An acoustic-based, late-night journey focusing on social and political bummers and characters who've been battered by life.

A well-crafted mix of hardcore bluster, determined melody and anthemic grandness that boasts depth and texture rarely heard from the Warped Tour ilk.

It's stripped down (and we're not just talking about the jumpsuits), simple and the songwriter's best work in ages.

Some called their first two albums derivative, but with this third disc the guys wrestle their greased-up garage boogie until they own it.

Weird, wonderful and, yes, super.

Take Elton John, multiply him by five, add a pinch of Frankie Goes to Hollywood, maybe a little Beck and some Carson Kressley, and you'll have something resembling the Scissor Sisters.

If the album weren't so agreeably off-kilter--short, whispery tunes alternate with long, rambling epics--its mix of guitars and piano would almost seem like the stuff you'd hear on rockers like Layla or Abbey Road.

Casual fans of modern rock may drown here (and probably won't get it), but admirers of like-minded artists such as the Flaming Lips and Built to Spill will certainly get Rev-ved up.

Ms. Dynamite's debut album is heady stuff, punctuated by groundbreaking beats, seductive vocals and melodies that lodge themselves firmly into your cranium.

Her most far-out R&B work to date.

With soft electronic rhythms and tape loops bubbling under, her impassive voice lays out rich lyrics as melodies build and explode around standout tracks like "Galaxies" and "Parisian Dreams."

A just-okay collection of mellow ruminations that, at its best, recalls Tom Waits' Bone Machine, and, at its worst, sounds like indie rock's answer to James Taylor.

Our adult Malkmus is less prone to toss off a half-finished rough gem and more likely to polish and polish until things are a little too shiny.

Somewhere in here there's a really good album just fighting to get out.

Her vocal quirks can take some getting used to, but the oblique melodies and cosmic lyrics in songs such as "On the Radio" and "20 Years of Snow" demonstrate what a remarkable talent is mixed in with all the idiosyncrasies.

With their intensely layered harmonies, pounding rhythms and Martsch's own nasal drawl, songs like "Alarmed" and "You Are" are sublimely hummable pop gems.

Though it's an interesting idea and is at times stirring, the results don't always work as well as one would hope.

There's nothing quite like the sound of a band at the top of its game.

A soaring, orchestral pop masterpiece.

The album quickly unravels into a mess of mumbled vocals, pointless guitar solos and songs that sound suspiciously unfinished.

Pawn Shoppe Heart is all sensational glam riffs and massive shout-along choruses.

There's a bit an identity crisis going on here, but fans of this stuff ought to fall under the Numbers' spell pretty darn fast.

Minimalist folk rock in its purest form.

The opening song, "First Wave Intact," is nine minutes of churning Led Zeppelin-size rock. And it gets stranger from there.

The song, sentiment and anger remain the same.

You either get the concept or you don't, but those who do will feel tingly all the way down to the base of their dance-floor spines.

As concert recordings go, this is one of the best.

The joyful "I Love the '80s"-style disc fans have been yearning for since she took up yoga.

Embracing lonesome gothic-folk traditions, slight blues and country, this stark release is all about misery, hardship and stuff you'd rather not think about.

The biggest kicks come from the bedroom demos and odd covers of songs like "Blowin' in the Wind," but only the initiated will be able to stay awake long enough to hear them.

There's something totally irresistible about Antics: The air of mystery, the bleak but hopeful arrangements and the melodies so sharp and moving that they might inspire a night of heroic partying.

Beautiful pop symphonies that hit like a Louisville Slugger.

Many of these harrowing tunes, like "Lonesome Tears" and "Guess I'm Doing Fine" have the lonely blues feel of Beck's similar-sounding Mutations, and they definitely get better with repeated play.

A darkly shimmering, intensely brooding and exquisitely melancholy trip.

Sexsmith's best album yet.

Even the geeky ballads will put a smile on your face and a Bic lighter in your hand.

A leader of the old school teams up with an upstart from the new, and the classy result is the way-out antics of Handsome Boy Modeling School.

The group cuts through style in pursuit of substance, using Fever to Tell's slow-burning hit "Maps" as a jump-off point.

The Alternative to Love is tipped to be his big breakthrough album, and it's easy to see why. It's full of bright '70s power-pop choruses, infectious guitar riffs and the kind of laid-back breeziness that suggests most of these songs came to him in his sleep.

If last year's Under Construction was a little weird, then This Is Not a Test! is barking mad--in the greatest way.

The songs lack the emotional depth of Bewilderbeast, but the jaunty folk-pop is just so much fun.

The slick production will scare off longtime fans quicker than a cross repels a vampire, but for the rest of us, it's an easy introduction to a crew of weird guys who deserve to be heard.

Little gems are overwhelmed by sprawling jam tracks that, well, blur into each other.

Tunes such as "Escondite Ingles" work in any language, mixing mad Latin percussion with big rock riffs and Carribbean rhythms.

A slower album than most, Bomb eventually reveals itself as a work of genius, wrapping religion, love and life into emotionally thrilling gifts.

A most pleasurable guilty pleasure.

