You expect the worst from Police faves like Roxanne and Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic, since those tunes were tautly written, with minimal pop intricacy. But the RPCO adds an interesting melancholic layer to the former, giving it more drama, as orchestras tend to do.

What's really impressive, though, is how all the nods to glam rock, shoegazer, new wave and 80s indie rock blend together to produce a sound that's maddeningly familiar but completely unique.

Big Boi's lyrically on point, too, balancing cavalier wit and grown-man profundity that puts this album among Outkast's best. Your move, 3000.

Expo 86 feels divided down the middle, and both writers deliver some of their best work to date.

On their ninth studio album, the veteran Philly crew adds indie rock to its formula, and after two straight downer albums, it has them sounding positively re-energized.

This stripped-down effort forgoes the high-profile collaborations we've come to expect to create an unstrained, repetitive thumpathon that fits right into their catalogue.

Not as good as we were hoping, but still strong enough to make us excited about the next chapter.

Two fundamental problems: he's got an incredible amount of energy, raging away in the high-pitched voice that Eminem haters can't stand, with little to say that he hasn't already said before; and the beats are often middling.

The elegant album is wisely paced, cinematic with strings and keyboards, and Campbell and Millan sound great together. But despite the emotional drama on offer, it fails to be moving.

Make no mistake--that Jersey (GA's home state) vibe still lurks in the corners. It's just that his writing style is more distinctive here. It's also the sound of a band pushing itself while capitalizing on its strengths.

Petty’s classic pop knack, breezy melodies and laid-back drawl take a back seat to Campbell’s meandering, jammy solos and the album’s overwhelmingly old-guy-blues sound.

Drake's hooks are flimsy and irritating. His long-winded emo choruses gnaw at your brain. He complains about fame way too much. He mentions Kelsey Grammer for no reason. He's completely humourless. Worst of all, he sounds like a frog – not like Kermit in Rainbow Connection, but actual croaking.

The band wisely retains the elements that worked the first time: intricate, jittery guitars, driving bass and creative rhythms, best displayed on the title track and Black Gold.

More than 130 minutes long, Time Flies opens with the untouchables (Supersonic, Roll With It, Live Forever, etc.), veers into the questionable (The Hindu Times, All Around The World) and the avoidable (The Importance Of Being Idle), and ends with late-period tunes that demand reconsideration (The Shock Of The Lightning).

Sure, her formidable pipes are as strong as ever, but on every song she comes across as a pale imitation of someone else.

At times you kind of wish he’d settle down and just write a proper pop song, but the intoxicating mess of textures and ideas is too addictive and fascinating to complain about.

LP4 hints at the band's potential. The mildly weirder arrangements and quirkier synth twists on Party With Children are signs of what they should have fully run with.

Born Ruffians’ sophomore album is a cohesive, occasionally repetitious helping of choppy indie pop, almost brutalist in its minimalist instrumentation and dry-as-a-bone production.

It's primal, visceral, addictive stuff – a perfect mix of sweet and evil unlike pretty much everything else out there.

You can’t really fault the band for successfully doing much what it did in the 90s, but don’t expect Purple. There’s no Vasoline or Interstate Love Song.

Aside from the ridiculous song names (New Juices From The Hot Tub Freaks, Sweatmother), it's unwaveringly cohesive and frequently hits the mark, but may lack enough variety for some.

Murphy is still a brat, but this is a more emotionally mature and personal album than most of us thought him capable of.

Infinite Arms further fluctuates between the vigorous (NW Apt.), the understatedly pretty (Evening Kitchen) and the yawn-inducing (title tune).

The band continues to find new ways to expand within rigid, self-imposed parameters. Although the album veers away from the spaced-out psychedelia of 2007’s Attack & Release, it retains much of that album’s slickness.

Nas isn't as passionate or well-informed about Africa's issues as he is about his own, a problem on an album that's supposed to be all about... Africa....Meanwhile, Marley dutifully toasts over the record's limp, rootsy production but really only wakes up for the harder beats, which are few and far between.

He’s sounding more Sly Stone than Otis Redding this time, which gives him room to get delightfully weird and psychedelic while still keeping everything deeply rooted in R&B.

Its intriguing combination of 70s Bowie glam, James Brown soul and Outkast weirdness can't really be taken in after one spin. True rewards come from repeat listens. Finally, something worthy of the hype.

If Stripes fans want to give Dead Weather another chance, this one deserves space in the record collection.

The weakest link is Lemonworld, which trips itself up on too many thoughts. But the rest of this misery tour? Masterful.

It's a great album to trance out to, but not as memorable as we'd hoped.

Occasionally beautiful, often irritating.

There's no particular deficiency, but the new approach pushes the Brooklyn-based Athens, Georgia, band closer to the middle of the road than ever before.

It's tempting to hate it for failing to recapture their earlier unhinged, chaotic glory. But doing so would be to miss out on how good they've become (despite themselves).

Together is the flawless execution of can't-shake-loose melodies, genius arrangements (oh, those group harmonies!) and production that leaves you energized.

