This time the throwbacks are so brazenly imitative, they might raise the copyright hackles of the earliest copyright infringers.

The Greatest Story would be a stronger statement if it werenâ??t for the conflicting cornerstones of conscientious-rapper soapboxing and standard-issue gangsta themes heâ??s laid at its foundation.

The Ohio trio took their time with Feel Anything, arriving at this more focused, albeit less celestial, effort.

Too often on Radio Wars, velvet-voiced singer Juanita Stein seems content to hover around a handful of notes, and that makes it hard to distinguish this stuff from similarly styled fare by the Duke Spirit or Doves.

A showcase for some undervalued compositional chops.

As Blur, Morrissey, and even Oasis learned the hard way, engaging in parochial social criticism — as much of Yours Truly does with its references to youth clubs and housing estates — doesn’t connect with more than a cult of Anglophiles here in the US.

The group’s second album continues in the same vein as the generally winning debut--only now the arrangements are lusher and more ornate and, in a few unfortunate cases, the songs are longer.

Merriweather Post Pavilion further smoothes out their sound, and though it's full of cool, orchestrated beauty, it lacks the playfulness and spontaneity that endeared so many to this group.

Alas, at this stage of the game, The Chaos may satisfy, but it rarely excites - something of a snag for a band whose whole purpose seems to be capturing in song the thrill of a thrill.

With Collapse into Now, there's enough reason to keep celebrating.

As you might have guessed, nobody but TSOOL completists (and Mojo subscribers) needs all this stuff. Yet within Communion's overload lurk a handful of neo-Nuggets nuggets.

Although the band's sonic stew isn't particularly remarkable or consistent (instrumentation oscillates between warm and comforting, and distant and anemic), their lyrics have a peculiar charm that keeps them alluring.

The mood ... is decidedly bleak- populated by disillusioned lovers and working class escapists, the lyrics splitting at the seams with dark religious imagery.

Blank is a product of the cut-and-paste era; nearly everything on I Love You, which arrives in the wake of several buzz-building collaborations with Spank Rock, seems like a tongue-in-cheek version of something else.

It's all a very pretty sequined package, but moving forward, the Hundred in the Hands might find their music as cornered as Captain Fetterman's troops were off the Bozeman Trail.

Craft Spells certainly live up to their name on this six-song EP, with the charm of its effortless, pixie-light production and the warm, plangent harp sounds of their major-key melodies.

This is a trick the band deploy again and again, using darkness of tone and lyrical bent as a foil for their almost overbearingly ebullient trill.

The duo can't possibly keep up this kind of frivolous pace, and several of the 15 tracks are just (and I apologize for using the term) chillwave jams--but nearly all are expertly crafted, and hedged with mirthy dance flavor.

There's no risk here, but there's plenty that's right.

Pleasant enough, and skillful, but all too familiar.

Initially, the album seems to lack focus, save a steady burn of fury. But the anarchy's in the lack of cohesion, opening with the hand-clapping force of "Burn a Miracle" and progressing manically toward the melodic woe of "Peace Out".

A few songs in, I was reminded that I hate mixtapes--or at least, I find it hard to make it all the way through them, especially when they're made by other people and especially when they're filled with weak endless dub reggae.

They seem hell-bent on pleasing everyone, and at times they succeed.

But that's just it; much here is good, even great, but it's all too familiar.

w h o k i l l may be strange on first pass, but only by its uniqueness, a music whose microgenre would disappear in a whiff were Ms. Garbus to have never stumbled upon it within her.

There's nothing particularly wrong with what Minaj has given us - her pipes are worthy of wide-ranging pop stardom - but the album is a misallocation of the talent and quirk that thrust her into the spotlight in the first place.

Texas's Trail of Dead settle into a nice groove somewhere between the two on their sixth album.

This is a subdued, atmospheric affair, rooted in bangs-in-the-face, black-polish-on-the-fingernails '80s rock.

Red Sparowes can’t shake the post-rock stereotype--but occasionally they do point the way forward.

NY’s Finest finds the legendary producer consistent, if not innovative.

Cohesion’s where you find it, but headphone delights are everywhere.

It’s still too lightweight to win any hip-hop race, but at least you’ll want to add K-OS’s name to your mental checklist as you peruse those small-rock-club listings.

Ambition might sound like an odd thing to chide a band for, but if Wolf Parade had figured out when to push the hooks and when to pull back the excess, Expo 86 would have shone.

There are rare glimmers here, but maturity sure is sobering.

This feast isn’t without a good deal of filler.

Jay dawns that ever-frustrating mush-mouth flow throughout the LP's duration, and only sounds awake when his bars are bookended by Kanye.

Push the Sky Away feels heavy on breath-taking and woodshedding, an album of waiting for sparks to ignite.

