Even when he's pouring on the lushness, the producer keeps Fay's gentle, weathered voice and arresting lyrics front and center. [No.91, p.54]

The real draws here are the stunning fresh takes on some of the finest works to be found in the Antony & The Johnsons catalog. [No.90, p.52]

There's some filler in the form of ambient doodling, but JT's pop sensibilities peek through frequently enough that it's a fair trade. [No.88, p.55]

If you're looking to get good and lost, this record's your ticket. [No. 93, p.52]

When the melodies are too thin to support their own emotional weight, all the string quartets in the world can't rescue them, and I find myself missing that old pulsing bass, those swirling drums and the sheer fabulousness that made the original versions so liberating. [No. 93, p.61]

A backhanded compliment, sure, but really--things could have been so much worse. [No. 93, p.61]

It's another creative leap for an artist who explores difficult human emotions with a bravery and intensity few singers ever approach. [No. 93, p.60]

Fans of either Glass or the remixers won't be too disappointed, but they won't be blown away, either. [No. 93, p.60]

Gem goes by in 30 short punk-rock minutes, but the songs easily feel like beautiful, spacey epics. [No. 93, p.59]

At its worst (most of it), it's layered synth sounds with beats and vocals smacking of a manufactured sexiness, all designed to hide the gaping void where memorable songwriting should be. [No. 93, p.59]

The band has ripped elements from early L.A. hardcore, '90s powerviolence and screamo, and it wields this arsenal of influences to deliver big, sharp hooks. [No. 93, p.59]

This sidecar is neither evolution nor revolution, though its eight tracks contain a fair share of intrigue and insight into Bird's feverish 2011, as well as a contemporary rearrangement so sweet it should comer rimmed in sugar. [No. 93, p.58]

The band has simply folded its past into a bigger, richer whole. [No. 93, p.58]

Opening slog, "Heaven Is A Gated Community" plods hopelessly beneath its titular destination, setting the pace for a record-long limp. [No. 93, p.57]

Familiar moves all, by two musicians with whom familiarity breeds contentment.[No. 93, p.57]

Merritt is skilled; she just needs to accept that and then actually travel alone into the music. [No. 93, p.57]

It's like 90215-era Yes meeting up with Air and fellow auto enthusiasts Trans Am for a jammola in the trunk of, yes, an indestructible talking car. [No. 93, p.57]

At it's best, the record finds her swapping the heavy-handed concepts that've largely driven her work to date for the irrefutable impact of raw lyricism. [No. 93, p.56]

They too often edge into Meat Loaf/Jim Steinman territory, where every detail becomes a cause for operatic exaggeration and any clunky line or cliche sounds ridiculous. [No. 93, p.56]

The pair rips through a hard-rockin' 11-song set without messing much beyond the four-minute mark of any track. [No. 93, p.56]

He conjures females with concrete blood and soldiers in coffins over the priciest anthemic ballast his new major label can buy. [No. 93, p.55]

The odd, sublime nod to the blues is a pleasant shock in what registers as a 45-track hour-long lark--the latest in a long, winding series of digressions from the auteur's core competency. [No. 93, p.55]

We still find this trio a little yawn-worthy. [No. 93, p.55]

On Banks, he takes a decent pass at pop. [No. 93, p.54]

Espinoza and Murray return from a four-year hiatus in fine form. [No. 93, p.54]

Surprisingly, Dylan has never been more deliberate or so overtly savage. [No. 93, p.54]

He sparkles on his own. [No. 93, p.53]

It's pretty, non-threatening, and your mom might enjoy it, though don't let that be a criticism. [No. 93, p.53]