A reminder of how great the band could be when its members put their minds to it.

As one would expect, it's the ballads on Driving Rain that wield the greatest power.

More eclectic than its predecessors, this self-titled CD finds the group spiking its feel-good melodies and crunchy guitar pop with interesting stylistic detours, and even smatterings of emotional depth.

There are a few saccharine missteps, such as "I Surrender," with its smarmy smooth-jazz guitar harmonies. And certainly this isn't the most varied album, especially by compilation standards -- Sylvian's instrumentals are unfairly slighted, and some more energetic tracks were left untapped. But the flipside is that this is a remarkably coherent collection that largely sets a mood and sticks to it, with the lush productions and Sylvian's charmingly tremulous, attractively reedy singing soothing casual listeners, yet revealing greater depths should one choose to listen for them.

How Sweet It Is shows Osborne's strength as an interpreter far more than her already-established singing talent.

Mama's Gun wisely doesn't stray too far from the free-flowing R&B of Baduizm: Almost every track here is slinky, scat-influenced soul with rich female backing voices, seeded with the occasional string section, trumpet, or sample (most notably Dr. Dre's "Xxplosive"). Lyrically, most of Mama's Gun rings true, with "Bag Lady," the somewhat draggy first single on which Badu dispenses soulful advice to a homeless woman, as the sole exception.

Horrorscope is just like its predecessor, only more so: Better, smarter, faster, and angstier than Eve 6, it's an utterly delightful pop-punk kerfluffle.

De la Rocha's rabid diatribes occasionally go overboard, particularly on the tracks (Eric B & Rakim's "Microphone Fiend" and Minor Threat's "In My Eyes," for example) that feed into the band's sometimes one-dimensional rap-metal groove. But when the band steps out of character -- as it does during its rudimentary take on MC5's "Kick Out the Jams" or its pacific reading of "Beautiful World" -- the results can seem truly transcendent.

Oddly, it's the faster songs -- once Pearl Jam's forte -- that detract from Binaural as a whole.

The album is haunted by echoes from both Marr and Sumner's past lives, which dates it a bit. But the duo shows a rare aggressive side on the album, which crackles with attitude even while indulging Sumner's moony, depressive lyrics.

Mathers slips only when he tries to play out the movie's rags-to-riches vibe with his friends.

A tasteful selection of pre-war era classics in a supper club jazz setting.

Sometimes beautiful, sometimes disquieting, Time (The Revelator) is something short of revelatory, but it's entrancing nonetheless.

Golden Lies shows that even when a good band goes bad, it can still make a great record.

As savvy and sophisticated as the movie itself.

What makes this disc cohere is the world view presented in Byrne's quirky lyrics, sometimes stark to the point of simplicity and often with the detached tone of an observer alternately shocked or amused.

Ray at last gives full voice to her riot grrrl urges, and if the CD isn't exactly combustible, it does evoke the spirit of such Ray heroes as Husker Du and mid-period Replacements.

The debut offering from England's Broadcast cascades over the listener like a lush film score.

The Beta Band evokes the lushness of '60s AM popsters the Association in its soft vocal ensembles while demonstrating an instrumental prowess ("Eclipse") that recollects the lo-fi sonic buzz of Flying Saucer Attack.

The Eminem Show lacks the overwhelming, single-minded force that The Marshall Mathers LP had.

On third album Survivor, the DC coming-out party, the song kind of remains the same: When the girls are on, this is the kind of surreally and subversively brilliant Top-40 music even the most jaded roll their windows up and blast; when they're not, it's a pretty bad day at the girl-band factory.

An angular art-punk record that twitches as if in the throes of electroshock treatment.

Provides a refreshing change of pace from the current formulaic R&B chanteuses.

God Bless the Blake Babies is a return to the simpler sounds of honey-infused indie rock.

By assembling a heavyweight lineup of talent to support -- including soul legend Bobby Womack, the Congos, and the Pharcyde -- Rae & Christian set lofty aspirations and, more often than not, reach them.