Front and centre is impressive guitar work; the band’s got a knack for writing spring-loaded hooks that build into beautiful shoegaze-inspired swells.

Against all odds, Nobody's Daughter prevails with head-turning vitriolic blasts like Skinny Little Bitch, Samantha and How Dirty Girls Get Clean.

Like the elder statesmen, the teenage California quartet offer skewed good-time indie pop that won't change your life but will sound fantastic blasted from a front porch on a summer day.

Recorded mostly live off the floor, including some of the vocals, Paul’s Tomb has a power that the band’s previous albums lacked.

Not surprising, then, that his newest leap into club-inspired techno and house feels just as substantial and weighty as his previous forays into experimental pop.

Wainwright is definitely not an artist short on ambition, and while you occasionally wish he'd show a bit more restraint, most of the time you love him because he doesn't.

Disappointingly, she doesn't go all the way with this new, abrasive approach. Instead, she lets ex-Suede guitarist and Duffy mastermind Bernard Butler smother the album with corny string and brass sections that try but fail to impose a 60s girl-group aesthetic.

It lacks the lyrical wisdom and emotional insight we might expect from a band that's been around so long, but you have to admire their fearlessness about tackling such an out-of-character genre and their ability to keep penning such joyous melodies.

Skip the album purchase and download a few singles.

The album basks in sun-drenched classic rockisms while managing to sound leagues above throwback jam bands like Phish.

Ultimately, this is the same Radio Dept. we know, love and hardly ever hear from. We’ll take what we can get.

Devin’s single-mindedness makes for a highly unified style, and the album’s relaxed, hazy production is the aural equivalent of comfort food. But the repetition is kinda tedious for an hour of straight listening.

There are moments here, but ultimately Streetlights pales against BlaQKout, the Kurupt/DJ Quik collaboration that dropped last year.

None of the songs hit as hard as Kids or Electric Feel, but there's also no filler (which is more than we can say for OS). Instead, the band delivers a consistent if self-indulgent offering of oddball prog-pop.

From the nimbly finger-picked Troubles Will Be Gone to the emphatically strummed King Of Spain, he provides instrumental variety that never overshadows his poetic lyrics.

Topping off this overproduced, underwhelming effort are Roberts's over-enunciated lyrics. Even at his best, he comes off like a guy crashing an Of Montreal album.

The album's biggest flaw is that Jonsi's opted to sing in English. Sure, we can now understand his lyrics, but hearing about people riding bikes, making out and just gallivanting about derails the experience.

As usual, Jones’s powerful voice box hogs the spotlight, but the simple, strong arrangements do a lot of heavy lifting.

Despite the more professional scenario, they resisted the temptation to pile on unnecessary ornamentation, and instead pared back to the essentials. As a result, they've finally captured their live energy on disc, coming up with the album that might be their big breakthrough.

This disc might not change your life, but it's an undeniably solid hard rock album that proves how much credit Slash deserves for the success of his former band.

Some may argue that there’s nothing here the Ramones or Jesus and Mary Chain didn’t do decades ago, and there are obvious similarities, to be sure. However, the decidedly female energy the Dum Dum Girls bring to the table puts them in their own category, inserting some welcome softness and subtlety into the genre.

His sixth album proves that his ability to make grown-up hits is stronger than ever.

The spacey, meandering jams flow effortlessly, bringing to mind sunny afternoons with an old lover and a big bag of weed. No, it’s not the kind of album that’ll change the world, but it might just be the perfect summer soundtrack of the year.

If the English art-school psychedelic trio had been able to keep up that momentum, their third album would be a solid one. Instead, they stumble and disappoint.

MusicLive Music ListingsDisc ReviewsThe SceneDJ SpotlightClub SpotlightSite MapSearchHome www.nowtoronto.com/personals/ mydickonce again, just ask dont be a virgin... Browse... Women seeking Men Women seeking Women Men seeking Women Men seeking Men www.nowtoronto.com/personals/ Story Tools Email Print/Save Facebook Twitter Buzz This Share NOW Rating N N N N N Reader's Rating Disc Review She & Him Volume Two (Merge)By Paul Terefenko Welcome to Volume 2, the second release by cute-as-a-button Zooey Deschanel and quirky romance-soundtrack-meister M. Ward, aka She & Him. It’s largely a continuation of Volume One, so if Deschanel’s occasionally off-putting intonation isn’t too much for you, this sweet romp through a warm, largely carefree universe should nestle naturally into your listening rotation.

Turns out they’re adept at sad, moody ambience. Wish they tried it a little more often.

Monica’s highly anticipated sixth album is rich with songs about self-validation, love lost and subsequent recovery, and doesn’t let up on that thematic gas pedal until the last tune.

They've delivered faithful, appreciative renditions, but the elephant-in-the-room question is why anyone would cop this disc instead of an H&O best-of.

This is not an observation about theme--the record is unremarkable in both sound and execution.

