Many of Continuum's songs are on the softer, adult alternative side, but his melodic voice, warm production, complex riffs and thoughtful lyrics should cure the violent reactions Mayer's name used to evoke.

It seems like they decided to go whole hog with the Duran Duran template. Not the best strategy, considering it isn't even working for Le Bon and company any more.

The Sexyback single makes wise use of filtered vocals to artificially deepen his tone and support his macho pose, but only so much can be done with studio gimmicry. He's soon back to tweeting his game in a prepubescent chirp; the more suggestive his come-ons, the funnier it gets.

The goofier bits and sloppy sunshine pop moments are really what make this an interesting and complete album.

The sheets of noise and absence of hooks hide some interesting ideas if you have the patience to listen for them.

It feels way huger than the work of two people, with dense, textured songs that sound like a remarkable collision between two distinct personalities.

Here, Jamie Stewart and his crew of arty innovators use the penchant for sonic deconstruction they honed last time round to take their project of disemboweling pop songs to a new plane.

For the first time Audioslave sound more like a cohesive unit than a product of two groups spliced together.

Too bad only the icily sardonic Irreplaceable has any real weight or relevance.

It's a mellow album, but definitely quirky, and with enough rawness to offset her soft, pretty vocals.

Whereas Chaplin's sharply drawn social comment is rightly considered a modern classic, Dylan's Modern Times -- sung in a strangely affected croak you'd expect to hear from Leon Redbone's grandfather -- comes off like a feeble anachronism in which our man cynically attempts to pass off public-domain blues and folk tunes as his own by changing a few words.

If anything, the grooves have gotten tougher and funkier on Game Theory.

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

Sadly, co-executive producer Erick Sermon is behind many tracks, and his are the most conventional and weakest of the bunch.

Their well-honed flamboyance has finally given way to full-blown pretension, the lyrics that used to be an afterthought hidden behind a painfully contrived yet musically unimpressive ragtimey veneer of muted trumpets, shoo-bop, shoo-wahs and happily jingling vaudeville pianas.

The Future Crayon, like Tender Buttons, is a little predictable at first but grows more complex after several listenings.

Even though the songwriting's tight, the uniformly delicate touch of adult contemporary arrangements will leave you struggling to stay awake till the album's end.

Though the tunes themselves seem unassuming, based on conventional chord progressions and strumming patterns, that simplicity draws attention to Darnielle's fine songwriting.

What's disappointing if you're a fan is that the man has his tropes -- both melodic and lyrical -- and stubbornly sticks to 'em.

With folky guitar picking, lush harmonies and sophisticated melodies, this album is a must-have for all of Bachmann's fans.

Pretty much every track is a head-turner.

Though Storch and other heavy hitters do their best to craft reasonable facsimiles of a broad range of Today's Best Dance-Pop Hits, they can't hide the fact that Hilton's a shit singer who can't carry a tune even when the vocal melody is reproduced note-for-note in the arrangements.

Kelis... raps, rants and successfully maintains her spacey freakiness while sailing out into even radio-friendlier waters.

Despite any bugaboos, he's a plain great songwriter, and Skelliconnection is firmly above average.

Ultimately, Aguilera's the only one of her peers with the vocal prowess to pull it off.

The Second Round isn't much different from the first.

Instead of knocking out another wall-shaking psych rock blast... Avatar comes off like a series of sedate recital pieces performed from sheet music while seated in the round.

Generally solid with more hits than misses, but my usual advice to DiFranco still applies: don't record everything you write – wait a few months and give us the best ones.