No Doubt does play its own instruments, placing the group a cut above the current glut of acts that concentrate more on choreography than musicianship. But try as it might to mask itself in pink hair and fast-paced arrangements, No Doubt is as close to being alternative as the members of 'NSync are to being musicians.

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.

Faces and Names' new sonic explorations are a welcome change from the early '90s alt-rock sound Soul Asylum had bludgeoned into the ground, though the lyrics here don't approach Pirner's best.

But the Dave Matthews Band retains one essential ingredient that transcends Everyday's calculated pop: Dave Matthews. With his sassy, unassuming swagger, unique vocal delivery, and blatant sexual urgency, Matthews carries the load amply...

This Time Around scores with more sophisticated harmonies and storytelling.

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.

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.

Boy George's Essential Mix certainly is unsettling, but only because of its sheer, unexpected brilliance -- which perhaps should not be so surprising, considering George is now a veteran performer on the decks.

May well be Donelly's definitive post-Belly work.

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

He's still slicing and dicing styles like this week's challenger on Iron Chef, but this time he's got some serious guest firepower to back up these cross-cultural forays.

Sleek and motorized, gusgus has paid close Attention to detail in etching a metallic mural of current interests.

There's still lots of the nasty, freaky humor and grimy lyrics that make Ludacris so much fun.

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."

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.

Buckcherry aim to carry on the tradition laid out by the Rolling Stones, AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Guns N' Roses -- extolling the virtues of sex, drugs, and rock and roll -- but listening to Time Bomb is a game of spot the rip-off.

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

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

While Moore has retained her attractively demure vocals, which have a Diana Ross classic pop-soul quality, Exposed subtly updates the sound she's honed since her 1992 debut, Precious.

As a slice of rootsy blues, it works nicely.

While a little too dense in spots, NYC Ghosts & Flowers is 42 minutes of the most neatly executed pop noir you'll hear.

The record does go on a bit long, flagging at the end. But there are enough wonderful songs on this disc to knock at least a couple of boy bands off the radio.

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

Listener-friendly, surprisingly short songs that walk a thinner line than usual between tired and inspired.

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

It's refreshing to see a high-profile album like this take a long-form risk and stand on the merits of intuition and musical construction alone.

Sharper, edgier, and more twisted than its predecessor, Vol. Two is like a throwback to Everclear's early days, before So Much for the Afterglow launched the Portland trio into the arena rock stratosphere.

Do all of these elements add up to an album that offers something more than the usual steady diet of carefully polished, capably executed, but ultimately unremarkable angst-ridden punk-pop? Answer -- probably not.