to run wild in Abbey Road studios for two weeks, and you’ll have an insight into the Howl’s sound.

Yes, this is a funny record, but it's not a comedy record; Har Mar has an acrobatic voice that rivals pretty much any male in R&B today, and he writes some genuinely catchy, sticky melodies that lots of other acts would kill for.

United States of Atlanta is guilty of just about every modern hip-hop cliché in the book... but its glimmering, capped-toothed, post-millennial party platform is a rousing success in spite of itself.

In terms of pure power-pop delight, Velocity of Sound is hard to beat -- it's one of those records that taps directly into your musical pleasure center and jabs repeatedly at the best bits.

The more time you spend with Summer Sun, the more fun it turns out to be.

Even if their big 'n' bashy brand of party-happy tech-hop gets a bit familiar by album's end, it's destined to be a staple of 2003's party mixes.

An album of didactic power and limitless ambition.

You'll feel lost and totally submerged in a sublime experience that's timeless, exciting and free from boundaries.

This is a welcome addition to the Giant Sand corpus, and an impressive demonstration of the continuing relevance of the band, more than two decades into its existence.

Geogaddi isn't a classic.... Disappointing, however, it is not.

Real Gone may not rock your world in the way that 2002's musical one-two punch of Blood Money and Alice did, but you'll still be glad to hear it.

The Sunset Tree feels like Darnielle's most personal record to date, and it's certainly his most immediately accessible, musically speaking.

Here, finally, is a goth album for people who hate goth, an electronic album for people who hate electronica, and a pop album for everyone else.

They've traded amped-up aggression for seething sexuality without losing any of their muscular bite.

Although not every track here is of the highest quality, all sixteen tracks are woven together expertly.

For all the divergent stylistic ground Wood/Water covers, nothing seems forced, signaling that the changes in the group's sound have come on their own terms and are not simply change for change's sake.

Imagine a less sardonic John Wesley Harding, prone to occasional bouts of husky, Peter Gabriel-style vocal sincerity, and you'll have the basic idea.

At their best, Some Girls can sound like the Stones fronted by Margo Timmins of the Cowboy Junkies -- a contradictory mix of rough passionate instrumentals and vocals that are airy and unconcerned.

It seamlessly combines the choicest bits and bobbles of other acts into an overwhelming patchwork of sound and fury, but in the process, the band occasionally loses sight of their own identity.

Fans will appreciate Tour De France's high standard of unadorned synthesis, thematic melody and Autobahn minimalism, with epiphanic pleasure and not a little nostalgia.

Another staggering batch of Nashville by-way-of New York twanging folk-punk ditties that will all but solidify his reputation as the Gram Parsons of the no-depression set.

Not content to rely on the same old drum machine patterns and tired beats, TRR and I-Sound have concocted a vast sonic brew that blends elements of hip-hop, jazz and techno into a seriously stinging cocktail.

Add N to (X) have retained their sense of direction and honed their sound into a powerful and persuasive entity.

It's hard to put into words exactly what makes this album so appealing. The mindlessness of it all is a major selling point.

The album consistently takes control of your emotions.

The first My Morning Jacket whose songs reach the heights to which James's voice aspires.

Yoko is a much, much darker record than anything else in Beulah's canon.

Though not as darkly elegant as Permutation, Supermodified is still rife with sophisticated Brazilian lounge-jazz samples and unpredictable drum'n'bass skitterings, this time augmented with more overt nods to hip-hop and Aphex Twin-style sympho-electronica.

The songs on About a Boy are all exactly what we've come to expect from Gough, and the disc's lack of cohesion is its only real failing.

As beautiful as much of the album is, it all starts to blend together after a while.

It's encouraging to see Murphy, twenty-odd years into his career, moving so confidently in new directions rather than rehashing old glories.

Deathsentences' series of white-noise sculptures is certainly interesting, but the materials that accompany it will have a far more lasting effect upon your consciousness.

It's rather spotty (both in production and songwriting) and unfocused.

