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.

It's mostly funny, but it also gets kind of same-y as these average Joes embrace their marching-band backgrounds and revel in self-deprecating humor.

Though not terrible, Trey Anastasio's latest is miles below what he's done before.

The lyrics are clumsy, the synth-pop melodies bland and the genius long gone.

Some of the livelier tunes don't suit her as well, and neither does overproduction. Luckily, Rosey's vocals shine through where it counts.

A few more tangible melodies would have gone down well, but the overall mood is magnificent.

A much more spiritually fulfilling listening experience.

The rest of the disc glides along on that same smooth, if lightweight style, with Tyrese serving as little more than a hot conduit for top-notch producers and writers like Babyface, Jermaine Dupree and Diane Warren. Luckily, Tyrese can sing.

Gold Medal's tempos are sluggish and the lyrics are emotionally vacant.

It's a downer, sure, but if you've got the patience, this disc's subtle meditations have a way of working themselves into your heart.

A majority of By the Way features astoundingly wise steps in new, mature directions.

The result? An album that could just as easily bear the name of any other pop singer working the charts today.

The odd combination of Coomes' rinky-dink keyboards and Weiss' booming beat is scrappy, stripped-down and still charmingly unlike anything else out there.

A winning combo of thick club cuts, hands-in-the-air call-outs, pop ingenuity and a perfect balance of entertainment and realism in his rhymes.

Edgier and more experimental than its predecessors, The Garden also ramps up the chill factor.

With dashes of Nick Cave darkness, surf-guitar twang, ugly '60s pop and Velvet Underground-y noise, the Raveonettes offer more variations on the dense tuned-down sound that's overtaking America.

As studio swan songs go, this sounds pretty darn good.

The only sign of life is that filthy mouth and cherry-vanilla hair.

The first half is instantly familiar, throwing up the same flurry of guitars and post-grunge drudge the Foos have been hammering home for years. The more laid-back stuff is... charming and warm.

[Lostprophets] mine the acts of groups like Faith No More and Incubus to put a more palatable edge on the sluggish nu-metal genre.

A good amount of Demolition screams quality.

FutureSex/LoveSounds isn't nearly as good as its slinky predecessor.

Appallingly not so good.

Fans of Travis and Coldplay will certainly find much to treasure in the soaring harmonies, soft strings and heartfelt sentiments.

Touch shows her being assertive and in charge.

Some of the posturing gets a little wearisome after a few rounds, but whatever, we like where the neighborhood's headed.

Often thrilling, sometimes just interesting.

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

[A] low-key album.

Basically disco with a new-wave spin, it's nothing you haven't heard before--in 1983.

Unfortunately, this straightforward approach also reveals how straight-up dull Mann's country-tinged songs can be.

While tracks like "So Sick" and "Stay" hit a few sweet neosoul spots, this perfectly pleasant disc is lacking that roundhouse kick that floors you.

Unfortunately, it lacks much of the spark and spunk that made the original disc so memorable.

Despite a few promising creative bursts ("Love," "Black Sweat"), it's another case of dashed expectations, as the disc dissolves into a bloodless puddle of smooth-jazz grooves and lyrics that wither at the hands of the singer's recent religious ideals.

Julian Casablancas continues to sing as if roused from a deep sleep, the rhythm section keeps the tunes as puckery tight as the band's trousers and guitarists Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jr. balance melodic strumming with some impressive shredding.

The end result is creative, inspired and, most important, individual.

What the Kids lack in pep this time they make up for with honest, homey performances.

The anthemic cries for getting your crap in order are flavored with dashes of sonic experimentation and the knowledge of when to slow things down.

The group sounds as wonderfully debauched, degenerate and dejected as ever.

A thoroughly dull collection of acoustic-based country-rock ballads you could hear at any local open-mike night.

Her lilting angelic voice and ethereal alternating waves of electronic and acoustic musical accompaniment make Nova's contemporary folk-pop tunes perfect for TV-styled teen angst and lessons in love.

It's too much.

There's little to dig here as the guys sound like a three-headed John Mayer or a trio of little Joe Jacksons.

Overflowing with sparkling riffs and rhythms punched up with the kind of self-deprecating, angst-lite lyrics the boys craft so well.

Weighed down with bland lyrics and blander arrangements, it meanders off into chick-rock clichés and lazy easy-listening melodies.

[Gray has] stepped up his own game with richer production, bigger arrangements and a renewed sense of purpose that makes songs like "Alibi" and "Disappearing World" sound like his most epic work yet.

Lovebox brings together [their] disparate elements in a convenient package, highlighting the knob-twiddlers' many talents.

Even if it is twice as long as it needs to be (thus, a couple of dead spots), we're not arguing. We're just enjoying the music.

Too much of this mopey stuff can be Hard to take.

Become You serves up sparse coffeehouse acoustic arrangements with a side of gorgeously hoarse and shimmering vocal harmonies.

