The mix of frothy pop with a strange flavor makes this disc particularly compelling.

Here there's a slightly warmer feeling. More central, tweaked vocals add a new dimension to the "hard beats + bittersweet melodies" pattern of the past; songs like the gorgeous, ice-melting "Zoetrope" glide along on simple celestial glimmers without a single bass-line in sight.

The musical redefinitions taken on by the Cherry Poppin' Daddies seemed to be creatively suiting and for the listeners who take time to believe in it Soul Caddy will be impressively surprising.

Heather Nova has ventured out on South, delving into the pop side for her own inventions. Fans who aren't accepting of such a move might be critical; new listeners might find South her easiest album.

Returning with another studio album at the start of 2002, Steve Cobby and David McSherry busied themselves demonstrating their fluency with the wide range of sounds contemporary electronica draws on, but also revealed a few new influences as well.

For the most part, this is more of the same, which disciples will have no qualms about.

Though Speedy J does pure techno as good as he did his earlier experimental productions, it's a shame he's gotten back to the kind of tracks that DJ Hyperactive could be knocking out in his sleep.

This is a kaleidiscope of pop culture arcania and it's witty too... pure, simple, hard-rocking, giddy fun.

He is honest, without offending, and gives the impression that he genuinely has no biases -- he's just a curious observer of life. And the world, through Rollins' eyes, is an interesting, offbeat, and funny place.

Caught somewhere between the breezy, intricate Sea and Cake and the well-mannered orchestration of Rachel's, the band fills a space that is often vied for, yet not usually attained.

Unless you are a huge Timo Maas fan, it will probably be more Maas than you can handle.

If it was Gedge's intent to win back some of the Wedding Present fans who found Va Va Voom to be too much of a departure, Disco Volante could succeed in that regard. With Weddoes guitarist Simon Cleave now a full-fledged member, there's some of the trademark late '80s/early '90s roar apparent in the likes of "146 Degrees" and "Your Charms"; but whether or not that and crisp drums fit snugly alongside French horn and accordion is debatable.

As this 15-song collection bounces between covers and tuneful originals slightly less memorable than their big hits, it occurs to you that this must be how Hootie & the Blowfish sounded in the Southern college bars before they recorded Cracked Rear View. They're amiable, good-humored, earnest, and as likeable as the local band that also played "Driver 8" every Saturday night.

Beneath the Velvet Sun is the uneven work of a talented artist who doesn't seem to trust the idiosyncratic approach that brought him to national attention enough to really let himself go. You can hardly blame him for trying to play it safe, given his one-hit wonder status, but the album's very bow to commercialism may keep it from being the hit it might have been.

The concert, especially in its last half, comes off as highly sentimental, which is appropriate to the occasion, while the whole thing comes off as highly self-referential, which is inevitable for a Streisand performance.

If Revelation doesn't actually hold any, well, revelations, that shouldn't be held against the band, since they do wind up turning out a perfectly acceptable mainstream dance-pop album.

The collection is a little cobbled together, with an ill-conceived rap from Q-Tip over "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" and a sparse, unfunky reading of "Cumbia Jazz Fusion," but the former Policeman's bright guitar work works hard at tying it all together.

The long-awaited release from former Grateful Dead icon Bob Weir's jam band Ratdog shouldn't disappoint hungry Deadheads.

The most natural and relaxed John Hiatt album in years...Hiatt's voice has never sounded better; its course edges sometimes straining for high notes works perfectly with this craggy, unpolished music.

The new Puppets are a surprisingly heavy, hard-rocking outfit, turning in one of the loudest records in the group's catalog. It's also one of the best-produced, boasting a thick, full, shiny sound.

This is a good document of Morphine's excellent live show and displays the energy and passion that they played with during the tour that supported their breakthrough album.

When he isn't heating up the dance floor with unlikely guests, Bracegirdle constructs spacy ambient tracks that cool things down.

Unlike most electronica We Are A & C is song driven rather than a collection of grooves and noises stitched together, and therein lies its timeless pop appeal.

They might not be hip, they're not as innovative as they used to be, but they still make very good, even great music, and that's evident on Revolverlution. If only it were presented better.

It's no better or worse than her 2002 debut or 2003's Chapter II, with the standout singles, decent album cuts, and filler fluff provided in equal doses.

What saves the record are the handful of songs that break out of the constraints of even-keeled melancholy and take (small) chances.

Overall, Roots Manuva may have a lot to say during the verses, but when his choruses consist of little more than a repeated line shouted over and over ("Awfully Deep," "Too Cold"), listeners won't be hanging around long enough to decipher his rhymes.

It wants terribly to be an important record, but its songs are merely good.

