Rebirth is – without qualification – the most embarrassing album of the last 10 years. Embarrassing for him, for his audience, for rap, for humanity.

N Jo’s fan base doesn’t care about calculation. They’re just the right age to buy into the workmanlike quasi-genuine rock of Who I Am. And there’s still enough of that original Jonas flavour to keep them interested.

Admirable attempts are made to emulate tourmates Lymbyc Systym on Blank Pages, but they fall short of that band’s visceral energy and edge.

It may not be earth-shattering, but it’s doubtful this album will ever sound dated.

It’s exhilarating, cheeky, Pavement-influenced indie rock that’ll leave you exhausted – and maybe anxious – by track 15.

By tightening things up, another sprightly highlight emerges from this pleasant haze.

If the term “ambient house” hadn’t already been taken by the Orb in the late 80s, it would be a good way to describe this; we’ll just call it really good stoner dance music instead.

Banjo, flugelhorn, tuba, cajón, accordion and tablas all prop up Stephin Merritt’s distinctive bass and dry-humoured lyrics, which, fans will be glad to know, remain in top form.

The album, her best to date, would've worked better had she dived into the sea of sadness instead of dipping her toe in from song to song.

This career-spanning retrospective helps put Fucked Up’s unlikely critical-darling status in perspective, and serves as a handy catch-up tool for those who’ve come to the party late.

Wisely, he doesn’t sing this time around, leaving that to Kenna and Phonte of Little Brother. But the tracks with guest vocals never really take off either, reinforcing the producer’s weakness as a songwriter.

Lyrically, Daniel is more vulnerable than on previous efforts--transference being a part of psychoanalysis--but not enough that he takes many new creative turns.

It turns out that while he’s been working on these absurdly long stoner dance tracks, he’s also been holed up in the studio with vocalist Christabelle working on this amazing album of more concise material.

And though her voice is strong enough to carry the tracks, most of the time it’s needlessly strained. Memorable as these songs may be, they could use a good kick of grit to truly set them in motion.

Ezra Koenig's songwriting is effortless and breezy, and the Afropop rhythms are as strong as ever.

With summer so far away, this record’s only downside is that it lacks a hit song to help it last until July.

That said, there are plenty of catchy moments. Beat-wise, Boots & Boys--a song about what brings her joy--is incredibly well constructed. If only the insipid lyrics were left off completely.

Being out of control is a hallmark of Wayne’s style and what’s made him impossible to ignore for the last two years. In this crew, only Minaj’s paying attention.

The band’s trademark solemnity and repetitive downtempo styles prevail in the final three tracks, making you feel like you’re treading in a swimming pool of honey--in a good way.

While R&B artists clamour for synth-heavy, layered production by The-Dream, Danja and Jim Jonsin, Keys proves a hit album can still be made using conventional means.

The wrong turns don’t sink the album but steer it into an awkward middle place unbefitting the talented group behind the wheel.

He’s stepped outside of his comfort zone of Long Beach City-inspired beats, and the result is his best offering in years.

Mix this lovable simplicity with brilliant guest turns by Cam’ron, Lil Wayne and Rick Ross, amazing production by the Runners and Bangladesh, and Gucci’s exhilarating turns of phrase, blunt humour and excess charisma and you’ve got rap’s album of the year.

At its best, Untitled sounds like a compilation of his previous work--a smooth-voiced crooner reading a sex thesaurus over R&B beats.

While some of his New Orleans ilk have strayed from the region’s classic bounce sound, the lead-off title track assures us that the same old Juve is in the mix.

Musically it’s a gloriously tacky mix of dance pop and hair metal, and we mean that in the best way possible....The only problem is that he doesn’t go far enough, likely the result of the label trying to tone down his flamboyance.

Rihanna is at her most adventurous, and while we're not completely convinced that all the wailing hard rock guitars suit her, the aggression makes sense within the context of the album.

The 17 tracks emphasize the latter half of his career, but he’s toned down his more avant-garde tendencies somewhat and injected a bit of R&B swing and jazz vibes.

She creates layers of dark, self-indulgent, eye-popping music that holds up against her previous hits and is, in some cases, even more satisfying.

She hits rock bottom on the repetitive, bland Daydreaming. It really does feel like a daydream, this whole idea of crowning a new female rap queen.

The whole album lacks focus. Williams jumps around from big band to Pet Shop Boys electro to piano ballads to easy rocking. The one common thread is overproduction.

His latest mundane disc lacks edge despite sometimes aiming for U2.

Besides turning out impeccable vocal, guitar and banjo performances, he infuses each song with a timeless minimalism undoubtedly developed through years of propping up others.

Bicycle begins with an infectious melancholy hook, opens up with a perfectly placed vocal line steeped in regret and ends with Peter Hook-inspired guitars over a choir. Breathtaking stuff.

