Folds has mastered his material to the point that he no longer relies on a smartass punch line to deliver the goods.

Cold Roses’ first set is by-the-numbers, brokenhearted MOR fare, sometimes maudlin (“When Will You Come Back Home?”), infrequently dramatic (the piano-driven “How Do You Keep Love Alive”) and mostly forgettable. The second disc redeems Cold Roses from an even-less-enthusiastic recommendation.

Perhaps an unrefined but fiery bar band would have been better suited to accompany such nakedly raw material.

This most confident debut presents Hope of the States as a band for the future -- a place it'll most likely find very comfortable.

A grab-bag assemblage that simply doesn’t flow together very well.

Fast Cars is volatile, angry, and certainly unappreciative of the current administration (especially its war policy). Fortunately, Aesop Rock manages to criticize without losing the beat.

Lacking its predecessor's edgy tone, Life For Rent offers up one bland, polite tune after another.

Body of Song is patchwork and spotty, dappled with a handful of sparkling additions to Mould’s estimable catalog.

The album dies far more often than it flies, mistaking a crazy-quilt musical approach for creativity, and wrongly miscalculating the strengths of its anemic vocalist.

North moves with an inevitable constancy, and could have perhaps benefited from one or two more upbeat tracks. But such consistency is certainly a forgivable flaw, especially when it's done as elegantly and earnestly as presented here.

In its reverential tone and the sheer joy expressed by Clapton and the all-star collection of session men joining him, the album proves utterly incongruous with the form it champions.

The casual fan could do just as well building his own sequence from the 1970 original, Naked and the third Anthology disc.

Without interesting stories to tell, it all feels like an empty-calorie exercise in vapid songcraft.

While it may not match the exuberant authority of a band at the height of its powers, set by Millions Now Living eight years ago, it does manage to prove itself worthy, in its own way, of the distinct creative voice that high-water mark captured so well.

Fans of Simple Things, Zero 7's debut effort, won't hear anything new or different, but considering that Falls makes for lovely background music, it should satisfy those fans just fine.

It's that sobering confessional quality that gives the album an unexpected dose of depth and grace.

Subtitulo certainly appears to be an accurate representation of where Josh Rouse is in his life: comfortable, confident, and beneath-the-radar contented. Good for him; bad for fans of Josh Rouse albums brimming over with great hooks.

The Understanding is one of those bold sophomore efforts that will most likely split fans of the duo into two camps, with the Air/Boards of Canada downbeaters lamenting the new direction and the dance-oriented, Basement Jaxx set reveling in the unexpected vibrancy of Röyksopp’s present sound.

Kingdom Come is exactly the kind of rote product Jay-Z seemed to want to avoid when he "retired": It's a victory lap without a victory, a rare instance of a rap superstar blowing his own horn and yet sounding half-hearted about it.

Too much reflection equals not enough action, and Gahan's halting lyrics beg for an urgency and immediacy that Monsters doesn't deliver.

Worlds Apart is the first TOD album that sounds like it was influenced by a marketing department.

Sadly, the album's consistency is also its failing; you can only take so much softness... before you're just listening to elevator music, and after 19 tracks that's what this becomes.

Victory For The Comic Muse seems destined to be one of those odd works beloved by cultish fans of Hannon’s work, but an unfocused misfire from the casual listener’s standpoint.

Another almost-but-not-quite entry in a catalog full of near-miss gems.

Omnibus is more a historical artifact for the Decemberists completist than a riveting overview of a criminally neglected band from the late ’90s.

More a novelty than an essential addition to the Dismemberment Plan legacy.

The pair overextend themselves often enough to appear to be posturing, costing them some of their charm.

It's hard not to like music this well-ordered and composed, but in the end it sounds as if The Album Leaf has taken a break on innovation and is settling for being derivative -- of itself.

As solid a listen as it may be, one can't help but yearn for a little bit more of the testosterone-charged hard-rock muscle that the band members' resumes evoke.

Eyes Open shows you the elements of a successful record, without the heart that ultimately makes it a success.

Sting's most adventurous disc as a solo artist.

Rock N Roll contains 14 Adams originals, it’s essentially a stylistic covers record, and a damn fine one at that.

If you don't know, or can look beyond, the staggering U-turn it represents, then Per Second is an amiable time investment for a top-down cruising summer afternoon. If you're hungry for weightier fare, however, you'd be best served by digging deeper into the band's catalog.

Winchester Cathedral may be a transition album, or it may just contain a few curveballs to keep discerning listeners on their toes -- only Clinic knows for certain.

Idlewild may still be figuring out exactly how to juggle its conflicting elements, but there are more than enough truly bright spots on Warnings/Promises to remind the listener of what the band is capable of when it fires on all cylinders -- and even when it doesn't.

An album that feels a bit self-conscious in its adult-contemporary skin.