It's often impenetrable and there are a couple derailments... but it's never off-putting.

The music alone nearly justifies the cost, improving on the dense atmosphere pervading Aesop's mostly self-produced Bazooka Tooth, and returning ace producer Blockhead to his prime role in the control chair.

Human After All ends up being just not-bad (a first for Daft Punk); that may be hard to accept for fans that demand nothing less than brilliance from them, but just because it isn't an instant classic doesn't mean that it's totally unworthy, either.

Angel of Retribution does indeed rock just hard enough to please longtime fans and convert a few new ones along the way.

Some of the playful songs are as joyously boisterous and willfully corny as anything in Smith's past, making Lost and Found an entertaining and thoughtful album for young kids and their parents to listen to and talk about.

Though few songs are second-rate, their similarities make them bleed into each other too much.

While it's far from being truly bad, Elevator is a disappointment, and a perplexing one: everything seems to be more or less in the right place, but still doesn't quite fit together.

It might not be as hip as it thinks it is, nor is it as catchy as it should be, but it's smooth and listenable.

It's an enjoyable record, but it's hard to escape the nagging feeling that Garbage has painted itself into a corner: they haven't found a way to expand their sound, to make it richer or mature -- they can only deliver more of the same.

Unfortunately, however, the adjectives that need to be attached to this record -- workmanlike, customary, unembarrassing -- aren't going to make music fans flood the record stores seeking copies.

Overall, the album is more competent than distinctive; maybe next time, the 22-20s will show more depth and personality.

While they offer few surprises on Hyperactive, they also offer no embarassments, and it's likely that any fan still faithfully buying records nearly a decade after Moseley Shoals will enjoy this record.

Unfortunately, although Snaith may sound novel expanding upon his indie forebears of ten years ago, when he begins conjuring the ghosts of Krautrock ("A Final Warning," "Bees") or trip-hop ("Lord Leopard"), as he does here, he's entering the company of talented producers who have ploughed the same ground.

Quite frankly, this is the record that NIN should have released if Reznor had wanted to capitalize on the success of The Downward Spiral.

The Fallen Leaf Pages is the kind of record that holds no surprises or excitement, the kind that sounds over before it reaches the halfway point.

Musically, it's closest to Adore, yet it's a distant cousin: if that album hinted at '80s synth rock and goth, this re-creates the spirit and sound of 1986, right down to the robotic pulse of the rhythms, the cold, slick surface of the production, and the brooding, self-absorbed atmosphere.

Hannicap Circus is solid, filthy, fun, and everything else that you'd want from a less nimble Kool Keith.

If it were condensed down to one disc, it would appeal to more than the most devout.

Out-of-State Plates is a ragged collection of hits and misses that will satisfy FOW completists, while being of intermittent interest to recent converts or general power pop fans.

Röyksopp have little left to say aside from what others have said more clearly in the past.

Never Gone [is] a solid adult contemporary album, which will please both BSB diehards and the dwindling ranks who wish that the glory days of Jon Secada never ended, but its relative strength does highlight one problem with the album: this kind of music doesn't sound quite as convincing when delivered by a group of guys as it does by one singer.

It's nice to have the Posies back in the studio again, but Every Kind of Light isn't the triumphant return fans might have hoped for.

It's a pleasant enough listen, but it's hard to see the point of the album.

Perfectly likable and pleasant.

So Marjorie Fair's debut isn't an immediate five-star classic. But its backgrounds are incredibly well-crafted... and the songs' blend evening-sun comfort with a quiet forlornness that's somehow welcoming.

The mostly mid-tempo songs plod along, usually turning to a screeching lead guitar over chunky chording to differentiate the choruses.

Reliable late-night jams that will appeal to the choir, but not the whole church.

Something this indulgent could only be a labor of love, but even die-hard Dandy Warhols fans might find embracing this album to be too much work.

A rewarding listen for the faithful who have the time, patience, and inclination to dig into this, but for those whose dedication isn't so strong, this is sweet, gentle, and ultimately forgettable.

A game of "name that influence" runs rampant from the album's start to its closing seconds.

There are no missteps on the album, and the group's faithful will have plenty to rock with. But Don't Tread on Me still feels like one to grow on instead of one to remember.

In Space is an album that should appeal to anyone who digs Alex Chilton; however, anyone expecting a Big Star album is going to be more than a bit puzzled by most of these tunes.

Pleasant but dull.

There's no sense of storytelling or momentum to her performances: she starts the song in one place and stays there riding in circles until the end.

Once upon a time, Mark Eitzel seemed incapable of writing a bad song, and while that doesn't quite happen on Candy Ass, enough of the album comes close enough to suggest this guy needs to hook up with American Music Club again, and soon.