A funny and engaging spoken-word collection from a man who's done enough of them to know what works.

Trinity is a more diverse album than their last, but there are times when the songs feel too disjointed.

Though nothing new -- instrument-wise -- is added to the mix of drums, guitar, and piano, the White Stripes' recipe cooks up heavier overall on White Blood Cells, while still retaining some of the cheeky, barroom brashness that has become their stock in trade.

Only time will tell whether it's a cheeky classic or a momentary novelty.

Their playing is loaded with the confidence of established veterans.

Elephant Shoe recalls the somber tranquility of Velvet Underground at its most remote.

There's some rehash of the flimsy fun of the Green Album, and the choruses here aren't as memorable as much of the group's '90s material. That said, there's a darkness to Maladroit that will likely satisfy long-suffering Pinkerton fans.

For the most part, Amy Ray and Emily Saliers have abandoned the experimental plugged-in nonsense that bogged down their last two releases, concentrating on pure songwriting this time out.

The album finds footing in jazzy downbeat arrangements, and its hip-hop aftertaste gives Charango (and Morcheeba as an entity) a needed one-two punch.

As on Hybrid Theory, there's a definite formula at work in all 19 songs, but it's flawless and effective.

But, despite the added highlights of obscure noise effects and spaced-out keyboards, you can't help but notice that the music seems, at times, to lose a bit of momentum on certain tracks, serving as merely a backdrop for Malkmus' spontaneous bursts of guitar improvisation and catchy hooks.

Everything about Folk Implosion’s One Part Lullaby admits to coming-of-age. The Lou Barlow /John Davis indie side project has gone major label; its so "lo-fi" sound has turned lush, and the adenoidal adolescent complaints have, if not completely matured, at least become more accepting of life’s cycle.

Things sometimes tip too far into conventional rock cliché -- "I Can't Wait" is too obvious a power ballad -- but for the most part, this is another display of Lynne's surprisingly agile range.

A fun, contemporary pop record that's uber-cool without ever seeming forced.

It's only on "Close to Modern," a slinky, soul-infused number, that the French Kicks truly distance themselves from their downtown N.Y.C. contemporaries.

The only caveat toward Two? The Saints still rock, but they don't rave quite as hard.

So … How's your Girl is more an experiment in possibility than a cohesive album -- hip-hop rubs up against various other forms of digital noise, and the frictional frisson is both pleasant and surprising. Luckily, Handsome Boy Modeling School has lessons well worth learning.

On Faith and Courage, she returns with the blend of Celtic mysticism, commercial pop, and mature themes that moved so many listeners (and units) on 1990's I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got, while pulling out a few trip-hop stops to keep things current.

York Blvd., Acetone's fourth album, is its most fully realized effort yet, attaching guitarist Mark Lightcap's drowsily effervescent solos to a set of shaggy but economical tunes worthy of Neil Young's stamp of approval.

There are moments on Stillmatic where the old fire is rekindled, the power of his emceeing reborn.

Central Reservation finds Orton's unique, husky voice glowing within her assured, slowly simmering tunes. With her voice, which aches and yearns, caressing the ears like a worn, wool mitten on a winter day, Orton beguiles as a '90s natural woman.

When a band amasses most of its fan base from constant touring, as ATDI has, creating an album that captures the rawness of live shows is paramount. This natural ingredient in its sound is captured beautifully on Relationship of Command.

The smoothed-out international pop sound lets Beenie focus on doing what he does best -- making party music for party people.

A clever party record, complete with oodles of guest appearances and multiple R&B hooks.

In spite of the sudden changes of mood and style, the album coheres nicely around Jackson's strong personality.

