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The problem with the last two albums from these English rave vets wasn't the absence of DJ/producer Darren Emerson. It was that the surviving duo seemed more intent on proving that Emerson didn't take all the good beats with him.

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Never one for understatement, alternative pop's most sincere showman resurrects '80s classic-rock clichés on a Vegas-themed solo debut that suggests the Killers' Sam's Town recorded with lackluster studio cats.

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Kevin Barnes, the madman/genius/spaz behind Of Montreal, might have the craziest career path in modern music.

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Many recent students of old-school soul get the rhythms and vibe right, but what sets Michael Fitzpatrick and his L.A. crew apart is their mastery of Motown-esque melodies. Guitar-less but heavy on the organ, sax, and hands-to-the-heavens claps, this home-recorded debut swings like demos of actual '60s hits. Lyrically, it's less finessed, as the conscious but clunky "Dear Mr.

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This unabashedly spongy Melbourne three-piece dramatically improve upon a spotty debut by letting their prog flag fly. Gone are the French house beats and repetitive riffs that gave their heftiest hooks immediate impact and squashed everything else.

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Founded by multi-instrumentalist Henry Harrison to empower his son Blaine (who suffers from spina bifida and walks with the aid of crutches), this Anglo outfit has generated some charming, Britpoppy singles but lacked a strong identity: Blaine warbled dramatically à la Jeff Buckley, while William Rees crooned in understated Ray Davies counterpoint.