Garbage still have a knack for placing sticky hooks behind walls of guitar sheen, but when they slow down on Beloved Freak and the title track ballad, the results get a bit cringy.

There are some pretty moments, and the production is immaculate, but it's plodding and dull for the most part.

Although Harris does her best with some tasteful harmonies to save the session from the usual Knopfler over-egging, there's only so much she can do.

Things pick up in the second half, when the lyrics become more surprising and the beats less radio-friendly. Despite some perplexing moments, there's a lot to like.

They do stick to that formula a bit too rigidly: the first half is uniform in its patterned builds, and back-to-back tracks like Hunger and Wolves Without Teeth aren't very distinguishable. But the band's near-masterful ability to weave pop sensibilities with moodiness still remains.

Whether you'll like the newest Keane offering depends largely on your appetite for melodrama.

Last Night is a cool idea and a mission almost impossible.

While Morissette’s weaknesses are the same--her lyrics are still overwrought, as though torn from some broken-hearted schoolgirl’s diary-–this disc is an easier pill to swallow than her last couple.

It's wildly diverse, but there's a lightness and unobtrusiveness to each song that mirrors her airy delivery while hinting at even more untapped potential.

His usually formidable voice could have saved it, but he often sounds like he's struggling to hit the notes.

Problem is, the odd hodge-podge of tracks have no apparent connection to each other and certainly don't make for a coherent statement or even a decent mixtape.

When these two dimensions come together, as on the stunningly awesome 'American Names' or 'Who Do We Care For?,' it all but erases the anguished waiting for him to finally come back around.

The album is overly long, but there's a straightforwardness to the live-and-loose party vibe that's hard to resist.

Considering it’s only 44 minutes long, MGMT’s self-titled third album feels much lengthier. This is partly due to the dense layers and constantly shifting textures, but it’s also a result of the abrasive digital distortion shrouding the psych-pop jams, making it a tiring listen even at its most melodic.

IV Play is a collection of sexy jams that falls somewhere between Usher-type bedroom music and the progressive R&B The-Dream’s great at.

Calla deal in that dark romantic narcissism guys like Nick Cave and Tom Waits are known to wallow in on record after record.

The great joints (like the anthemic Just Blaze retouch of The Champ) are outnumbered by the mediocre, and a couple of new tracks are thrown in for added buying incentive.

Cat Power fans who aren’t familiar with the originals might be thrilled, but most everyone else will be left wondering, why bother?

A hardened, firsthand account of the preordained dire straits of the American underclass, and Waka Flocka Flame-indebted boast talk minus the charisma.

On her fifth album she mercifully avoids the monotonous dance-pop trend in favour of a timeless pop-rock sound that occasionally flirts with the dance floor.

It's more tripped-out and druggy, a looser version of the songwriting that gave Skeleton its immediate punch.

Much of her music aims to capture elusive emotions, yet she ends up spelling them out with literal refrains, banal narratives and sexed-up histrionics that leave little to the imagination.

True, there's a pop sensibility at work here that betrays their band roots, but that's exactly what makes this the kind of dance album you can actually listen to from beginning to end.

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.

When the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink approach works best, Metal Moon sounds like little bits of all your favourite records glued together into one mutant disc.

It's consistently catchy, and produced with a broad enough vision so that it doesn't get repetitive.

Repeatedly tries to regenerate the neo-soul-pop formula of I Try, down to its beat pauses and rich, piano-driven arrangements.

No matter how glossy the production, it’s impossible not to notice that Simpson can’t sing well enough to carry an album, while her peppy, Avril-lite personality comes off as contrived and as obnoxious as Lavigne’s.