When all is said and done, Everything to Everyone manages to be good for many.

Any music snob who has ever fantasized about grafting Belle & Sebastian's deceptively sweet melodies onto Modest Mouse's angular rhythms and riffs needs look no further than the Shins.

So what if the clean-ish production elicits screams of "Sellout!" from longtime fans? This is good stuff. Somewhere, Courtney Love is wishing she made this album.

Gone are the inspired melodies and sweet emotional turns of their past triumphant albums, replaced by boring philosophical musings and wafer-thin tunes.

Jet has more fun with songs like "Cold Hard B****" than most bands do during their entire careers.

When Ludacris promised his new album would cover all bases, he wasn't kidding.

Ben Gibbard has a knack for painting scenes of such intimate detail they come off as universal.

Rife with hyper-marketable flamenco guitars and jazz pianos, it's world music for people whose idea of adventure is a trip to Banana Republic.

That's not to say that it's bad--it's just that the radio-friendly chanteuse's lightweight fusion of beats and folk songs is sleepy and barely discernable from one track to the next.

More scattered than his past works, Wainwright's skills bubble to the surface here only after repeated listens.

Nickelback's so safe, so sanitized and so damn catchy that it's downright scary.

Sorry, dude, the Results are in--and they're not good.

On "Hands on You,"... Trice gets to show off his incredible lyrical flow alongside an unusually subdued Eminem.

By far the best showcase for Dave Matthews' seductive, haunting and deep warble.

Double the pleasure, double the fun? Definitely, definitely.

It's a rootsy, honest album in the simple tradition of Hank Williams and Jimmie Rodgers.

Sure, it takes some time to sink in, but once it gets a hold of your heart, it won't let go.

Grand Champ would make a great single. As it stands, it's about a full hour more of DMX hollering gruffly than anybody really needs.

Stone navigates her way with confidence and prowess, passion and experimentation.

The album quickly reveals itself to be a muddled effort of overproduction and drab lyrics.

Granted, Step doesn't have anything as effortlessly flawless as the classic single "Judith" from the band's last album, but it does have a number of songs ("Blue," "The Outsider") that are almost as bombastically beautiful.

This body of work will be a wonderland of hits in time.

Some Girls dishes out dirty, greasy rock 'n' roll that doesn't sacrifice mood for hooks.

His crisp voice has dulled, and his inspiration has gone with it.

Instantly engaging, and totally engrossing over time.

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

Sure, it has a slightly confusing air to it, but with lost gems like "Ali's Waltz" and "Beautiful World" popping up along the way, that's part of the fun.

The band's equally impressive second album grooves with both a Detroit hipster sound and some spacey atmosphere.

Their whisper-thin, doo-wop harmonies, fuzzy guitars and barely-there percussion make the Strokes seem like Led Zeppelin. But that's not a bad thing.

It's an easy listen, enjoyable on the surface with deeper meanings you're willing to dig.

This is a fine final coda that's no tearjerker but a reminder of how much he matters right now.

Indestructible feels a lot less dangerous than their previous discs.

This gem glistens with bumpin' hits by Nelly, Clipse, Snoop Dogg and others.

When they crank out catchy ditties on harmony-heavy cuts like "Drifting Apart," AAF sound like a bunch of old pros--old pros who are still having a blast.

When he gets it right, the rich grooves and soulful voices can be sublime, like early '70s Curtis Mayfield or Sly and the Family Stone.

While some of it is bitterly brilliant, too many songs veer toward being overdone or naively optimistic.

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

A most pleasurable guilty pleasure.

There must be some kind of new world record in terribleness here.

BT's attempts at rock 'n' roll lead to schizophrenic sloppiness.

Singer Jon Bunch's vocals remain powerful and dynamic, while the songs ditch most of the weighty orchestration that slowed down previous efforts.

Mya's third album should have no problem hanging with the chart-topping competition, seeing how it's stacked with hit after steamy hit.

This is carefully architected to pack arenas.

There's little here that Our Lady Peace, Foo Fighters, Everclear and a half-dozen other post-grunge bands don't already do better.

Her third album reins it all in to a more palatable place with traditional R&B production and a healthy dose of funkiness.

He does it all so proficiently, you can't help but want to have the guy hang out in your CD player for awhile.

The Los Angeles band wants to be Radiohead so bad it hurts, but too bad--they're just too good at pop.

It's awfully hard to tell if this is actually Ashanti's new album or if it's just one big infomercial for her label, Murder Inc.

