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

Nothing here is as generous as the hooks found on the band's sole hit (you may remember "Natural One" from the Kids soundtrack), but there's plenty of mournful rock for the mopers in the world.

Aside from some cool collaborations with Missy Elliott, Twista and Method Man, Kim spends most of the album lecturing her fans with less-than-stimulating lines.

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

Neither as experimental as Yankee Hotel Foxtrot nor as accessible as McCaughey's various forays, nothing on the album really makes an impression other than a couple of throwaway lyrics and the abrupt shift between McCaughey's pinched vocal styling and Wilco singer Jeff Tweedy's coarse whisper.

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

Human Conditions is as bloated and directionless as its awkward title suggests, weighted with meandering songs without melodies, lyrics straight out of freshman-year philosophy class and a sickly slick sheen.

A headache-inducing mess of rehashed classic rock riffs and stale grooves.

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.

A darkly shimmering, intensely brooding and exquisitely melancholy trip.

Conjures up an exotic, enchanting world populated with slide guitars, maracas, accordions, brass bands and late-night country crooning.

Retro rawk doesn't come much ballsier than this--or get much better.

Melodically exquisite, this is a triumph of minimalism.

Declawed and hesitant, it's hard to get excited about this piece of funkless confection.

Less immediate than their brilliantly untouchable 1998 album Mezzanine, this project is unsettling, uneasy and, okay, sometimes unbearably depressing.

Often funeral-march slow, but there are also flashes of passionate energy.

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

The lyrics aren't "How Soon Is Now?"-type genius, but they go down easily enough.

Carrying none of the charm or innovation of the duo's earlier ABBA tribute, this set is salvaged only by a relatively straight reading of Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill."

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

Though perfect for hipster English-lit teachers, ravenous Reed fans will find themselves saying "nevermore."

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.

A lesson in subtlety, 10 songs of abstract musical impressions that foil today's connect-the-dots pop.

A soaring, orchestral pop masterpiece.

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.

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

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

She doesn't quite act her age on teen beat-driven single "Whatchulookinat," but she makes up for it with a series of R&B standards and diva-worthy ballads that hit most of the right notes.

Carey's once glorious voice is all over the place, her rainbow-and-stars lyrics come off like the notebook doodles of a 12-year-old girl, and her song selection is shocking.

Snoop sounds as cool as ever with his velvety voice and nodding head keeping the laid-back party going.

With Phrenology, the cool Philly troupe remain head and shoulders above the rest by sticking to their well-defined course of smoky live beats, serious lyrics, stunning guests... and not one ounce of production from the Neptunes.

This disc has a clutch of songs that mix chord-y abandon with raging rock riffs--and a heck of a lot of good times.

As leftovers go, this Album is refreshingly tasty.

The songs don't exactly have the stripped-down demo feel Harrison intended--but mercifully aren't as over-glossed as those on his last solo album, 1987's Cloud Nine.

It's so predictable and so painfully trendy that More Than a Woman might as well have a former Mouseketeer's face on the cover.

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.

Predictably packed with hip-hoppy dance numbers and chiming ballads that don't dare push her vocal range, J.Lo vibelessly goes through a series of songs about love, fidelity and how real she is.

The tough stuff works. But Temptation is really tempting when Rule drops all pretense of authenticity and lets the good vibes flow on the bouncy "Mesmerize," silky sex-jam "Murder Me" and the horn-infused title track.

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

While a bit of this debut sounds like Cornell doing his best over Rage-ified staccato riffs, these guys are at the top of their game when they reverse the formula and make way for Cornell's masterful wail and poetic imagery.

The album is so "been there, done that" that Twain often sounds like she's ripping herself off.

A subpar album.

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

A largely boring affair.

Even with all the drama, Construction is Elliott's sturdiest creation yet.

A little less than half of this stuff is worth singing about.

features several career-defining turns by superstar producers such as the Neptunes ("In My Arms Tonight"), Babyface ("Hands Up"), Missy Elliott and Timbaland ("Dirty"), with all the group's playfulness and silky-smooth funk intact.

Often thrilling, sometimes just interesting.

This collection of quirky tunes is largely directionless, with Gough's indistinct voice sounding lost and uncertain in a swell of pianos, strings and horn arrangements.

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

The sturdy jams--decorated with Moog, powerful guitars and frontman Jakob Dylan's sexy purr--pour out of the stereo and stick in your head.