Matching Homework in quirkiness, buoyancy, and club-ready freak-beats, Discovery combines the best of what Daft Punk has to offer: mid-'80s synth-pop ("Digital Love"), sleazy euro-funk ("Harder Better Faster Stronger"), shake-your-booty electro-metal with spacey guitar effects ("Aerodynamic" -- Basement Jaxx meets Eddie Van Halen), and minimal, big-beat tunes that Underworld wishes it would have thought of first ("Superheroes").

It's not likely that Up will have the same kind of cultural significance as a milestone like So, but there is no way that fans can write Up off as a disappointment, either.

Most of these re-workings preserve the essential nature of the songs; the producers know enough to stay out of the way.

Callahan has a gift for expressing complex human issues -- death, depression, retribution, separation -- through uncomplicated language.

This disc is that rare combination of substance (both musically and lyrically) and fun. For those who thought the Cherry Poppin' Daddies were a one-hit, one-dimensional wonder, Soul Caddy will be a pleasant surprise.

This collection shows Mitchell as the self-conscious and restless innovator, picking her way carefully through the minefields of human relationships, leaving a trail of eloquent breadcrumbs, as she describes the passing scenery with her evocative and off-kilter imagery.

Cake often veers close to the land of Dr. Demento -- but its catchy, quirky music always manages to pull back from the brink of madness by being a bit more substantial than your typical novelty tune.

Largely spare and reflective throughout, Gallo's experimental compositions are intriguing, though the somber beauty of more straightforward pieces such as Buffalo '66's finale, "A Cold and Grey Summer Day," are far more satisfying.

Rather than the classic R&B soul sound that Knight, backed by the Pips, took to the top of the charts earlier in her career, At Last references RB's new urban sounds.

Although most tracks don't stray far from the studio versions (aside from a few typical chants and rants from Hyde and a nice transition or two), Everything Everything is a must-have as a milestone in the life of the band.

Whatever its negligible shortcomings, Golden State at least serves to inject a depth of vision to what formerly was a rather one-dimensional musical entity.

Armed with an arsenal of keyboard riffs and Merritt's impassive baritone, the resulting sound is a velvety mix of '80s-era new wave, bossa nova beats, and melancholy pop.

Hyacinths and Thistles takes a grab-bag approach to whisper-soft pop, though, at times, the lullaby vibe dangerously teeters between being appealingly fey and overly precious.

Previously merely noisy screechers with no sense of how to play their instruments, Marilyn Manson is now an accomplished and complex industrial-strength hard rock band... It's a point driven home by the group's new album, Holy Wood (In the Shadow of the Valley of Death). Though not as strong or consistent as the glammy Mechanical Animals, Holy Wood instead bridges the gap between that album and its dirtier, raspier predecessor, Antichrist Superstar, with songs that are catchy on the inside, but noisy on the outside.

Breach is equal parts likeable, lyrical jamming, and inflated mediocrity. The Wallflowers achieve their most noteworthy moments in their uptempo, instrumentally thick songs, such as the first track, "Letters from the Wasteland," and "Sleepwalker." When the band leans hard on lyrics as the primary stability of a song, the album falters a bit ("Witness," for example, is slow and tedious).

Despite its obvious classic-rock feel, what could have felt like a novelty album -- a tired K-Tel collection of long-forgotten hits -- feels like a revelation in places.

The group has begun to grow up a bit.

A frothy soufflé of an album, heavy on the groovy dance beats and go-girl goodwill, light on profundity.

They're too smart to just be "art punk," so singer Karen O squeals like Kathleen Hanna and Barbara Mandrell because, well, she can.

This Time Around scores with more sophisticated harmonies and storytelling.

Musically a pretty blend of folksy guitar and lightly new-wave synth, these tunes seethe in a nice-girl way, simmering slightly, but never quite boiling over.

Many artists try their hand at varying stylistically within the same album, but often fail miserably. With Movement in Still Life, BT has turned out one of those rare albums that actually pulls it off.

With Bedlam Ballroom, the Squirrel Nut Zippers sound rejuvenated. The musty '20s and '30s influences that made their previous endeavors sound occasionally laughable now crackle with ornery energy.