The album adheres to a less-is-best philosophy, and the songs sound effortless. It’s simple, straightforward and immediate, just like the first Strokes album.

Whatever the case, Ratitude is both a clunker and a fitting end to a decade in which Weezer continuously spiralled downward.

It’s a bummer that Slayer’s November 13 Air Canada Centre show, and their entire tour, has been postponed due to lead singer/bassist Tom Araya’s back problems, but we can console ourselves with their excellent new album, which finds the dark-minded, serial-killer-obsessed California thrashers keeping all things in balance.

I remember being disappointed after subsequently discovering Bleach, the band’s debut. It didn’t have Nevermind’s hooks, precise quiet/loud dynamics or Butch Vig’s glossy production. Years later, it’s those attributes that make Bleach so endearing.

Packed with lo-fi-meets-nu-rave parsings of UK post-punk discontent, the album’s distorted melodies are immediately catchy yet convey brooding emotional depth.

Wilco drummer Glenn Kotche and Jim O’Rourke bassist Darin Gray needed three years to create, during breaks in their schedules, the unhurried dream-like expedition that is their fourth full-length album.

The Ween/Animal Collective/early-Beck thing works on Don’t Go Phantom and You Cried Me, but you have to stomach Jookabox’s tendency to chipmunkify their voices. Still, both tracks are enjoyably balanced.

Some will be sad to find that his pulsating vocals and wacky storytelling have subsided, and that his vague lyrics have grown simpler. But anyone who’s avoided Banhart’s hippy-busker tunes now have a reason to give him a chance.

This is the most radio-friendly they’ve ever sounded, and as a result there’s less of that sense of fragile intimacy. That’s not necessarily such a bad thing, especially when it’s replaced by an addictive burning urgency, as it is here.

The band sounds like it’s trying to rejuvenate itself, thus injecting the release with a certain energy and vitality that "R.E.M. Live" lacked.

The newest disc from the once-innovative Vancouver group assaults you with 18 contrived, lazy tracks. The best is a seven-year-old re-release, 'Red Dragon,' from when Moka Only gave this outfit some class.

It’s refined, poised, sweater-and-scarf music to settle down with in advance of winter’s messy hysteria.

If you love car culture, traffic, suburbs or Stevens’s lyrics, this might be where you turn off.

Converge create art-school hardcore while still delivering on metal’s basest needs.

They sound more like a live band than they have since their debut, and this relaxed natural quality suits them perfectly.

Along with this requisite silliness come beautiful melodies (See The Leaves), exploding rock-out sections (The Ego's Last Stand) and catchy, laid-back guitar melodies (Silver Trembling Hands).

Grown-up, seductive and a little bit explicit (when it needs to be), it’s a small triumph for guys trying to get in touch with their emotions through the medium of R&B.

Ditto’s lyrics are still a blend of sex and politics, always delivered with enough passion to fill the dance floor and keep it sweaty.

As overwrought as the lyrics are, the songs have an attractive, dreamy, atmospheric quality that helps the London band avoid embarrassing teen melancholy. It's also surprisingly hypnotic.

This album is a stylized, slightly-paranoid romp sure to pluck the heartstrings of anyone who has ever lived life with reckless abandon.

Love 2, their sixth studio album, continues on this path, though its empty lyrics and overall cheesiness do grate.

Yes, the melodies are all bubble-gum lightness, but don’t worry, Raveonettes are still very dark and won’t be making inroads into top-40 radio any time soon.

The quartet is at its best when hushed, autumnal and kaleidoscopic. Still, you can’t blame them for trying to push the envelope.

With a name as dumb as Hockey, these Portland hipsters tempt me to dismiss them as having overdosed on irony. But to their credit, there are a few decent new-wavey pop hooks here.

Though its overall sound is depressing industrial indie rock with nods to Leonard Cohen, Marilyn Manson and Tool, Six’s varied instrumentation, catchy songs and emotional impact make for an interesting listen.

Whether it’s your thing or not, Music Go Music’s blissed-out pop is, at the very least, well crafted.

Williams leads the five-piece throughout this charged-up record that rarely comes up for air.

ew singer William DuVall spends half his time replicating Staley’s nasal misanthropy and the other half buried by Cantrell’s vocals.

Building on the critical goodwill he received from 06s stripped-down This Old Road, the 73-year-old Kristofferson offers another sparsely produced batch of reflective acoustic tunes that he sings with sage simplicity.

The lack of instruments coupled with Sandoval’s unvarying singing style lead to mind-wandering and reminiscing about her past work, like the killer hook she added to the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Sometimes Always.

All the more frustrating is the fact that Ghost’s guest verses on the new Raekwon album are stone-cold incredible. Clearly, he can still rap, but only when his audience isn’t looking.

