Following a seven year gap between studio albums, Sacramento's CAKE is back with the compelling, yet inconsistent Showroom of Compassion.

Filtered drum patterns, neo-gospel arrangements and plaintive piano jams, along with curious and catchy enough melodies, obscure Cudi's guttural talk-raps for a bit.

We Can't Fly is over the top, trying to embrace everything Vito De luca ever loved about radio, or all the music he ever loved, period. It's a cosmic mess of styles and guests. People who are fans of his DJ sets will not feel at home in this setting, with no crowd pleasers except for the title track.

It might be difficult to differentiate after nine full-lengths, but Mixed Race may be the least engaging album we've heard from Tricky to date.

Albums such as Wake Up! – best intentions aside – run the risk of coming across as entirely cheesy and contrived. Unfortunately, John Legend and The Roots are no exception to the rule.

Berlin's long-running tendency toward grit-glitz, which musicians from Bowie to Peaches have channeled in their work, is the inspiration for this fourth record of functional fun.

Surfing The Void unfortunately isn't a break-through or even a repeat of the past success.

Earnestly sung lyrics in the vein of Jack Johnson or John Mayer, 80s-style instrumentation (percussion, guitar licks, synths), and constant rhythmic switch-ups are elegantly crafted. This album isn't boring, it's just too polished for the raw sounds and styles it draws influence from.

M.I.A.'s schizophrenic style does not please this time around. The industrial and mechanical soundscape lacks both genuine protest songs or club jams.

Like many bands before them who similarly created magic with their debut albums, this Brooklyn trio can't quite harness the same level of energy for their sophomore effort.

Again and Again is an atmospheric album, but it suffers under often nonsense lyrics, uninspired vocals and borrowed production. It doesn't leave a lasting impression.

So while the music on this disc might not inspire a wave of followers and imitators like his Pixies days, Thompson is clearly having a lot of fun cranking out his latest batch of rock ‘n roll surrealism.

The record is a winning release, if not entirely novel, and the sound of a likable band honing their sound while refusing, somewhat obstinately, to alter it.

The lyrics are largely uncomplicated musings about disastrous love and lust but the band manages to broaden its musical style without compromising its core identity. A solid next step in the band's evolution and not a bad listen either.

Distracting at times is Thomas’s voice--he seems to take pride in being purposefully off key--but breezy opener “Girls FM” and later the low key “Eyes Music” calm his shrieking affinity and keep him just where he needs to be; melodic.

From the get-go the album announces itself through insidious emotive aural effects, which through a blistering barrage of time-travel sounds, encompass the listener in a feeling that although intense, evaporates rather instantly.

While it’s commendable, if unnecessary, that Whitney and Votolato are exploring new musical areas, there’s no denying the fact that if Take Me to the Sea ever ran into Hologram Jams in a dark alley, Hologram would be down for the count.

Her rhyming ability is versatile yet non-braggadocios. And it is these ingredients that gives the music world a fresh yet veteran voice.

There is a certain rhythm that begins to form with constantly being pulled along and feeling as though this will be the moment everything crescendos. Prepare yourself To Realize presents a Sisyphus-esque journey that can be exhausting.

While the new songs don't reach that across-the-board crossover appeal, there are some synthed-out gems that get a proper unveiling. [Nov/Dec 2008, p.86]

It’s enjoyable as easy-listening, but there’s nothing about Climb Up that truly grips you. For that, APSE will have to exist in electro-rock mediocrity for the time being.

Although this album is an improvement from his previous work, to fully understand this album (and his work overall), you must see him live.

Is Dead Man's Bones' record necessarily as accomplished as either of the aforementioned? Maybe not. But when one half of your band is splitting his vocations by also brandishing his face onto big studio pieces of celluloid, it's still a mightily impressive debut.

Their sound has life, culture and tiny details that could only be developed from a wide variation of instruments and worldly inspirations.

Love her or hate her, Between My Head And The Sky isn't terrible. Yoko Ono is still in the game, and if it's possible to find a deeper meaning to lyrics like "Why is [the elephant] so big/ He says because you're small honey," then more power to her.

Everything Goes Wrong is not a brazenly experimental album, nor is it rootless and shifting for cohesion.

It's a promising thought to know there are musicians this deft and so easily able to push themselves through so many sonic boundaries at once--but in the end, the overt and ultimately, stifling seriousness surrounding it proves to be the largest boundary BLK JKS stand before.

With a handful of good moments, and one standout track, this sophomore effort by one Sally Shapiro and her producer Johan Agebjörn, is mediocre.

The songs have parts that are memorable but your finger is always on the advance button. Overall, pretty good but could use some editing and improvement.

The rest of her songs on Anjulie are really hit and miss. Some are catchy enough to enjoy, others are boring enough to forget about.

Although at times the tunes become monotonous, the brother and sister group show that they’re going to be around for a hot minute, cranking out anti-Disney channel ditties in the name of all things punk.