Sexsmith's most underrated asset is his most obvious: that voice. The way he slides into a line, pauses, and then delivers for maximum effect… No histrionics, just truth.

What South demonstrates most effectively is that Nova, who had been awkwardly marketed as an edgy alt-rock chick, is now a performer perfectly poised for adulthood, and the mature listening audience that comes with it.

This is a record that delights in the contrast of the group's no-frills rock past and its radio-friendly, mid-tempo future.

Though not as stellar as such past Max-era classics as Chaos A.D. or Roots, Nation is another worthy set of brutally dense, hardcore-tinged metal.

And even though Young laces plenty of signature guitar riffs throughout, Are You Passionate? is for those who appreciate his songwriting as much as if not more than the histrionic fireworks he creates with Crazy Horse.

Walking a thin line in a stylistic minefield, Orbit has successfully reached his goal. Classical purists may be appalled by the concept, but even they may have to admit that he's done a better job than anybody could have expected.

His gruff voice may have earned him comparisons to Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart in the past, but let's face it: Everlast is treading awfully close to Neil Diamond territory here. Salvation, as always, comes in the grooves. Eat at Whitey's is instrumentally opulent, adding cushioned layers of percussion and vintage keyboards to the familiar blues-hop template that launched "What It's Like."

It's a richly textured album, often filled with a melancholy that suits Moorer's dark, rich voice just perfectly.

Its tight-as-a-drum musicianship and the sense of threadbare vulnerability resonating in singer-guitarist Kevin Palmer's songs elevate the band above the ever-expanding pack of like-minded acts.

An eclectic and enjoyable mixture of pop, light rock, light country, and tinny, horn-happy soul, Velvet is almost compulsively cheery.

The songs don't vary a great deal dynamically. Harris' lyrics set Red Dirt Girl apart.

A short, razor-sharp set...

This one finds him getting almost downright sappy. But it suits him well.

Iowa boldly follows up, notching maximum body blows in its unyielding production, while maintaining an odd grandeur in its professed pain and anguish, its struggle for individualism.

Few will quarrel with Springsteen's reliance on his pre-Born in the U.S.A. output, or with the use of only one track, "Youngstown," from The Ghost of Tom Joad. But the absence of anything from the grievously underrated Tunnel of Love is a shame, as is the absence of "Further on Up the Road," a wistful and gorgeous new track played often during the Garden dates.

Brion girds Apple's elastic melodies with off-kilter beats, giving her music a more rhythmic feel than it has previously had, while the singer herself runs the spectrum of grim emotions.

One of the band's most colorful listens.

At times, Aaliyah's somewhat frail, underpowered vocals seem insufficient to meet the emotional heights she seeks to attain (particularly on the epic ballad "I Refuse"), but simultaneously that's a large part of her appeal.

A sweet-sounding album that's both melodious and multilayered.

Shangri-La Dee Da sounds like two completely different bands -- DeLeo's hard rock and Weiland's soft balladry. Happily (for Atlantic Records), the album has something for both slumming Papa Roach fans and growing Jessica Simpson fans. STP has enough talent to hold both together.

On the group's second release, the Geometrid, it experiments with various electronic sounds and alienated vocals that seem to float over the compositions, creating a sense of space, but not emotional disassociation.

Less Casio-centric and nicely encompassing more of the Nottingham native's pop side, Volume 2 is decked out with piano, horns, and a plethora of guitars.

The album provides hard evidence that the dynamite punch of 1998's Devil Without a Cause album was no fluke.

The scattershot recording technique seems erratic for a quartet of chums who've spent upwards of fifteen years gelling together, and most of the rock tracks like "Hella Good" and "Platinum Blonde Life" suffer from a mix of overproduction and lack of urgency; missing is the California garage band vibe that was the trademark of their earlier, more energetic material.

The rockers here, however, aren't his best work, sounding like the Goo Goo Dolls with steel guitars.