Sounding like a Pabst Blue Ribbon-slamming cross between John Cougar Mellencamp and Janis Joplin, Etheridge unleashes pool-hall rockers... as if every night is Friday night.

Taking a cue from the success of his last major hit, "Again," Lenny, the sensitive, midtempo balladeer, cavorts all over this largely reflective, romantic effort.

This isn't necessarily the best place to hear the definitive versions of Bo Diddley's "Road Runner" or Big Joe Williams' "Baby, Please Don't Go," but it's definitely the place to hear Aerosmith having the time of its life.

The disc is bubbling with techno effects, a loose interpretation of Jamaican production and a (welcome) severe case of ADD.

The disc's bountiful electric piano, plaintive acoustic guitars and gentle vocals recall old AM radio fare like Cat Stevens or, more currently, an American version of Travis.

He fails to come up with an album that keeps up the standard set here by a couple of standout tracks such as "Strawberry Wine" and "Nightbirds."

The whole deal threatens to take off occasionally, but in the end, it doesn't rise beyond meandering.

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.

The treasures in this latest pile of Garbage may not be as apparent as they were in the past, but the goodies are still there.

Once again, it's a batch of arena-ready, metal-friendly, upbeat punk rock that often sounds like Sum 41 doing its best Bay City Rollers impression.

With the macho posturing out of the way, it makes it easier to appreciate his powerful voice and million-dollar arrangements.

Armed with a summer anthem and all ("Lucy Doesn't Love You"), it shouldn't be long before Ivy's popularity grows.

The best he has sounded in years.

More realized than 2002's In Search Of..., they hit all of their marks, rubbing guitar licks against '70s funk and sexy R&B that's bound to get any club flying high.

Wonderfully soothing, late-night music that is simply beautiful.

The mellow moments define this album with "The Missing," "The Only Way (Is the Wrong Way)" and the contemplative "God Damn Me" being the main reasons to stick it out with these dudes.

All droning guitars, snail-paced rhythms and bombastic arrangements, songs like "Schedule for Using Pillows & Beanbags" and "Your Lights Are (Out or) Burning Badly" will either raise the hairs on the back of your neck or put you to straight to sleep.

Sounds exactly like you would expect a Tool album to sound.

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

Most of it strikes deeply and poignantly.

The originals are still the best, but this is pretty fly for a white guy.

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

Hearing the bare-bones "Across the Universe" or a de-orchestrated "The Long and Winding Road" is revelatory.

The Canadian rocker looks like a (prettier) member of Sum 41, sounds like a slightly less-pissed Alanis Morissette and has the streetwise 'tude of Pink.

Like the soundtrack of a very bad Jazzercise class.

43 minutes of thrills.

She's the perfect '70s soul-funk mama, and lucky for us, she's stuck in 2004.

Shatner oversees some surprisingly tuneful turns.

Michael Jackson's probably thinking, "Man, this is the album I should've made last year!"

The band's playing is mellow and freer than their tenser past outings, and frontwoman Johnette Napolitano's voice remains pleasantly husky. But some of the band's beautifully gritty venom is missing.

Subtítulo... is not without its charms, but it borders on easy listening at times.

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

Eve-Olution dolls up her gritty hip-hop roots with propulsive pop melodies, high-gloss production and cameos from famous friends like Alicia Keys and Snoop Dogg.

After too many calls for the end of humanity and playing the Satan card a few times, all the yelling becomes little more than a humorless joke.

The rich pop melodies and soft psychedelic touches of songs like "Empty Room" and "Waves" remind us of Coldplay and Grandaddy.

Thanks to soulful orchestral swells, the songs have lush contours, which soften the singer's macho stance.

With Love and Squalor certainly won't change pop music as we know it, but it packs surprisingly huge melodies and shamelessly danceable beats.

Nearly missing are the charming sax and violin song augmentations. Gone are the tunes that are too long but always find their way back. And gone is some of Matthew's long-faced songwriting personality--now all gussied up in a swirl of quick hits, easy ballads and electric guitar.

It's killer stuff for any frame of mind.

He doesn't deliver much you haven't heard before.

On "Waiting on the World to Change," Mayer breathily imagines a world where frat boys get off their couches and have people sign petitions. Sigh. A little more of that and less of noodley songs like "Vultures" and "Gravity" would have been a good step toward reminding us who Mayer really is.

With so much soundtrack and jingle work to be done, who can really blame these marketing all-stars for playing to their past successes?

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

While some of the posturing about his bling--as well as the repetitive dirty South beats--might get a little tired, this one is guaranteed to keep it hot in herre all night.

But even a busload of heavyweight producers and guests (P. Diddy, Jermaine Dupri, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, the Neptunes and more) can't help this Babyface prodigy from playing it too same-y here.

In the end, Island makes Dave sound like he's just not enthusiastic about making music anymore.

Feels like it was designed by committee.

All the spiky edges have been worn away.