Features only a couple new Em ditties, but they're gems.... Better yet, most of the rest of the disc is made up of solid, original material.

Walk isn't groundbreaking as much as typical Tori Amos--a dramatic menagerie of atmospheric tracks filled with manic piano, morose characters and so many literary allusions you'll need CliffsNotes to figure 'em out.

If she had just shown up and sang her ass off, Stripped would've been a better show.

But even as Santana's magic fingers sometimes struggle for a common thread here, they still do plenty of good work.

His similar-sounding interpretations lose their oomph a few tracks in.

Here, Grohl consistently puts forth straightforward, stripped-down rock that is neither ironic nor pandering--a fine line between Cheap Trick and cheap tricks.

Throughout the disc, his attention to detail and melody stretch well beyond his 22 years.

The results are compelling and restrained, with hand claps, creaking organ and thudding bass drums joining Chapman's melancholy pipes.

The Nashville hottie shakes off some of her past cobwebs for slicker, bawdier rock and a collection of power ballads--most destined for a high school prom slow dance near you.

The ballads sound more mawkish than ever and the rockers sound, well, a lot like bad Bruce Springsteen rip-offs.

It all amounts to the kind of mediocre girl pop-rock about dreams and stuff that one writes when they want to be Vanessa Carlton or Michelle Branch but don't really know how.

J5 is hard enough to sample Public Enemy on the standout single "What's Golden" and features two of the best turntablists working today, Cut Chemist and DJ Nu-Mark.

A little more electric guitar would've helped, but these tales of capitalism gone amok are worth checking out.

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

The transformation leaves her bland and boring, rather than bright like Britney or bold like [Michelle] Branch.

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.

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

This new soul still sounds fresh.

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

A good amount of Demolition screams quality.

Now You Know is full of the stuff BTS fans love: angular melodies, expansive nods to prog-rock and that droning, nasally voice that makes indie-rock geeks stand up and cheer.

This time out, the beats are more energetic, the tunes feature more vocals, and there's a slightly poppier feel that makes it harder to get lost in than some of their previous, more spaced-out efforts.

This disc is filled with the kind of generic club grooves, terrible singing and general sense of aimlessness they once would have laughed off.

Combining the Verve's soul-searching themes with Radiohead's whisper-to-a-scream dynamics, Haven has come up with a weighty debut stocked with tender ballads, beautiful acoustic passages and several potential anthems.

Home is a raucous acoustic album that mows through bluegrass and traditional country with a vengeance.

Say hello to your new metal gods.

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.

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

Leto sounds more like Tool/A Perfect Circle frontman Maynard James Keenan than a member of the Screen Actors Guild--even if his lyrics are kind of space-case lame.

A few Sabbath-y moments aside, a majority of the disc finds frontman Daniel Johns singing more than screaming, much to the delight of those who may have worried these guys would give up on new things.

Mann's cranky muse is consistently compelling, showcasing both her wry lyrics and terrific melodies.

Luckily, even with the changes, the Sheik mystique remains and makes this album a worthy new addition to his repertoire.

For such a dark and brooding record, Turn on the Bright Lights is also unexpectedly thrilling, coasting on jagged minor-chord guitar melodies and huge emotional swells with a ton of high points along the way.

Taylor sounds assuredly relaxed and content.

Through it all they keep it both consistent (without being same-y) and experimental (without being disorienting).

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.

It's Pulp's contribution on the terrifically revealing "Sliding Through Life on Charm" that really raises a smile...and a little something else.

This bummer sounds more in league with Yanni than Moby.

Nostalgic without sounding outdated, it's one bash worth revisiting.

Keep an ear open for this solid effort's best moments: the soulful "Full Frontal Fridays" and jubilant "I Get Cravings."

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.

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.

Chester Bennington's anguished man-child howling is largely left on the shelf, as are the thrusting hooks that were Linkin Park's big draw.

Over the years, it might not stand up to classics such as Nebraska or The River, but the The Rising gives us something more important right now: a reason to believe.

It's okay, you can believe all of the fawning reviews you're going to read about this album. Because when still-kicking '60s soul legend Solomon Burke puts his earthy baritone to lyrics written by some of today's most critically acclaimed songwriters, it's simply magical.

The Philadelphia quartet continues to believe that barbershop harmonies, sugary ballads and New Jack Swing beats are where it's at. It ain't.

Sadly, Keith's least-clever disc yet was almost completely written by him for the first time.