The band's organ and raspy vocals give Red Bedroom a jolt of early punk, which, combined with an adept sense of rock ‘n' roll, has signs that the Fever has been spending equal time listening to proto-punk and garage rock bands of the ‘60s.

There's the bad feeling that all this Xanax chewing and gun throwing might be bad for the health and/or soul, but Triple F Life moves fast and rocks hard, making it hard to dwell on its shortcomings.

Melodic, wistful, whimsical, reflective, yet clever, the album showcases Hatfield at her peak, crafting fragile, endearing post-jangle pop songs that reveal themselves shyly and sweetly.

The Blackbird Diaries isn't for everyone: it's mainstream but not sterile; it celebrates roots music without overly indulging it or neglecting pop; in short, it's catchy as hell and better than any Stewart solo project to date.

When it works, it runs like a stallion, but for fans whose allegiances lie with Carter and Carroll's previous incarnations, the engaging but jarring Anthems will probably prove awfully hard to digest.

Not Animal gets better as it progresses--the sparser, melancholic songs are pushed to the front, leaving the band's energetic material to bring up the rear--and Margot's sophomore album subsequently concludes on a high note, effectively masking any sour taste left by the band's battle with Epic Records.

It's unsurprising that this album is filled to the brim of arena-sized singalong choruses--which will undoubtedly be sung to the rafters by delirious teenage fans--but unfortunately, they sound all too familiar.

Fans of either rapper will enjoy hearing them together for an entire album. The effect doesn't wear out and Plata o Plomo ends up being a worthwhile addition to both discographies.

For Ever's complex blend of bare emotions and gorgeous production makes it a huge step forward for Jungle. A band this successful could have left their private lives uninvestigated and turned in something more guarded and rote, but the palpable honesty of these songs is what makes them soar.

An unusually satisfying tribute album.

If it won't change worlds, it's engaging enough for what it aims to be, and when "Bumper Car" hits a lower-voiced break over a clattering beat with an easygoing grace, the whole thing feels like even more of a treat that could turn even better with time.

With the lazy weariness of Tom Waits and the inflection of John Lennon, Mason makes every line he sings something worth listening to, something worth remembering. And when this is coupled with songs that can already stand strongly on their own, it makes for a pretty commanding album.

The temptation is to listen to some of their mentors instead, as many of the acts who have walked this sonic highway before have done so with much more swagger, a better inclination for a danceable tune, and an inherent dose of innovation.

While all listeners may not share his fascination with '80s pop culture detritus, it's hard not to respect how expertly he transforms it into something genuine.

Considering the circumstances, FOTC's second Sub-Pop outing, I Told You I Was Freaky, has some worthwhile moments.

On Pressure, the solid if routine follow-up to Trap or Die 3, Jeezy doesn't deviate from his standard set of themes. He's still rhyming about his rise from the bottom, the product he's shifting, and all the disposable wealth and women that have come with it, all the while castigating would-be detractors and snitches.

The sheer ballast of [Jack] White's vision can be exhausting, the individual elements clanking chaotically and never quite gelling. Jackson gives as strong as a performance as she can, tearing into the oldies with ease and valiantly attempting the new songs, but she sounds most at ease with the quieter moments.

This should have been the album where the Mars Volta either wore the formula down to nothing or abruptly turned in a different direction, but instead the band created an album that nearly perfects what they've been working toward.

Ultimately, Interpol isn't a statement of purpose as much as it is the end of an era for the band: With Dengler gone and back on their original label, they have the ability, and perhaps necessity, to go in any direction they choose.

Zig Zaj sounds more like a rehash than the entirely new recipe that music fans are undoubtedly looking for.

The album creates a nice contrast between the pleasant melodies of the songs and the seething, dissatisfied lyrics that rest on top of them.

The key to its success is that it is pitched perfectly between frivolous, disposable pop and meticulous mature craft, so as the Jonas Brothers continue to grow they might wind up losing that sense of fun that is integral to their music, but with this record they hit all the notes just right.

So There is both ambitious and down-to-earth, impeccably constructed, and utterly accessible.

Cast the Same Old Shadow ultimately crumbles under the weight of its own despondency.

It's the type of album that will be most apt to impress aspiring producers, but also hip enough that it could serve as a backing soundtrack for a dinner party too.

Dirty Gold is certainly a flawed debut, and yet it's not what's inside that's flawed, it's just the container's inability to hold such OCD-ish genius.

Even though No Tourists is yet another same-sounding entry in the Prodigy's late-era discography, it's also another satisfying dose of thrills designed to wreck the dancefloor and the mosh pit.

Still sounding like no other artist on the planet--whether because of talent or intent--Squarepusher succeeds again with a radical, challenging piece of music.