While it's not as immediately user-friendly as the group's early jazz-rap infusions, this album still bubbles with head-nodding boombox pleasures.

At 23 songs... his second solo full length is as bloated as a rummy's liver. Still, it's good.

Sounds uniquely fresh.

So, it's not exactly a musical revolution in the making, but it'll sure be easier to tell her apart from Vanessa Carlton from now on.

Even if the divorcée flirts with being Sheryl Crow-y bland now, she can still let whip-smart lyrics flow with her potty mouth.

A solo album to put all solo albums to shame.

There's no reason to buy any other electronica CD this year.

What once sounded like the future's music a decade ago just sounds creepy and dated now.

Plodding jazz-rock tunes that are 30 years old at this point.

You'll love it.

Most of it strikes deeply and poignantly.

If you haven't already pledged your allegiance to Radiohead, this isn't gonna turn you.

While St. Anger doesn't go back to the speedy, epic-crafting days of yesteryear, it's all balls: bad-ass rock and blistering, visceral lyrics.

Minimalist folk rock in its purest form.

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

At least they sound like they're still having a good time.

Aside from the razor-thin, plastic-sounding tunes, it's hard to determine what's more disturbing, her acid-hued cover photo or the Prince-y song titles like "Run 2 U," "2 Become 1" and "U & Me = Love."

Pat Monahan and his boys have reverted back to their quasi-bohemian roots, meaning they sound like a better Counting Crows (with a dreamier frontman) and less-challenging Wallflowers.

The simpler style allows the tense commentary to come through loud and clear, as the band keeps up.

Even if you think you've heard it all before, West is a winner.

Like a crisp Xerox of the band's multiplatinum Break the Cycle, with everything sounding bigger, brighter and tighter.

Even if it all sounds pretty much the same as their last few, you'd be unwise to turn a deaf ear to this release.

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

If you aren't down with Manson, this won't change you one bit. But for Manson fans, Grotesque is beautiful.

A semi-charming collection of catchy hooks, decent pop rock and just enough shades of darkness to keep you interested.

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.

It's sweet and kind of sexy and all that, but clearly designed for those who find John Mayer too challenging.

Give it a couple of spins, and you'll find it's completely mind-blowing.

All bluster and noise and no substance.

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

There's something high-concept going on here, if you listen closely enough. Sad thing is, you probably won't want to. There's something high-concept going on here, if you listen closely enough. Sad thing is, you probably won't want to.

Is this another Dawson's Creek soundtrack, or what?

Aside from the thumping groove of "Nobody Knows Me" and a few other bouncy beats, much of the electro style Madonna experimented with on 2000's Music has been replaced with warmer sounds and earthy touches, like acoustic guitars and a choir that comes from nowhere on "Nothing Fails."

Although he has sensibly cut back on the droning that defined his last disc's stand-out single "Strange Condition," this release shows few other signs of growth.

Totally depressing and totally engaging.

While the lyrics range from the stale to the surreal, the band's vibe still gels where it counts.

There is an army of producers, songwriters and guests that make Thankful's mom-approved hip-hop beats and love songs feel as contrived as Clarkson's perfectly placed highlights.

With loads of acoustic guitars and the Jayhawks' winsome country harmonies, this album looks back to the sound of Crosby, Stills & Nash.

Rages and riffs with epic drama.

An hour-long dream-pop kiss that floats by on a bed of brushed drums, lilting Hawaiian guitars and whispered vocals.

Williams' captivating lyrics are gut-wrenchingly intimate.

Sure, the waifish white girl slips up plenty by trying too hard to be cool, but it feels like they're having a good time, as the duo scratch and shout their way through head-swaying slow songs, soul-funk Jamiroquai-ish joints, some pop quickies and an array of other styles.

It's a massive success.

It doesn't help that the best song here, "Feel," sounds like a bad Richard Ashcroft B-side; the worst is a seven-minute mariachi stomp about traveling to Las Vegas with a monkey, called "Me and My Monkey."

The production varies from understated to glossy, and Cash has enough presence to carry it all off.

Through it all, the guys stay just as tight (translation: radio-ready) as ever, offering up tracks in near-perfect three-minute doses.

The four-piece has transformed into a genuine powerhouse, blowing away any so-called new rock revolution contenders with lovely melodies and effortless intensity.

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.

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

At times, he's guilty of doing his best Lenny Kravitz impersonation.... But those moments pass relatively quickly, and he slips back into his stripped-down, socially conscious self--and that's when Harper truly shines.