It has hooks, but none as immediate as past Gorillaz hits Feel Good Inc. or 19-2000. This is a hefty offering clocking in at nearly an hour and featuring everyone from Lou Reed to Snoop Dogg.

Burton deserves some of the blame for the album's shortcomings as well, even if his creative engineering is the high point. He gives us some gorgeously layered textures and swirling atmospherics, but then backs those up with tepid and forgettable beats.

The fuller orchestration might translate better onstage and help the band gain a wider audience, but this water-themed record mostly leaves you with the wrong kind of sinking feeling.

Even naysayers can't overlook their second album's intelligence, uniqueness and ambition.

Mopey, twee, orchestral, downbeat--the duo cover all these bases in the flattest, most sophomoric way. Worse, though, is that the album sounds like a bunch of outtakes.

They may have quenched their thirst for charging rock, but it’s their mellower songs that stand out.

His social commentaries occasionally overwhelm the music, as on Bottled In Cork, a doozy that might elicit an “I get it, I get it, the world is fucked” response. And though he also stumbles on the underdeveloped, raspy, pop diversion One Polaroid A Day, Leo’s still built a sturdy addition to the band’s discography.

While a hip-hop album that’s not a complete kielbasa festival is refreshing, Luda’s feminist intentions are horribly misguided.

The album contains some indisputable classics (Here, Summer Babe, Shady Lane) but aims to dig deeper than the hits.

Unfortunately, the band lacks Grizzly Bear’s songwriting chops. After that early-album peak, the tracks begin to sound like undercooked compositions coasting on bells and whistles.

The closest this popportunistic foursome comes to satisfying songsmithery is "The Getaway," whose title is sound advice for potential buyers of this album.

Here we are not even two years later and the band has taken a huge leap forward. Or, more accurately, sideways. Nothing in the angular post-punk of 08's Beat Pyramid suggested the band was capable of something this novel.

Album highlight Paper Romance's pulsating, danceable track makes up for the tedious rock-bottom rock-out Look Me In The Eye Sister.

It won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. My Brightest Diamond’s Shara Worden sings on over half of the tracks, and her operatic voice is at times jarringly high. But it’s also soft and masterfully controlled, never distracting from the nuanced soundscapes bobbing in the background.

Robert Smith, Franz Ferdinand and Wolfmother offer glimpses of what this project might’ve been, but then along comes 3 Doors Down-clone Shinedown and it’s off with the heads of everyone involved in this nightmare.

No matter which of their sonic dimensions the band happens to be bolstering, the resulting blast is always creative, energetic and memorable. In short, they make you want to fight and dance at the same time.

Luckily, they keep things relatively concise. If this album were any longer, it would be exhausting.

There’s still a tendency toward icy detachment, but considering their affection for almost overwrought instrumental embellishments, the restraint serves them well.

From the church-bell-ringing, banjo-plucking funereal title track opener to the into-the-sunset Hawaiian ballad Aloha Oe that closes the album in perfect cinematic form, Cash sounds completely at ease, and wholly preoccupied, with the approach of his own death.

For long-time fans, this three-disc (or vinyl) release won’t disappoint, though it’s not a total departure.

It’s ambitious for a debut, and for the most part Miranda is able to keep up.

The brief tunes are sparse yet cinematic, tentative yet boldly inventive.

They're not at their strongest when echoing the reverb-filled harmonies of Fleet Foxes, but when they drop their instrumental restraint, they achieve an alluring balance of plaintive folk and upbeat bluegrass.

Tindersticks’ return to form on their eighth album isn’t evident when you first press play. But look past the uninteresting six-minute jazz drone that opens the album and you’ll see that the prolific English group still has the enough soul to succeed.

Judging by Devonté Hynes’s ambitiously grand follow-up to Falling Off The Lavender Bridge, with its piano intermissions, ubiquitous orchestra and choral chants, there’s been some Freddy Mercury blaring through his player.

The co-founder of Godspeed You! Black Emperor still makes stumbling experimental rock but fails to improve on his previous work.

It’s full of the proggy rhythmic U-turns, complex structures and virtuoso playing for which the band’s known.

Anyone who’s followed Wu-Tang throughout this millennium knows that the Clan’s DJ Mathematics is the proper heir to RZA’s Wu production throne, and his new compilation only reinforces this....One issue: at least half of the album is recycled.

Hopefully there’s still enough room on people’s psych plates for Odd Blood, a masterful follow-up that deserves to get into your ears.

The real shift is in their attitude, which allows them to embrace earnestness and write some straightforward love songs. It’s a strategy that could have backfired, but instead it has inspired their strongest and most consistent album so far.

This brutally honest record is in many ways more powerful than anything from his agitprop days.

When you listen to these gloomy trip-hop jams after their best work of the 90s, the results are underwhelming.

Sure, the production on Soldier Of Love sounds a bit tougher and chunkier than the band’s early work, but the classic Sade vibe we love is still front and centre.

Galactic’s Ya-Ka-May works as a concept album, but its execution ranges from grating to tolerable.