You might expect the resulting album to be disjointed and schizo, but it's actually a cohesive collection of potential hit singles held together by an incomparable performer.

This straightforward pop bias makes the disc sound more like a greatest hits package than an album.

Full of solid songwriting and catchy melodies that do not pander to the cliches so often found in mainstream pop/rock albums.

This is a big, sprawling, difficult but rewarding album, from a band whose reach exceeds its grasp, but only by a little.

While the nervous energy that has always been a key ingredient of the group’s sound (on record and otherwise) remains firmly intact, a newfound sense of responsibility and road-worn weariness occasionally rears its head, putting a bit of a damper on this otherwise upbeat record.

The disc is an absorbing listen, and a crucial weapon in any battle for subwoofer supremacy, but as far as generating an emotional response is concerned, it pretty much flatlines.

Though Faded Seaside Glamour proudly wears the jacket of its influences for all to see, the band stitch it up so well that you could never accuse it of being a knockoff.

I can't imagine a single Westerberg fan being displeased with Dead Man Shake.

Noah's Ark retrenches CocoRosie in their signature sound and gives us a glimpse of their indubitably eccentric future.

Divine Operating System has something for everyone (unless, of course, you have a rabid hatred of disco... then you might not dig it too much).

In the process of refining their sound, Dressy Bessy appear to have sacrificed a little too much of their uniqueness.

All of the tunes are energetic, but their similarity will definitely become apparent by the time you reach the album's end.

A thump-and-groove driven Cadillac ride down the shadowy streets of Motown.

Push the Button isn't wall-to-wall brilliant; it has its share of lulls and, for want of a better term, dubious inspirations. However, when it works, it's so on that you won't want to turn it off.

Holopaw's delicate, subdued second album lacks their debut's sharp peaks and valleys.

While it's not Everett's most focused effort, musically speaking, Shootenanny! triumphs by projecting an uncharacteristically jovial mood.

Despite the band's penchant for uneven electronic dirges, Out Of The Shadow is a very accessible work -- perhaps too accessible for indie enthusiasts who thrive on innovation and sonic exploration.

This spruced-up EP is devoid of the rampant stylistic deviations that have ruled their later work, instead trading upon simple acoustic song structures and soulful vocal leads that recall the strummy days of I Hope Your Heart is not Brittle.

Honeycomb isn't a great album -- it's too tentative and self-restrained for that -- but it's quite a good one.

Yes, then, Arab Strap are a terrific band, with possibilities that seem infinite. Still, I am certain that the songs on The Red Thread could have been better if the group had bypassed its trademark vocal style and actually played along with the lyrics, singing as if something in the lives of its characters were at stake.

While the band revisits and expands upon musical ideas from its past, Nextdoorland never seems like warmed-over Soft Boys history; the arrangements are exponentially deeper, the playing is energetic and economical, and the songwriting has clearly benefited from Robyn Hitchcock's twenty-year career.

There are no sweeping creative revelations -- are there ever, on eighth albums? -- but nothing here sullies the group's legacy either.

Damage is definitely more up-front about its hip-hop influences than past Blues Explosion records, but the core Blues Explosion identity remains intact.

Dirty Dancing is a thoughtful, darkly humorous album -- a consistently danceable mix of state of the art electronic music trends.

Deliberately slow in tempo, delicately arranged, emphatically "dreamy" in tone, Misery is a Butterfly is lovely, but also difficult going for Blonde Redhead fans.

The short-but-sweet syrupiness of the past is gone, and the sound that has taken its place is heavier, mustier and a hell of a lot harder to swallow.

Plays Music sounds like stuff you've heard before, but there's a special, vibrant joy between its notes.

Despite its handful of flaws, Systems/Layers is rife with ideas, and delivers its message, however encoded, with elegance and ingenuity.

Despite the amount of rock and soul that Gahan tries to inject into the stew, Paper Monsters only occasionally breaks free of the Mode paradigms.