Keys, however, proves to be a better singer than songwriter, as most of the latter half of the album slips into sleepy piano numbers.

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.

The result is a bumpy, self-indulgent ride, sure, but Love's fuming testimony is packed with a scraggily voice screaming to be heard and a bombastic blast of rage, raw power and sarcasm.

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

Six albums in, Missy's recipe for success is still pretty fresh.

The frequently acoustic guitars and the frontman's mumbled ramblings on death, politics and love make this a fairly quiet, and deep, Riot.

Country's biggest commodity takes the easy way out with a meticulously picked and produced batch of tunes (see: safe) that would be impossible to screw up.

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

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

A surprisingly agreeable, if lightweight, disc.

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

Babylon's treasures don't run as deep as they could've, but swingers will still enjoy this luxurious spin.

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.

This could have been groundbreaking once upon a time, but there's nothing really new here and only a few songs ever rise above sheer novelty value.

Unfortunately, she has also followed Ms. Knowles' lead in recording overly earnest, confessional ballads.

Most the songs feel like they should have come out around the same time Clinton moved into the White House.

His rhymes don't say much new, and the repetitive bounce of Powerballin' rattles your head after a while.

It's not exactly the most sophisticated rap album of the year... but with production by Swizz Beatz on "Cry Babies (Oh No)," the head-bobbing chorus for "Rollout (My Business)" and the smooth joint effort with Nate Dogg ("Area Codes"), the crass clown can be entertaining.

She's little more than an ex-Fly Girl with a bunch of studio tricks to help kick off the party.

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

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

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 one thing Banks lacks is Fiddy's natural charisma--he's also about eight bulletholes short in the "life-experience department."

Most tracks have a commercial sheen that makes the songs sound like they were custom-made to be played in the background of pivotal scenes on The O.C.

He often riffs for too long, so by the time he's singing to his daughter on "Hailie's Song," you feel the album's nearly 80-minute length.

[It] feels more overly familiar and Velvet Underground-y than usual, which isn't a good thing for a band with such forward-thinking ideals.

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.

Someone get this woman some drama, pronto.

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

His pipes are in tip-top shape, sure, but hearing this stuff is sometimes more embarrassing than reading your little sister's diary.

John sounds as old and crusty as his recent tirades.

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

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

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

This is carefully architected to pack arenas.

An arresting mix of the singer's political and personal strife set to a jazzy backbeat.

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

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.

His laid-back delivery and glitchy computer beats are only interesting for so long.

Ultimately he fails to make a lasting impression.

This set of songs comes with a chill of morbidity that's hard to shake.

For a better taste of Harris' harmonizing abilities, try her recent collaborations with young'uns like Bright Eyes and Ryan Adams.

Unfortunately, things do go awry more than a few times.

Listening to her debut album, you get the feeling that she breezed in and out of the studio.

Precise? Yes. But does it work your frustrations out? Only a little.

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

The disc is made up mostly by mid-tempo classic rockers and sweet nothing ballads. Disappointing? Well, yes.

Unfortunately, Jewel... chooses to revert to the soppy musical formula of her 1995 debut, Pieces of You.

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

Yes, she still has an interesting voice that's beautiful and quirky at the same time, but there's so much here to sift through and nothing much that immediately grabs you.

The music on the group's debut album... feels as if it was inspired by awkward adolescent feel-up LPs by the likes of Pat Benatar and Cheap Trick.

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

Sometimes it sounds like he's trying too hard.

These five regular San Francisco joes know a thing or two about the kind of midtempo, acoustic-based rock that makes for a smooth, radio-ready ride.

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.

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.

The disc's simple melodies and slightly dated alt-rock sound are unlikely to change his fortunes anytime soon.

It's too much.

The whole affair is overly polished, strangely detached and contains a thoroughly unnecessary cover of Don Henley's "Dirty Laundry."

Even though some of the novelty's worn off with Let's Bottle Bohemia, the hand claps, woo-hoo choruses and wide-eyed lyrics are still undeniably enjoyable.

Even if it doesn't wow you, Autobiography may surprise you.

The veteran singer-songwriter has opted to retreat into old-timey blues, rattling off clichés about blind horses and hog-eyed towns while laying down a halfhearted soundtrack of brushed drums, plucked guitars and woozy strings.

Sadly, The Way It Is never quite lives up to the album it could have been.

Unless you are the president of the NRA or addicted to Cops-type tales, 50 Cent's debut is strictly small change.

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 22-20s are simply more of the same--the same clichés, the same melody-free blasts of noise, the same old garage rock that sounds positively primitive.

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

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.

The album's bluesy Americana-inspired tunes like "Saving Grace" and "Turn This Car Around" are, sure, kind of predictable, but they make up for that by being pretty darn good songs.

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

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.

Listening to all this Edge-y guitar doodling and whiny wailing, the question remains: Why mess with a fun, 20-million-album-selling formula for this ponderous prog project?

This is an eerie meditation on aging, death and the corruption of popular culture.

U Saved Me's songs of praise like "Leap of Faith" and "Prayer Change" can be taken in two ways: attempts at redemption for what you've just heard or hollow attempts at album sales.

In the end, even LL himself seems a little lost in his efforts to find Todd Smith.

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.

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

A quiet, meditative effort. [5 Mar 2004, p.68]

This is pleasant, bouncy pop, perfect for the carefree days of summer.

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.

This feather-light affair simply lacks any real memorable tunes.

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.

Her voice has grown huskier with age, the songs are barely there, and hip-hop producer Mike Elizondo doesn't have the delicate hand that's required to bring them to life.

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

For hard-core fans, there's a wealth of rare gems here.

A mixed bag, with its fair share of unsatisfactory pop throwaway moments but also a healthy dose of midtempo ballads and stratospheric numbers.

She mysteriously trims away her individuality and morphs into a J.Lo imitator.

Fun, but hardly fresh.

Sounds like it was recorded in a tin can and constructed from leftovers off the group's debut.

All of this vitriol, however, tears away at the more palatable hooks found in past Saliva hits, which isn't necessarily a good thing.

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

Teeters on '80s synth cheese every now and again.

Suffers from many of the same problems that tripped up its predecessor: too many skits, too few ideas and a voice that is neither hard nor particularly flowery.

The sonic pleasure of the band's languid guitar balladry still pulses, and bassist Britta Phillips adds pleasant Stereolab-y vocals to some tracks, but there isn't much here you haven't heard before from Luna.

You can hear them struggling on Make Believe to keep fans bouncing along to the power-pop anthems but also keep it interesting for themselves so frontman Rivers Cuomo won't put the whole thing on hiatus again.

Its glossiest production yet.

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.

But by not lyrically responding to the originals--like Liz Phair did for Exile in Guyville, for instance--Tori stops short of high concept and more than once slips from being revolutionary to simply pretentious.