Mostly The Human Romance is just Darkest Hour reiterating a formula they already know. There's no need for a drastic overhaul, but some risks would enliven the flavors they're clearly intent on keeping.

A good deal of the album (particularly the first half) uses the new-fangled instrumentation sporadically, as an afterthought to a slightly darker version of the duo's time-honored techniques. This is where LP4, though flawlessly produced, is messy.

Subdued but not entirely resigned, Mitchell sings in a strong, assured voice that’s still warm and welcoming, though lowered by decades of ecologically unhip tobacco smoke.

It's like a late-aughts hipster cocktail.

When it's not ripping off Panic, Love Drunk seems to be catering to other mainstream audiences and the hipster crowd.... But once you get past all that, you'll find a few solid pop-rock tunes here.

When listening to Hippies, it's difficult to forget that Harlem have professed their love for Nirvana, and still more difficult to suppress the urge to tell them to turn down that bass already.

Respectable, serious, accomplished and... no fun.

Although the occasional inspired lyrical hook pokes through, all too often the need to match the amped-up production leads to generic blah in the words department.

Gemini's theater-rock is no pain to listen to, but true drama queens will want to get their fix elsewhere.

Everything about Free Dimensional is cheesy--from the mousey bedroom beats to the predictable synth lines to O'Regan's (hard) Soft Cell vocal delivery to the awkward, bumbling raps. Regardless, several songs are stunning.

Like labelmates Passion Pit, Freelance Whales trick out their wistful, post–Postal Service electro-pop with just enough record-nerd insularity to fend off cred-endangering Justin Bieber fans.

Metals packs more sonic punch than its 2007 predecessor, but the problem here is not with recording quality--it's libido.

It's kind of cool, kind of confusing, and kind of boring.

Costello’s flubbed lines are left intact and the album’s mixes can be wildly uneven, but missed perfections make for a pretty riveting whole.

Minimalist guitar work (it brings to mind the tonic-based, repetitive structures of later Don Caballero), tape-distressed drums, and banged metal work together to reduce the album's throwback feel and give an edge to the sing-alongs. Too often, however, the band either let these sounds overwhelm the songs or cobble them into throw-away vignettes that interrupt the otherwise drifting cadences.

Their new project has much of the same visceral energy of their old gig, but Mi Ami present it in a much more harmonious, affirming manner.

Hit the Waves is so heartfelt as a pastiche of '80s alternative music that it almost muscles its way into being brilliant.

As a wholly serious project, Warp Riders is self-indulgent and only passable.

Aside from the highlights, though, other cuts here fall short of album quality, especially the last three selections, which are paint-by-number displays of chops and over-seriousness.

The Tigers have no trouble doing vivacious and catchy without being cloying, so it's a shame they've shelved that skill.

Eschewing the live-in-the-studio roughness of 2004’s On My Way, he returns to the fuller production of his solo debut, 2002’s Sha Sha.

Joe is one of the last remaining beasts from the East, and as he demonstrates on the DJ Premier ringer "I'm Gone" and "At Last Supremacy" with Busta, he sounds better in his back yard than he does in trying to appease pedestrians with unnecessary Wayne and Jeezy cameos.

From moment to moment, Never's oddball quality can be a blessing, but it becomes more of a curse when the moment passes and there's little besides disparate pieces to hold onto.

[Their] strange blend of influences can be fascinating... but Instinct - clocking in at a bloated 14 tracks and 56 total minutes - runs out of gas way before reaching the finish line.

The result may surprise some just looking to get lost in Glowstick Land: sure, there are plenty of K-hole zone-outs, but just as often Zimmerman puts songcraft and danceability ahead of the usual sci-fi-filter tricks.

Just an okay record.

The disc is an appropriate soundtrack for springtime and new beginnings, and this Sigur Ros–lite of a solo project does carry Jonsi across the equinox without his bandmates-turned-family-men. But it sounds more like the work of a chick hatching than a free bird.

Dr Dee's well-defined boundaries mean it lacks the sense of adventure found in previous efforts, but Albarn deserves kudos for such artistic fearlessness.

His melodies, whether delivered in an affected falsetto (closer to Animal Collective than the Beach Boys) or a grumpy baritone, are simple and hummable to a fault--without the energy of the distorted cassette recording, I have a feeling the songs would be a bit too cloying.

The disc largely lacks the memorable song- writing Merritt is known for, and that deficit is only compounded by the misguided production.

Fans will welcome the grotesquely titled 'Ultra Vomit Craze' and 'Gag Shack,' reveling in subtle mood shifts found amid the ferocious racket. Skeptics and nay-sayers will remain unconvinced of the genre's ability to move beyond bratty outbursts.

