Wordman Lillian Berlin murmurs more than he declaims and prefers to share vocals with members of a shifting communal entity dubbed the “Living Things Choir,” and if that fuzzes up the lyrics, well, like most bands, Living Things are more into emotions than ideas anyway.

His songwriting isn't a strength, and his ballads often drown in their own inanity. [Apr 2004, p.132]

This collection seems less pointlessly abstract than 1999's similarly staffed Cobra and Phases. [Aug/Sep 2001, p.130]

If the comfy, mostly acoustic, fiddle-inflected tunes are pure Nashville craft, the lyrics speak bluntly about personal dislocation and loneliness. [May 2004, p.119]

An enthusiastic album full of masterful strokes and electrifying intensity. [#23, p.98]

The album's final third is useless... Fortunately, the rest is bracing permutations of the lopsided, much-sampled post-disco rhythms that helped define NYC art-funk 25 years ago. [Oct 2006, p.135]

It occasionally feels slack, especially compared to old faves like “Wildcat” or their bootleg hip-hop remixes.

Elevator has the zing of classic pop--and its sureness too. [May 2005, p.115]

They sounded great in the lounge; the garage suits them even better. [Oct 2006, p.130]

Throughout, the Foos are as tight as ever, even if the songs are mostly unmemorable. [Oct 2007, p.108]

There's a complancency about this record. [June 2008, p.73]

Their weaponry is wrought from comedy gold.

The band occasionally lapse into easy irony and cheap spite. [Mar 2006, p.110]

Forth is that rare comeback record--unafraid to show its age, and better for it. [Sep 2008, p.85]

This is slick, snarky pop with flashes of brilliance. [#12, p.151]

It's Costello at his most emotionally direct. [Oct 2004, p.118]

Her voice--half dark, lazy molasses, half bourbon with a silky finish--rings with equal parts defiance and vulnerability. [May 2004, p.128]

The trilogy signals a deep strangeness in this tour through his psyche. Fortunately, it has a fairly shredding soundtrack.

It's a perfect set for folks who think Oasis are too humble, that Pink Floyd lacked ambition. TSOOL lay down Stonehenge riffs and cosmic mumbo jumbo so earnestly and expertly that nearly every outfit they raid from the classic-rock closet flatters them.

The guitar rock here is loud, taut, buoyant--but stands little chance of getting inside your head.

There's rambling, digital fiddling and self-indulgent sprawl here, but a sense of purpose, too, even as her lips move on autopilot. [#20, p.114]

It’s an immersive, art-school-bred aesthetic that, three or four times on the band’s debut album, makes for some very good music, too.

It's sweet. And dull. And, OK, excruciting. [July 2008, p.74]

A spirited, gutsy evolution from the formalist new wave of Metric's first album. [Nov 2005, p.138]

Her story-songs about crushes gone wrong and nerdy social skills are like late-night IMs set to coffeehouse guitars. [Mar 2008, p.100]

Brilliantly restrained throughout, ESG's sparse, mechanical funk remains unique and vital. [#12, p.142]

This formula wears thin over the 15 cuts here. [#27, p.137]

The record's initial thrill comes from the confidence with which the Distillers and producer Gil Norton revive rock as a demolishing force. [Nov 2003, p.116]