The Hives' best tunes are the ones that race pell-mell through churning guitar riffs and pounding drums while singer Almqvist hollers about, well, whatever.

Most songs, including the single-worthy 'Come Clean,' are still built on soaring vocal interplay and a childlike sense of wonder.

Little Honey is easily Williams' least depressing album in years, which doesn't sound like much of a compliment until you consider that she sounds downright happy on some of these tunes for the first time in, well, maybe ever.

He remains a singular performer, one who can't be overwhelmed by the usual Neptunes production. Williams' typically sparse 'Loose Wires' sounds simultaneously like Kenna's surefire smash--how could that Michael Jackson-inspired hook miss?--and the proof, thanks to its android-crooning verses, that the world will only see Kenna's face on his own, refreshingly distinctive, terms.

As always, her uniquely sooty voice gives her the feeling of an old soul while lending levity to her darker songs.

It's pub rock, but smarter and more ambitious, with music as nimble as the lyrics are sharp.

At their best, the Meat Puppets tackle swampy rock, erratic punk, boisterous country, ruminative folk, and seedy psych with equal authority, all while instilling a surreal scent of the desert.

Those who care not only about hip-hop but the culture it reflects and shapes will find Nasir Jones' latest the most intriguing, provocative and ultimately troubling album released this year.

Barnes and company's ninth studio album isn't as catchy or cohesive as the past few, hitting upon sublime moments--like when he quietly asks "Why I am so damaged?"--that are frustratingly few and far between.

It's an assured effort from the very start.

A more mature Allen might not be as much fun, but in the absence of acidity, her sweetness shines through.

The duo's follow-up is a more relaxed affair. Though it, too, has cleverness to spare, the album is less cutesy and self-conscious than its predecessor. The beats are stronger, at times hitting with hip-hop force, and the music is fuller and more imaginative.

Thanks to their increasingly varied sound, the Girls remain aloof and unknowable. They have us right where they want us: behind the velvet ropes.

Some may be turned off by his showy leads and somewhat cheesy sentiments, but those are the very things that hooked longtime fans in the first place.

Lady Gaga has made a quintessential pop album with Born This Way.

A pop album that, for all the lightness and joy that come with humming synthesizers, punchy horns and sing-along melodies, requires listeners to do some pretty heavy lifting.

Grohl often shows off his sky-high vocal range, award-winning ear for bridges and choruses and penchant for ending opuses with dark, pitch-perfect shrieks.

The songs are pleasant enough, but they ultimately feel a bit over-thought, and Bragg often makes his best points with nothing more than his voice and an acoustic guitar.

The album is a credit to all involved; if merely pastiche, it's a marvelous one.

The Sword has avoided the dreaded sophomore slump and delivered a CD that builds on its debut with heavier riffs and a better sense of dynamics.

Forth is classic Verve, epic in scope, with layer upon layer of sound.

Holland's airy, electronic pop music with layers of vocals. It's pleasant enough, though it's not as compelling as March of the Zapotec.

All the fuss last week over Kanye West and 50 Cent was misplaced: Chamillionaire bests them both while neatly sidestepping the sophomore slump on his second major-label album.

Nash is more than just another girl on piano, and some of the songs on Made of Bricks are promising. But her inconsistent songwriting and penchant for falling back on cliches show that originality requires more than just an English accent.

Merritt dials back her soul-shouter instinct on her third album, a collection that finds her balancing restraint with the vivid emotionalism that has driven her music from the start.

'Ringleader Man,' remind you that whatever his vocal limitations, T-Pain has reintroduced the idea of melody to urban music, which is no small feat. However, predictable overkill of both the signature AutoTune warble and guest stars (Ludacris, Ciara, Akon, et al) obscures that accomplishment.

Tracks like "Press Play" feature booming-enough backings, but even in the record's funkiest moments, like the left-field Prince homage "Cool," Snoop holds back.

Lewis has tons of charisma--but it's a shame the shift in focus coincides with an album so superficial that her characters' hollow-eyed come-ons seem genuine by comparison.