This is a massive artistic statement from The Microphones, and though it may be cryptic-- even overwhelming at times-- it remains warm and open, thanks to the stunning intimacy that has consistently been the group's hallmark.

The misstep here is the addition of something altogether basic: Vocals.

In many ways, God's Son is lyrically superior to Illmatic. Nas has created an album that is at once mournful and resilient, street-savvy and academic.

Com comes off as alternately uncomfortable and downright lazy, half-speaking-- or worse, singing-- new-age revelations to the masses.

The biggest detractor here is the band's lack of focus. The record is downright messy at times, even if the thick, murky quality does, in some instances, work to considerable effect.

In a sense, these thirty-six minutes show that the duo has basically been stuck in neutral since 1995.

Phrenology completely realizes The Roots' talents and potential, maintaining its cohesiveness despite its many disparate elements.

For all the album's lovely sounds, the bulk of the actual songs on Writers Without Homes are not particularly memorable.

One starts to wonder if all the Jesus & Mary Chain comparisons flying around The Raveonettes aren't due to their J&MC-like tendency to write the same song over and over again, as well as their ability to kick up a right good wall of white noise.

Out Hud also back up their flash with remarkable substance, setting their music apart from anything as one-dimensional as standard club offerings or moody trance cuts.

The bulk of Machine Says Yes draws heavily on the rhythms and studio techniques of FC Kahuna's big beat roots, and garnishes them vigorously with the robotic female vocals and canned electro beats of Ladytron or Peaches; it gets old faster than Wesley Willis.

While Quality may lack the basement charms of [departed producer DJ Hi-]Tek's finest, it more than compensates by employing a funkier and more upbeat sound palate to further draw out the nuances of what is already one of the most rounded and complete rap personas in the game.

At its worst, this project is just plain retarded.

Riot Act meanders from one song to the next with an overwhelming insipidness.

A good record with some incredibly sick production work.

Where others in this vein opt for a hazy, nebulous cloud of half-remembered dreams, Manitoba's music is direct and unassuming while still remaining evocative.

Chat and Business won't bring you down, nor will it kick your ass. It's the kind of album that's never better than its last single.

Jay weaves his way through every imaginable style and flavor with unyielding expertise.

Tired riffing, uninspired lyrics, and god-awful wankery.

Roni Size's new album is vapid, boring and uniform.

After the limp meandering of Afterglow, We Are Science is unquestionably a leap in the right direction.

Cash's renditions are often breathtaking in their simplicity, but rarely do they justify their presence among a dozen other similarly afflicted songs.

Machine disappoints on an almost unprecedented number of levels, and its unfortunate length is the least of its problems.

That's just the thing with Badly Drawn Boy-- he doesn't care about momentum, or continuity, or a lot of other things that you might quite reasonably care about when you sit down to listen to his records.

If these tracks had even the slightest shred of originality, it would be one thing, but Tillmann's on autopilot from the moment we push play.

The tracks on Yanqui are content to continue building to bored, satiated endings we can see coming 20 minutes in advance.

A decent follow-up from a band who has already proven themselves capable of much, much more.

We Are Your Friends might not be a completely successful album, but it's rarely less than a compelling one.