Unfortunately, the forced and false-sounding songs outnumber these bright spots by a wide margin.

Albatross can sometimes be too insular for its own good.

The problem with The Road and the Radio is that the songs just aren't very memorable.

Closing In is numbingly derivative, not just because it wears its influences like a bat in its mouth, but because there's nothing even remotely memorable or engaging about it.

Not so much a letdown as a comedown, One Way Ticket to Hell...and Back just shows that the giddy highs of Permission to Land aren't so easy to get the second time around.

While this makes for an album that's substantially more interesting and cohesive than the gaudy Speak, it doesn't necessarily mean that A Little More Personal (Raw) is a successful record, either.

While it's often an absorbing listen, it's hard to fathom this appealing to anyone but the terminally obsessed.

The Strokes indulge their every whim, and the results are their weakest album yet.

Approach it as a slightly goofy one-off, and you won't be disappointed.

Not terribly different [from 'Human Conditions'], though certainly more pastoral and perhaps more middle of the road.

What prevents the album from being on par with the likes of 21 & Over and Coast II Coast is that the MCs have slowed a little with age.

It is a more stripped-down affair compared to Broken Social Scene's more ambitious material.

Feels comfortably familiar even as it rages to say something new.

Timeless is a mixed bag, but it's not because of Mendes. His own playing and arranging is utterly elegant.

While 20/20 might be a shade too unambitious for casual listeners expecting another Expansion Team, DP heads looking to kick back and listen get plenty of pure underground to devour.

Most of this stuff is just too damn weird for all but the most experimental music listener.

The Believer may be a formula recording, but it still satisfies, for the most part, on the level of what it is: a finely crafted pop/rock album.

At 27 tracks, the whole affair could do with a sizable trimming, as much of the material tends to sound the same, but as far as collections go, Omnibus is the real deal, and a Decemberists' archivist's wet dream.

Even if Precious Memories winds up as something slightly underwhelming, there's no denying that this is precisely the album Jackson wanted to make, one that's consistent in tone and exact in its vision.

If in Both Sides of the Gun Harper is trying to show his audience what a wide variety of music he can cover, he certainly accomplishes that. But if he's trying to create an album that is really about him, he doesn't quite deliver. Ben Harper is in there, don't worry, but he can be a little hard to find.

Unfortunately, though, too much of Show Your Bones just isn't that interesting, even if it was born from genuine heartache instead of sass and attitude.

It's hard not to shake the suspicion that this album is the closest he's ever been to forgettable.

Vision Valley might be a little predictable, but at least the Vines sound like they're back in control of their lives and music again.

A series of expertly produced, expertly recorded adult pop tunes.

The Black Magic Show is a decent move forward for Elefant. A little more sincerity and a little less swagger might have been nice though.

Most listeners won't care to follow this particular rabbit down the hole because of the bracing cynicism, paranoia, misanthropy, and betrayal they'll hear at every turn on this record.

With Some Echoes, Aloha craft an imaginative amalgam of all of their favorite musical fruit.

Unlike its predecessor, there isn't much to dig into here; what you hear upon that first listen is exactly what you get.

Simpatico... is the Charlatans' version of the Stones' Emotional Rescue: it's a groove-centric rock album, heavy on disco and reggae rhythms, where the overall vibe is more important than the individual songs.

The affection that Sweet, Hoffs and company display for this music is the reason to hear this record: they're having such a good time playing their favorite songs, it's hard not to smile along as well.

At times, Wolfmother's unintentionally bizarre amalgams are kind of delightful, and the group does have a basic, brutal sonic force that is pretty appealing, but even at their best, they never banish the specters of the bands that they desperately mimic.

Though some Elf Power fans may be satisfied with the few songs that are reminiscent of the band's previous records ("The World Is Waiting," "23rd Dream") and the abstract, occasionally prog-like references to masters and kings, others may be disappointed, or at least confused, by the focus on experimenting with dark, Middle Eastern-inspired drones mixed with Western pop/folk sensibilities.

Milian's weakness remains ballads; the few that are here are more like placeholders that merely apply some forced variety to the album.

But even if Every Man for Himself was constructed with the mainstream in mind, it likely won't win any new converts, since at their core Hoobastank remains unchanged: their songs aren't particularly dynamic or catchy, the band doggedly follows alt-rock conventions as if adherence to clichés gives the group legitimacy, and Robb's pedestrian voice alternately disappears into the mix or veers flat when he holds a note.

Wasif tries too hard to make lines interesting and profound, and they end up sounding awkward and a bit forced.