It’s a mere change of scenery, then, that separates this from much of the Wedding Present’s canonical work; the scabrous schoolboy humor of their 1987 debut, "George Best," has become the scabrous, middle-aged cynicism of El Rey.

It’s a shame he doesn’t indulge more of his rock impulses, because his ornate mid-tempo predilections tend to water down his natural charisma.

He'll never be as good as he once was until he hooks up with funereal Balkan scales again, but imitation Magnetic Fields on "Santa Fe" is better than nothing, right?

By album's end, CSS are back to their old irreverent ways, screaming that title lyric repeatedly, nearly drowned out by sax blasts and cowbell.

Teenage Dream is front-loaded with synthetic whump-pop that fuses Perry's singular vocal nag to irresistible songsmithery.

In and Out of Control is a reined-in Raveonettes album with more differentiation among songs.

It's all well and good, but this experiment works best when Ditto showcases her snarly pipes, as on the break-up-themed cruncher "Open Heart Surgery." Otherwise, she's just awash in layers of electronica that dilute her Southern bite.

As dense and diggable as it may be, however, its sheer quantity of intel and change-ups can be euphorically overwhelming.

The songs all melt together after a while - they're charming but not memorable.

The constants are there; the group come off as authentic in their earnestness, even with lyrics ("I love your celebrity/the VPL in the SUV") that might look slipshod on paper. But no new ground is being broken.

Love Sign dips a little too far into the Fountains of Wayne kiddie pool.

Life Is Sweet! is best at its brightest and fastest....Slower, more contemplative tunes like "Romart," on the other hand, can get a little dreary (even if they're very pretty).

It's great to know the band still have some ire burning, but White Crosses is a crushing listen for someone who bought into Against Me!'s revolution.

On occasion, Noonan sets his sights on highbrow quarry, as in 'Reacharound,' which could pass for some unreleased Radiohead circa The Bends. But he’s at his best when he’s emphasizing accessibility over artiness.

Unless he goes all Malcolm X on us behind the walls, this solid release will be just a prelude to whatever morbid thoughts Prodigy has to share upon his release.

If the Jonases come up woefully short in the sensitivity department, they (nearly) make up for it with songwriting that's far more flavorful than that on Fearless or on the JoBros' previous disc, last year's "A Little Bit Longer."

The songs are what we've come to expect--approachable slacker jams mixed in with cursory love songs, and the occasional guitar solo that proves reverb and washed-out colors don't have the monopoly on nostalgia--but production is cleaner and energy levels are lower.

Fortunately, getting the money isn’t all this follow-up to last year’s breakthrough Let’s Get It cares about, and the singles here are fire.

It ain't exactly Bill Shakespeare (or Trojans), but it gets the job done.

Houston's version of Leon Russell's American Idol staple "A Song for You" works up to a deliciously cheesy club-pop climax. Still, with a pair of "I Believe I Can Fly"–style contributions from R. Kelly and a blustery Diane Warren ballad called "I Didn't Know My Own Strength," there's no denying the message that I Look to You was designed to hammer home. Expect fresh drama soon.

The King Is Dead is ear-openingly different for the Decemberists, but the pretty country-rock might soothe even the hardest of cowboy hearts.

Despite the injection of hope and a denser sound courtesy of Steve Albini, as well as good execution throughout, most of the songs tread familiar territory.

The details are stacked on in such neat pieces--background piano arpeggios here, a couple of skronking guitar notes there--that it's all reduced to very well executed window dressing.

Travels with Myself and Another doesn't quite live up to the band's first studio album, 2007's "Curses," but it reaches the same boorishly absurd heights on the spastic 'Drink Nike' and on 'Stand by Your Manatee,' a catchy freakout about the "shame" of using plastic silverware.

If he never takes another chance, this new R&B torch carrier will still have a pop career for another 20 years, but if he wants to make a real mark, he’ll have to toss that hat.

Sometimes Out of Frequency wavers into old-school television-theme-song territory, like a ramped-up take on M Squad or some bad dating show at the turn of the '80s.

High Places v. Mankind, took just criticism for being a run-of-the-mill indie record with no charisma, Original Colors is a more than respectable rebound.

Wilson may be most famous for his own good-time rock-and-roll hits, but in underselling the Gershwins he's neglected his own very sophisticated and currently under-utilized capabilities.

For all that Liars have striven to create an original album, the songs suggest not so much inspiration and composition as hours of laborious mixing and midnight consultations with Brian Eno's "Oblique Strategies."

His simple songs come closer to eclipsing their cliches and becoming classics when they aren't buttered with dobro and pedal-steel arrangements that sound like afterthoughts. But when you're allowed to get close to the raw artist, you witness something truly special.