The production... is appropriately lush and celebratory, brimming over with strings, synthesizers and layered, sensuous vocals. [July 2000, p.111]

Often, Sinead's words are infected with the pernicious post-therapy psychobabble that blights the contemporary female singer/songwriter...

The Moon's musical and thematic diversity is glued together by Brooks' ability to instill even the most desolate musical climes with warmth and emotion.... One of the year's most oddly endearing records so far.

There's still a warm heart beating under all this newly-assembled machinery.

This is a truly freeflowing masterpiece that stands shoulder to shoulder with Mos Def's 'Black On Both Sides.'

Earle has let the spook out of the closet, so he can bare his spiritual chest (as it were) with a Lennonesque honesty and a vocal delivery that increasingly resembles Tom Petty's sub-Dylan sneer.

Given time, fans will warm to Peasant, but ultimately the inconsistency of it's songwriting is a tad disappointing.

And if nothing on Killing Puritans has quite the commercial potential of last year's You Don't Know Me (a UK Number 1), it does have the same cheekily opportunistic spirit, Van Helden's sticky fingers busily probing all kinds of forgotten pop cultural corners.

The emotion flows as true as the music.

The 'Lab's fondness for Latin exotica pushes the music well clear of egghead tedium.

In the end, it's surprisingly worth it for the few great, strange tracks.

Gentle, reflective, angsty girl'n'guitar fodder that's often more worthy than interesting. [July 2000, p.104]

Sadly sterile...

Echoboy nonchalantly pits twittering electronica and filmic ambiences against garage guitar riffing and sugary Europop: the result is an unpredictable 45-minute journey in sound. And it's an alluring trip for the most part.

Wiggs and Trimble do a fantastic job recreating the feel of classic soundtracks of the '60s and '70s... The only shame is that it runs out of steam a little towards the end.

A souffle-light concoction of tape loops, odd samples, and fey vocals. [July 2000, p.118]

With simple surf beats and a lyrical bent that takes in everything from ladymen to male models, All Hands... is mostly playful (You're No Rock & Roll Fun) with a touch of pathos (Was It A Lie), but not a bad one in sight.

Choosing favourites is almost futile with so much scintillating brilliance on offer.

Top-notch whiteboy radio rock with an eerie inner glow of Manson family sunshine...

If there's one complaint about Exterminator, apart from Bobby's rubbish rapping on Pills, it's that much of it feels like reworked outtakes from Vanishing Point.

A mellow, tender, easy album...

Though the shadows of Wilson and Lennon/McCartney loom large over this latest psyche-pop platter, the Apples tap into a tradition of classic pop songwriting rather than merely plagiarising their ancestors.

Imagine the Bronte sisters trying to play Yo La Tengo music on Air's instruments with Joe Meek producing.

This relentlessly engaging album hangs together even better than its illustrious predecessor.

Though the production isn't listener-friendly and the lyrics can be lovelorn in excelsis, Arthur's strong melodies and arresting imagery always win through.

Ecstasy is definitely a Lou Reed record for Lou Reed fans. If you're a happy regular shopper at Lou's Boutique, this one'll fit nicely on the shelf alongside all the others.

Smith's third album since her mid-'90s comeback, might be a more orderly affair than one might have hoped for, but she's still capable of wreaking a little havoc.

Here, backed only by guitar or piano, she inhabits other singers' material (including Smog's "Red Apples") with a fierce conviction that's often startling.