Imagine a dance floor where Steve Reich raves, Talking Heads reunite and disco divas shake their booty with pierced punks.

In the end, his big head seriously weighs down the quality of Quality.

Rather than coming across as an unfriendly piece of self-indulgence--which may or may not have been the intention--her latest CD is quietly captivating.

Singer Sam Prekop sounds as delightfully laid-back as ever and John McEntire's production remains inventive, however, the combined effect is more limp than limber.

There's still plenty of spunk in to be found in this Sgt. Pepper-lite.

A less produced, totally honest and much more sparse collection than what fans were dancing to with Omnipop.

Interesting variations on classic pop music, delivered with fire and wisdom.

Just like the architects behind Kid A, they take all these creepy elements and make something totally excellent.

Merchant has achieved a lovely balance of art and craft.

Musically this is more varied and muscular than her debut ... vocally she rocks harder. And though she still ain't exactly perky, she does sound less sullen.

As lyrically inflammatory as ever.

If it's not his best, it's easier to warm up to than most of his solo releases.

In a meeting of the minds, the folk hero and the electronic-music guru produce an unexpectedly listenable collection of songs that doesn't really compromise either of their styles.

The music is as fine as the pairing is strange.

Two is his most highbrow effort yet.

This solo disc by Phish phrontman Trey Anastasio offers some delicious bait.

DOLL may lack style, but it makes it up with substance.

Looks back to prehistoric U2 and Cure records for inspiration.

In the tradition of Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Woody Guthrie and even Bruce Springsteen, Earle has a knack for hard-nosed poetry.

Pretty much the same as his head-banging debut, only louder and with more keyboards.

Backed by 22-year-old grandson Cedric Burnside on drums and longtime slide-guitar partner Kenny Brown, the trio locks into a groove almost instinctually on tracks like "Skinny Woman" and "Goin' Down South."

It's [Lewis'] powerful voice and compelling storytelling... that makes the songs of busted relationships and failed faith really sting.

The Life Pursuit is all swaying tempos and vintage summer-sad melodies that sound like a postcard from home.

Beck's taken everything he's good at and made it better.

Slapping his knees, spitting and grunting, Waits makes the already raw blues sound of songs like "Metropolitan Glide" and "Trampled Rose" sound even more grizzled.

A weird ride, but a good one.

The perfect guest at your next guilty-pleasure dance party.

The strangest sensation? It's actually all pretty good.

Reaffirms the Los Angeles-based band's strong pop sensibility.

Not only is Depeche Mode virtually indestructible, the pioneering British synth-pop group also keeps getting better.

Lullabies to Paralyze explodes with tight, meaty riffs, enormous pop melodies and vocals that seem to come from outer space.

An urgent, soulful collection.

These are just good tunes, no matter what the window dressing is.

The electric mood of Adams' sophomore disc definitely reflects his good fortunes and knack for solid songcraft.

It sounds like the band is trying too hard to recapture the quirk factor, and the overdose borders on annoying.

Maxwell's latest finds the steady and seductive soul-provider drawing more from the class of Marvin Gaye than the trash of R. Kelly--with a touch of spirituality thrown in.

Employment is thrilling from beginning to end, packing in 45-minutes of exuberant Britpop melodies, na-na-na choruses and buzzsaw guitars that make Franz Ferdinand look like a bunch of stiffs.

Even though he didn't use Godrich's elegant landscaping to its full advantage, we'll still listen to what this man has to say.

The music on Comfort of Strangers is at times so complex and distracting that it often overshadows Orton's winsome voice.

It's not as hands-down great as the Swedes' last (Veni Vidi Vicious), and a handful of tracks are too-short bursts of energy that only leave you wanting more. But when the band gets rolling with tracks such as "Walk Idiot Walk," there's no stopping it.

On bluesy new tracks such as "Stubborn Beast" and "Moonshiner," she conjures a sensual, serious confidence that suggests she's ready to depose Cat Power as the queen of indie teardrop ballads.

Fans and Luddites will find much to treasure when dropping this platter on the Victrola.

It's the kind of album that finds its own cozy place somewhere between Lynyrd Skynyrd and Leonard Cohen.

This spinner of wispy, earnest vocals, sad-eyed melodies and country sensibilities lacks that special spark of passion to keep one's interest.

A glorious noise in which wailing guitars, teeth-rattling drums and Ralph Cuseglio's bug-eyed hollering leave no place for pretense.

Fusing R&B, pop, jazz, blues, throwback soul--hell, you name it--Keys delivers grandstand ballads (like the single "Fallin' "), midtempo music, diary-worthy lyrics and feminist funk as if they were all as uncomplicated as scales.

The disc is all over the map, moving from booming dance cuts to gangsta fare, but it satisfies with crunk-tacular gems like "What You Know."

If you're not already part of the Dashboard faithful, these tortured-by-love songs get to be a bit much.

He comes across like a smarter, gentler sidekick to Badly Drawn Boy.

Taylor sounds assuredly relaxed and content.

This ain't another Daydream Nation, but Nurse is a good cure for what ails the airwaves.

As leftovers go, this Album is refreshingly tasty.