It’s in between the showboating that you realize what you’re listening to is pretty fucking close to genius.
When’s the last time listening to a record felt so much like you were competitively getting drunk with your friends?
Playing it safe could not be more inappropriate for a Patti Smith album.
Even the angrier, more polemical moments on Cassadaga are too rooted in allegory to energize the listener.
Their songs are cute and brisk and, despite its foibles, Spells won’t put anybody to sleep.
Listening to Dumb Luck is kind of like listening to a robot cry for 40 minutes.
Gainsbourg’s first album since she was 13 is European to the core, and like most things European, it’s extravagant, elegant, and overpriced.
Is it possible to write a review of the new Modest Mouse record without mentioning “Float On”?
Abbatoir Blues Tour sure doesn’t stand well on its own merits.
Ultimately, Ruff Draft is a curiosity—an offshoot rather than example of Dilla’s genius.
Three records into their career, the Ponys still sound like a really young band.
Black Sheep Boy is nearing classic status, at least as far as emo concept albums based on old folk songs are concerned.
Slow, yes, but “core?” No way.
Sunday evening proved that the fest has some cajones underneath all that tie-dye.
The worst of Pocket Symphony is dull and overly familiar, and the best is familiar and gently gorgeous.
Myth Takes is a record that’s tough not to enjoy, even while you’re wondering if you shouldn’t.
The Weirdness never sounds like anything more than a competent but ultimately unremarkable band that sounds a little like the Stooges.
Trans Am really like Kraftwerk and Brian Eno.
Just ‘cause you’re from New York doesn’t make you Steve Reich, dudes.
Satan Is Real is probably the only album that is in both John Waters’s and Pat Robertson’s record collections.