The occasional slow track turned power ballad and the single quirky pop tune are not nearly enough to rescue this record from the depths of the depressing ditch it dug itself into.

Rounding out the record with the 15+ minute 'Sequenced,' we're dropped back into the slow catatonia exhibited earlier on--and while this is a perfectly nice place to visit for a quarter of an hour, it may leave you yearning for The Field's previous world of sublime

Super Animal Brothers III sounds exactly as expected; a dorm room drum machine experiment attempting to capture the zeitgeist of Generation Ritalin, permanently jacked to eleven with no real idea as to why.

No one can deny the Los Angeles group's enthusiasm. However as for Mika Miko's album, their creativity seems numbed by monotonous repetition.

As a whole, Colonia takes on a very operatic, larger than life, almost ABBA-esque quality, which grows a bit tired as the album winds down.

Great Northern may not have learned the art of being musically economical, but perhaps their greatest strength lies in their maximalist tendencies.

Thankfully this album is only 10 tracks long, otherwise I don't think I could have sat all the way through it. I had trouble enough as it is.

Taken as a whole, the album does have a certain cohesiveness that’s lacking in most dance “albums” but many of the tracks fail to break new or interesting ground, and it leaves one wishing their potential of last summer could’ve been realized.

Black Dice continues to produce highly interesting music, no doubt, but be warned that it’s not for the faint of heart or imagination.

If nothing else the lyrics are rich, although it gets tiresome to hear song after song of psychedelic fairytales over spaced out chimes and strings.

Fist of God is surprisingly decent if you can manage to divorce it from its lame context.

Overall, Listening Tree is all about Tim, and his deep closeted skeletons and inner demons, which are far too abstract to be even remotely relatable or fun to sweat it out to their exorcisms.

Scream may be the most compelling train wreck of an album in recent memory.

The music is fresh and rather hypnotizing.

If The Bran Flakes managed to cleverly juxtapose their weird samples against each other in order to make a satirical point, maybe they'd get a pass. However, most of the tracks come off like two kids selfishly goofing off in the studio with long lost gems of nostalgia from their childhood.

Dissolver is a serviceable pop-rock record that would have benefited from being subject to more of the band’s experimental tendencies, a missed opportunity for the trio to release a cutting-edge yet accessible set of music.

I'm inclined to say that they've reached a midpoint in experimentation where they can claim to be boundary-pushers and trendsetters, yet have done little in untried methodology, an undeserved sense of achievement.

A group this weird and quirky should be able to produce dozens of albums that never loose their delicious twee taste. Perhaps what FF should try next is trying nothing at all.

Dalek is like a fine beer...it is an acquired taste, but once you get past that part, it is delicious. This is demonstrated well on Gutter Tactics, his newest release.

The color palette Fatboy has assembled for this project—Justin Robertson, Martha Wainwright, Dizzee Rascal, Iggy Pop, and David Byrne, to name but a few--doesn’t trump the fact that musically, the BPA is mired in beats that smack of early 2000, if not the late ‘90s.

The music is supposed to feel representative of the big apple, but, aside from the song titles, this is a feeling I failed to really grasp onto. Thankfully this is probably the least important part, because after listening to this record a few minutes I realized how special it really was.

Unfortunately, after six mightily exciting originals, the disc wanders into remix territory.

A Hundred Things also contains quieter moments that work surprisingly well for such a loud record, providing a much-needed respite from the nervous scramble of the rest of the album.

Galore sounds like the stock "empowering dance pop" library compilations that music publishers bombard film music supervisors with.

Eccentricity is what defines Grampall Jookabox and their sophomore effort Ropechain, but that doesn’t make it any less listenable. In fact, Ropechain has its fair share of fine musical moments that actually benefit from the bizarre tendencies of the group.

Treasure's aggressive style deftly balances Cad Petree's more melodic side, and sees the band straddling the line between insistent, hard-hitting rock and Coldplay-esque balladry. [Nov/Dec 2008, p.87]

Even though Prekop and Prewitt continue interlocking their guitars over spiny rhythms from McEntire and Calridge throughout the set, something doesn't quite click often enough this time around. [Nov/Dec 2008, p.87]

This albums isn't as infectious as "You're A Woman, I'm A Machine," but who cares? Grainger didn't make it for DFA fans. [Nov/Dec 2008, p.85]

Nomad is ambient music for beatheads in need of a record to clear their minds to, or dance music for new age lovers.

Despite the fact that the album is largely a deconstruction of masculinity vs. feminity, Yo Majesty isn’t afraid to tone the sex down to hop on the progressive tip. 'Never Be Afraid' displays the cosmic gospel of Jwl B. However, this retreat into tamer territory isn’t indicative of weakness; chalk it up to what is actually a significantly well-rounded and versitile rap duo.

Japanese Motors’ debut is a solid dose of garage pop, but chances are, it won’t change your life.

This is what Nelly's Brass Knuckles is best summarized as...a club jam.