No doubt Kingston can write a tune that sticks in the ear like a small insect. But just like having an insect in your ear, once the novelty wears off, it starts to get irritating.

The Brixton duo’s music fails to connect with any of the collaborating vocalists, to the point where you wonder if those involved were even in the same room together.

Brendan O’Brien, best known for his continuous work with Pearl Jam and Springsteen, takes over from Gavin Brown on Billy’s third s/t offering, and there’s some noticeable dulling of the edges here.

Vapours dutifully recognizes the playful history of the group and, with the re-addition of drummer Jamie Thompson, is sure to appease followers and win over new listeners.

TNV’s latest rises above previous efforts thanks to anthemic No Time, No Hope, which might jog memories of a barely coherent Lou Reed.

The songs have cool, memorable hooks and great guitar textures, but an overarching lack of enthusiasm hurts even their strongest material.

There’s a casual feel to this recording that generally works in its favour. Nothing sounds too laboured, and you get the feeling that they banged out the tunes quickly in an attempt to capture some live urgency. On the downside, the unpretentious approach often borders on unambitious.

There’s a mopey, self-pitying quality to the lyrics, and the duo never once connect with or transmit the sultry passion that existed between those 60s icons [Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot].

Cudi deserves credit for such an audacious high-concept debut. It falls a bit flat, but at least it falls forward.

Stellar 12-minute opus 'Time Flies' teems with Pink Floydesque arrangements and moving lyrics, while 'Octane Twisted' offers up massive guitar riffage that you can bang your head to.

This isn’t a summer jam. The Reykjavík natives’ seventh studio album is moody and minimal, with slow-building beats.

KRS-One's wordplay remains clever and topical, especially on the anti-Auto-Tune anthem Robot, while his sanctimoniousness has been toned down to more tolerable levels. Black Moon’s Buckshot is a comfortable pairing and, although his street-savvy sound may not have aged as well as some of his Duck Down Records brethren’s, he still finds a familiar dynamic when rapping alongside old cohorts.

The band’s sophomore effort is solid throughout, offering a heady mix of shimmering guitars, arty lyrics and creative rhythms that build on the work of romantic NYC indie bands like the National, the Walkmen and French Kicks.

The pitch-correction software is alive and well even on this record.... This glaring inconsistency is the least of BP3’s missteps.

Current fans may appreciate these saccharine sounds, but others will find them a little much. Still, the highlights make this album worth recommending to those with a penchant for breakup music.

Over the years, his raps grew less engrossing and his albums bombed atomically. But he’s back on point with OB4CL2, sounding as fierce and focused as ever.

It never sounds gimmicky--instead, the juxtaposing of acoustic guitars and synthesizers seems completely natural.

The Mississippi native leads a spartan group that includes the Felice brothers’ Ian Felice and Greg Farley through 10 woodsy cuts that convey warmth, loneliness and the rural South’s sinister underbelly.

The highlight is the laid-back Across The World with B.o.B, where Pitbull gets introspective for a minute. “Mr. 305” is at his best when tying together different styles, but the mindless, misogynistic filler on tracks like Full Of Shit and Girls sours the album as a whole.

This offering sets him apart from other acts and may secure his spot in the canon of bedroom crooners.

If you let go of your preconceptions, what you’ll hear is a strong soul album by a mature singer who’s successfully channelling a lot of real pain in her music.

[Alex Turner] and the lads put their trust in Queens of the Stone Age heavyweight Josh Homme to help craft a record that, though not completely successful, frequently surprises, takes chances and demands further listens.

One Love goes surprisingly deep, but an instrumental companion disc would’ve been a nice touch.

My Guilty Pleasure is a very listenable album, with plenty of high points, but overall it tends to fade into the background a little too easily.

Seven songs and zero duds--this is the must-hear of 09.

The best moments are some of the strongest of Gibb’s career, but too much of the material lacks the hooks and pure pop sensibility to make this the truly great album we were hoping for.

Garage punk hero Jay Reatard has grown up, and, surprisingly, this has turned out to be a very good thing indeed.

The sparse songs are free of drums, bass, riffs and obvious choruses, and are often pushed along by just two, sometimes three, chords.

Hospice isn’t uplifting or hopeful; it explores themes of dejection through delicate, beautiful sounds.

The sloppy rockers sound frozen in grunge time on their third release, and it works incredibly well for the dipso punks.

His first album in four years picks up exactly where The Trinity left off: at the centre of the dance floor.

There’s only so much nudge-nudge, wink-wink you can take before you want to shove a sock in the dude’s mouth. On the bright side, they stand a good chance of scoring a few top-40 hits with this dreck.

Fans of Chad VanGaalen will find much to love in Black Mold, the Calgarian’s electronic instrumental side project that reveals just how fertile his imagination is (in case we needed further proof).