Their groovy, meditative parlaying consistently elevates Live! Beyond the realm of optional for-diehards-only purchase. [Feb 2001, p.94]

On a couple of tracks neither hard-working studio team nor visiting vocalist get it right, but the impression is of all ego finally set aside in favour of engaging musical honesty.

There is an inflammatory urgency here that reminds you of why Kurt Cobain considered Black an almost saintly figure. [Feb. 2001, p.88]

Godhead take this '80's obsession one step further, crafting a sound so hypnotically synthetic it makes Heaven 17 sound like Robert Johnson. [Feb 2001, p.94]

Sadly, their steadfast refusal to engage the emotions is irritating and alienating. [Feb 2001, p.95]

Equal parts tantalising, frustrating, and riveting. [Jan 2001, p.106]

This crisp, Rick Rubin-produced outing packs away a machine that was well-oiled to the last. [Jan. 2001, p.107]

[Richard] Warren still makes great pop music--free of formula but full of character.

Her sinuous, Lady Dayish voice sets her apart. Unfortunately, it's not to be heard in full effect until about a third of the way through Mama's Gun... [Jan 2001, p.104]

It's all pretty essential stuff.

As ever, this is a very knowing and authentic nod to retro chic, but one which occasionally crosses the line between infectious and neve-jangling pop, with just a little more style than content. [Jan 2001, p.94]

For those new to Sylvian's work or for those who tuned out after Tin Drum, this welcome career cherry-picker serves as a perfect portal to discover some of the most haunting and beautiful music of the last two decades.

The use of computers and electronic SFX here emphasises their dark, distorting, disturbing qualities...

Cook has attempted to vary the Fatboy formula here but it's all gone a bit "mature".

The playing is terrific throughout... [Jan 2001, p.98]

Crafting a sound that incorporates stinky Funkadelic psych with Prince harmonics and Rick James' pimp disco, this is hip hop with the power to convert even the most reactionary nonbelievers. [Jan 2001, p.107]

If Swingle Singers melodies and mind-numbing repetition is your bag, you're on a winner here; basically, it's easy listening with a bit of electronica.

The solo J. has all the heartfelt keening of Where You Been-era Dinosaur, but with a fresh approach to his trademark blending of powerchords and melodies.

Stories is a leaner, less experimental-sounding record than 1998's Is This Desire, its chips stacked on visceral power and vitalising vocals.

Slimmer, leaner, more disciplined than its predecessor.

The higher production values simply water down R.L.'s natural vigour. [Jan 2001, p. 103]

Greying at the edges, its tremor more pronounced, his voice is sober, honest, defiant. And it turns rock songs into something that sounds as old as the hills.

The Parisian has lost his cool, let rip, taken his metaphorical shirt off, and it sounds liberating.

Though Black Jesus and Graves To Dig weld slow-burning hip-hop beats to politically astute lyrics, elsewhere the abundance of self-conscious singing and menopausal guitar noodling sees the album shuffle, uninterestingly, towards the middle of the road.

Nothing here will change your life, but rest assured that there's also little in the way of filler. (Oct 2000, p.104)

Breach is a dull affair of humdrum tunes, mundane performance, and lyrics which lose themselves in vague imagery as if Dylan were actually evading the chance to express himself.

The quality of both performances and recordings is exceptional for the time, with elegant versions of Starman and Oh! You Pretty Things affirming the confident new direction of Bowie's pop sensibility, and muscular renditions of Suffragette City, Queen Bitch and Changes.

This is undoubtedly his best record...