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

The pretty ballads meditating on the vast wilderness and lonely highways of the great white north provide the perfect showcase for Krall's sultry voice and Costello's classic melodies.

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.

Fun and fascinating.

The band's naked ambition would be offputting if it didn't come wrapped in such resounding choruses.

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

It's just so staccato and nonlinear, a sort of free-jazz version of rock with just too much going on and little worth hearing.

The Killers sound like a delicious puree of Blur, Pulp and the Cure, loading Hot Fuss with stylish synth-pop effects and big blazing choruses.

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

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.

LL does DEFinition with a superstar panache that never gets into that dangerously cheesy Will Smith territory and keeps it streetwise without putting on a front.

While the signature muffled beats of Shadow are missing, Land is so much more expansive, effortlessly melding electronica and Britpop.

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

This isn't just a step in the right direction for the band, it's--believe it or not--a good move for the pop-punk genre as a whole.

Fortunately, Fiddy's rhymes are a riot, and Dr. Dre's production is as golden as ever.

Twista still manages to steal the limelight on hot booty-busters like "Slow Jamz" and "Pimp On."

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

Too much of the disc is filtered through clinical and slightly jazzy rock that renders it a tiny noise about nothing.

Thoroughly enjoyable.

The most rewarding reworkings (Boards of Canada's "Broken Drum," Octet's "Girl") come from those who avoid novelty and realize that, underneath all the blips and glitches, Beck is just a soul man.

While he lags a bit in the emotional department, he nails the spirit with songs like "She's Lost Total Control" and "So Alive."

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.

There are no new ideas, no points of interest.

While their sound is decidedly of the moment (Bloc Party, the Killers, et al), their songs are undeniably catchy as all get-out.

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 change may shock fans, but Phantom Planet wears the shaggy tunes well.

The long-standing ambient-techno pioneer uses everything from heart-attack-paced jungle to classically minded electronic minimalism to remind us why bands like Radiohead cite him as an influence

She finally delivers an album that's more fun than filler.

Unlike previous albums, The Altogether doesn't really take the listener on some mind-altering trip. It simply throws together some half-baked novelties, some wasted and underwhelming guest appearances and a bunch of rhythmic ideas that would have sounded infinitely better a decade ago.

Sounds uniquely fresh.

[Plans has] ginormous power-pop melodies in songs such as "Soul Meets Body" and "Marching Bands of Manhattan" and wussy-boy lyrics that'll make your heart grow a few sizes.

If imitation is the biggest form of flattery, everyone involved in the Manchester scene circa 1988 will be smiling ear to ear when they hear Kasabian.

The slow-motion funk of the previously unreleased "Ghost Train" alone makes it worth the sticker price.

She might be unplugged--but she's still electrifying.

'N Sync reminds us why boy bands were put on this earth in the first place: to have a good time.

Somewhere in here, there's a lovely, compact, cohesive little album. It just takes a little too much digging to find it.

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

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.

What sounds great on paper feels like hollow tribute on closer inspection.

Under My Skin gets generic at times, but that's why it works.

More diverse than you might think...

Velvet Revolver sounds like a hungover bar band playing catch-up, wading through tired blues licks and meaningless grunge imagery.

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.

Coldplay comparisons are instantly apparent, but you get the feeling that these guys aren't going to end up with movie-star girlfriends.

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.

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.

The Day After sounds like something we've heard before.

The worst part of Tricky's comeback disc is, well, Tricky himself.

This new soul still sounds fresh.

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

She fails to bake any new ideas, leaving us with the same old sad love songs and confused-girl anthems that the Texas torchbearer has always churned out.

The band's recovery on Vision Valley is nothing short of remarkable.

This bummer sounds more in league with Yanni than Moby.

Fang packs all the punk-rock wallop, menacing guitars and dirty, funky blues Spencer fans crave.

Songs like "Invincible" and "Do What You Want" don't disappoint and should be on the playlist for any retro dance party.

The results, much like last year's debut, Soul Sessions, are spine-tinglingly great--even if there is the slightest bit of bland Celine Dion balladry seeping in at the edge.

Call us out of sync, but we never got the memo proclaiming that wafer-thin cheese metal sung by deranged lunatics is back in fashion.

His pontification gets in the way of his songwriting.

Moore's voice has grown stronger, she updates the covers with some youthful enthusiasm, and, well, these songs are hard to screw up.

Has a polish that verges on parody.

Ultimately he fails to make a lasting impression.

[It] offers only occasional flashbacks to the seedy glamour of the debut, instead settling on lightweight MOR clichés.

It lacks the raw energy and tunes that made people want to hum uncontrollably in the shower. Worse yet, the brazen confidence the Gallagher brothers displayed during the early years has faded.

[It] shows things are as loony as ever in Busta's camp.

His scattershot approach at taking on everyone and everything gets a wee tiresome after a while.

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

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

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

A set of predictable, plastic, street-tough R&B jams.

There are more than enough moments when Sheryl really shines in that Sheryl way.

Sessions is loose and fun and, while not blazing any trails, it doesn't sound like a bad karaoke night either.

There are a couple snoozy and wonky moments among the hits, but Longwave is definitely worth warming up to.

But even if it's only half as good as it used to be, this Call sounds okay to us.

It gets somewhat spotty when naughty numbers like "Bootylicious" and "Nasty Girl" swing against a praise-the-lord melody, and "DC-3" is little more than a self-referential pat on the back to friendship and success.

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.

The lyrics are as trite and cheesy as ever, but age and playing house with No Doubt's Gwen Stefani have mellowed model-esque frontman Rossdale.

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."

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.

A rather complacent set of radio-ready lite alt-rock.

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

Its glossiest production yet.

But whether they're being snotty or serious, there is a constant thread at work: those catchy melodies.

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

It sounds all too familiar.

The official return of the DMB shows them in full force and stretching way Up.

A little bit less filler and the album would have really lived up to its name.

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

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

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

A solo album to put all solo albums to shame.

Even if Keane hasn't completely gone down with Under The Iron Sea, the band is merely treading water here.

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.

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

Their movement toward non-nooky maturity continues here with tunes like the melodic and soaring "Wish You Were Here" and the dramatic "Warning"--each showing a more reflective and poetic side than before.

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.

Her thin voice is no match for the thick guitars that dominate this metallic pop marathon, but there is a strange, earthy quality that makes songs like "Overpower Thee" and "Skin Receiver" compelling.

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

It's still the group's own thumping concoctions--"Ready for Action" and "Blowout," for instance--that ring the loudest.