Worth the wait, Knowles West Boy provides a uniquely varied soundscape from an equally enigmatic musicmaker. [Jul/Aug 2008, p.87]

Pennington’s soaring, Rufus Wainwright-esque croon may be the most distinctive element of the record but also one of its greatest weakness.

Sol-angel and the Hadley St. Dreams boasts Thievery Corporation at the production helm, giving little Knowles' album a sophisticated sonic texture of jazzy pop, lounge inflections, and brassy drama.

The songs all come from a similar place, but a solid bass line and focused rhythm will always carry the day.

Levi seemed to have a great idea for Never Never Love, but didn't execute it as well as he possibly could have; so in practice, the record does not flow as well as he may have liked it to.

The tunes are taunt and chipper and the instrumentation is full and flirty as promised. But their tunefulness falls into question with these ears.

It’s a welcome return to “vintage” Stills, after an attempt at stylistic departure (2006’s "With Feathers") was met with lukewarm critical reception.

Superfluous, the extra weight drains the raw intensity of the Furnaces’ famed live show and often leaves Remember sounding like a cheaply recorded album, rather than a live celebration.

Having waited four years for this new record, Faint fans anticipating a return to the throbbing mechanical heart of darkwave and disco will not be disappointed.

Brazilian Girl has the ability to give audiences a world band sound because of its mixture of different languages and live band sound. It also has a certain level of pop appeal.

Hammond, Jr. paints an awfully pretentious portrait of a dude caught playing with his best friend’s b-sides.

Their tried and true formula does wear thin in parts, as it always does, but there are enough creative wrinkles in this album to warrant repeat listens and contemplation.

If you’re interested in Keating’s deck work or Lord’s acid rock breakbeat, their Black Ghosts mixtape will set you straight, but this partnership has manifested considerably deeper songwriting skills for both of these guys.

Musically, this record definitely shoots what it was aiming for, but I wouldn't listen to it unless you are, or want to be, severely depressed or disturbed.

Sure, she may not have as many debauchery-tainted demons to exercise as the Winehouses or the Holidays but that doesn't make 19 boring. [Jul/Aug 2008, p.88]

The album engages after repeats, but initially offers volume's immediacy over intimacy.

Thorburn’s second record writing songs with the group Islands shows admirable ambition and eclectic musicianship. What hinders this release, however, is a matter of composition.

The album certainly excells when the faux-accent is beaming British. When it isn't, the album can grow monotonous but overall, Brain Thrust Mastery keeps the trash smelling absolutley delightful.

With many songs over four minutes and often consisting of blantantly stoned self-indulgent "jams," some trimming is needed.

With partner Panda One, they unleash a concoction of soul, electronica and disco that’s occasionally bizarre, but consistently funky.

With the first release, Chemistry, you would think some experimentalism was going on--but it isn’t. That’s not necessarily a bad quality, but the lack of daring pushes this release into the mediocre pile.

Trash, Rats and Microphones is tailor-made for the contemporary electro-crazed (dance like tomorrow ain’t promised) landscape.

Everywhere At Once, LB's Anti-debut, is also a practice in nostalgia--but it's decidedly more me-centric in execution. [Mar/Apr 2008, p.109]

M83's new effort saunters like a slow dance from "Sixteen Candles." [Mar/Apr 2008, p.109]

With the Pixies re-run now seemingly over, it's good to hear the "other Deal" project back in full effect.

Walk It Off does offer a few highlights, but it fails to yield a comprehensive sense of T&T's sound, and blatantly lacks any cohesive progression.

Get Awkward showcases a sound reliant on the push and pull between a band whose middle ground is fun.

NY's Finest shows glimmers of what Rock can do, but it's unfortunate the album came out before Soul Brotha #1 was warmed up.

Opener 'Time to Pretend' exemplifies this best, as the synths provide quirky cartoonish bounces to tales of fancy car whipping and coke snorting pipe-dreams. However, the record grows sluggish at certain points, particularly when they try to get super sentimental on that ass.

There's a psyche-rock track with UNKLE on here, for chrissakes. But yeah, dude has skills.

Because the sound is based on repetition, yet it bounces off every wall it touches, the album can be like a bad trip inside the mind of a schizophrenic and new listeners may not be ready, but for the others who’ve supported the band in the past, it can be a welcome respite from the sound they’re used to.

It’s not just his vaguely interesting falsetto or all the emoting on his debut; it’s that all those emotions are under the guise of some real heaviosity but really aren’t saying shit.

It sounds like Drew would still benefit from having his Canadian ragtag team behind him though, because his solo effort just isn't very strong.

It's unfortunate that "Interscope Jackson" spends so much time here trying to ply believable tough talk--highlights arrive when Fiddy embraces his current, lavish lifestyle.

Whether live or memorex, it's really hard to tell the difference between the two, especially on excellent if-it-ain't-broke tracks like 'Fake ID' and 'Doing it Right.' [Sep/Oct 2007, p.130]