For a band so renowned for its delicately conceptual albums, compiling the most popular tracks into a “greatest hits” format is a contradiction. And when that band is Pavement — the de facto monarchs of the Pitchfork empire — the contrary nature turns to irony. There in lies the problem Quarantine the Past: The Best of Pavement.

I can’t tell you if New Jersey’s Titus Andronicus has a truly broad appeal. I just know that it does a doozy on me.

I love the statement of naming your band after Shakespeare’s goriest play. Titus Andronicus is out for blood, and every English nerd out there will know it from the start.

I love Bruce Springsteen, and this band’s every move careens down the melodramatic E Street turnpikes paved by The Boss.

The word robot derives from the Czech robota, meaning drudgery and compulsory slave labor. It is now defined as an oft-fictional machine that can perform complex actions but lacks the capacity for human emotions.

If this is true, then can someone tell me why the hell dancing automatons are recounting an ancient story of love and sacrifice over at the ArtsCenter?

“It’s a new telling of a story of heart and passion, just using the vehicle of robots,” explains Donovan Zimmerman, co-founder of Saxapahaw’s Paperhand Puppet Intervention.

If there’s one thing that comes to mind right away when listening to Dessa, it’s a comparison to Lauryn Hill.

The Minnesotan Doomtree artist is a renaissance woman. Coming from a collective known for its alternative hip-hop predilection by way of founder P.O.S., Dessa adds another stratum to what could otherwise quickly be labeled as self-absorbent heartland heartache.

Homer Simpson once equated selling pretzels to desperately trying to cram one more salty treat into America’s already bloated snack hole. Hard rock and munchies aren’t exactly apples to apples, but Feeding the Fire does a lot to stand out from a crowded field with DisInfoNation.

“The Crazies,” a remake of George Romero’s 1973 zombie flick, does basically what you’d expect it to — but it does it well.

In the span of 48 hours, the little Iowa town of Ogden Marsh (Pop. 1,260) winds up being taken over by its own townspeople, infected by an unexplained water-borne virus that makes the local residents bleed from their faces and get violently, incomprehensibly aggressive.

With its poor acting, botched attempts at meaningful dialogue and unexplained plot twists, “Blood Done Sign My Name” resigns itself to a league occupied by sappy Lifetime movies.

The movie takes place in the small town of Oxford, N.C., in the 1970s. When three white shop owners murder Henry Marrow (A.C. Sanford), a black Vietnam veteran, the town erupts in violence.

Thirty-eight and 28. It’s a wide age gap — a monumental difference for rockers. It’s these two ages that mark Chapel Hill duo Blag’ard.

Singer and guitarist Joe Taylor is a local veteran whose band Capsize 7 had a great chance at making it big. Signed to Sony Publishing and Caroline Records, the group was poised for stardom until it was dropped from the deal.

From the moment Poseidon takes his human form as a well-groomed man dressed in a sensible peacoat and hoodie ensemble, it’s clear “Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief” will walk the line between good humor and absurdity. The gods may be omnipotent, but apparently they shop at American Apparel.

Carrboro’s Felix Obelix has a few road blocks on its way to accessibility. Musically, the band relies on such odd instruments as a vibraphone and a glockenspiel. Thematically, it probes such dense topics as death and passing time.

As Leonardo DiCaprio’s Federal Marshal Teddy Daniels arrives at the gates of Ashecliffe mental hospital in the opening minutes of “Shutter Island,” he observes tense guards following a rigid protocol, and says to the warden, “You act like insanity is catchin’.”

If Rascal Flatts took a cue from the indie world and stepped out of their cowboy boots, they might sound something like Brooklyn’s Proud Simon.

The supple vocals on Anchors Aweigh are orthodox Americana — no wailing, no rapping, just sinuous lyrics from the heartland that waver between decent and sub-par. The five-song EP seems to veer towards experimentation, only to end up consistently mediocre.

“Valentine’s Day,” the new movie by director Garry Marshall, markets the kind of chocolate-box love that ultimately makes you want to gag.

It’s a flat-out disaster, an undeniable mess that has been overstuffed with A-list actors who barely have enough screen time to make an impression.

The film follows a cast of more than 20 characters around Los Angeles on the titular holiday, making lowest-common-denominator jokes and gross generalizations on romance, marriage, cheating, loss, sex and commitment.