Over-produced and (regrettably) heavily dependent on synth-powered '80s grooves.

Unmemorable and inoffensive, Death Cab has gone from oddball indie-pop kids to mature professionals who now have a lot more people counting on their success.

The Search is protest music for the cryptology set.

Mostly, it sounds like no more and a little less than one might expect (or hope for) from such a union: Scott Weiland singing over some relatively crunchy Slash guitar templates.

The guitars stumble in a monotone of mid-level, processed rattle; the drums don't propel as much as struggle to disguise an all-too-turgid pace; and the rage is both unfocused and leavened with too much narcissistic navel-gazing.

Razorlight is more than The Strokes, London Bureau -- all nervous guitar lines and neither-here-nor-there bar-hopping energy -- but what's left of the mucho-hyped UK outfit's identity feels second-hand borrowed, as well.

Fans of the Scottish foursome will be disappointed with 12 Memories, which plays like a wimpy, distant cousin to Good Feeling.

Out West’s main drawback is pacing; despite being drawn from a trio of sold-out shows at the Fillmore in San Francisco earlier this year, there’s little sense of momentum.

Ultimately, they don't come across as unbearably pretentious so much as just really, really misguided.

Though it might not be the most easily digestible subject matter, it melds thought and execution as well as any concept album in recent memory.

It's not simply the weakest album of his otherwise impressive career; it's one of the poorest performances from such a high-profile talent in recent memory.

Young's nomadic narrative requires its own Cliffs Notes, and the lack of cohesion or focus (which Young pretty much cops to in the liner notes) give the record less heft than the irate rambling of your neighborhood curmudgeon.

But while it's appealing to hear Barlow sound so contented as he approaches middle age, Emoh can't help but lack in the emotional immediacy so typical of Barlow's earlier, non-eponymous work.

Lack of energy and a dearth of hooks adds up to one of the most tepid releases Matthews and his crew have released.

Fleshing out Monade only reinforces what great chemistry Stereolab possesses. And that’s a few steps in the wrong artistic direction, especially if Sadier’s interested in distinguishing herself apart from the Groop.

One of the most refreshing modern R&B records from a diva-ascendant in a long time.

A full three-fourths of the record feels more like the work of a band that hasn't yet staked out a sonic identity.

Instant 0 finds Stereolab upbeat and sounding more vibrant than it has in years.

By the halfway point, it becomes too easy to zone out and for the music to fade into the background.

Rehearsing My Choir is too self-consciously hip to be a twilight reflection on things past and is filled with personal asides only blood relatives can relate to.

The Outsider is a mix tape. The artful flow that defined Endtroducing and The Private Press has been eschewed in favor of individual tracks, and the album succeeds or fails along these lines.

Nightfreak is imbued with an appealing, frantic punk energy, but hamstrung by third-rate Zappa lyrics.

Ultimately Monsoon proves an easy, agreeable listen; soft rock for graying indie-rockers everywhere.

Fans of So Much for the City's warm, Beach Boys-esque charms may be disappointed with The Thrills' musical progression, but most should enjoy Bohemia's varied charms.

Coming from a group whose debut offered a glimmer of hope for the expansion of the genre's boundaries, such creative laziness is all the more disappointing.

Long before it's time to part, Till Death sags under a heavy sense of déjà vu that hinders even its interesting moments.

Porcelain's aggressively hopeful, generic alt-rock anthems just aren't very interesting.

JackInABox lacks the consistent flow of The Optimist LP and doesn’t match the sturdy songcraft of Ether Song.

The Hiss is certainly one of the most promising of the current wave of rock revivalists; it's easy to see why this disc is already a hit in the U.K.

Amputechture, with its obsessive exploration of religious fanaticism and the physical expression of devotional desire, is not an album wanting to be loved so much as feared and listened to with a sense of awe and taxed exasperation.

Human Conditions suggests that Ashcroft has forgotten how to rock, choosing to indulge what appears to be a messiah complex.

It's all very commendable, but one wishes McGraw had taken a few more chances with the material, most of which is as lightweight and ultimately disposable as much of modern country.

Too many of the tracks on Some Devil simply take longer than needed (five minutes on average) to reach their conclusion, most running out of gas somewhere around the three-and-a-half minute mark.

There isn't much variety on the disc, which many will find a bit thin after repeated spins, but there's no doubting the band's clean, confident sound.

One Plus One Is One may not sparkle with surprising brilliance, as Bewilderbeast did, but it is certainly the most thematically and musically grounded album Gough has yet created.

+44's first effort is an enjoyable diversion, but it's not apt to stop anyone's heart.

For better or worse, RJD2’s talent is beat-making. While it’s easy to applaud him for following his dreams, we can’t give him extra marks for his output.

One would like to think there's a subversive statement here about the blandness of much of commercial radio, but it's far more likely that the vocal turns by Dave Matthews and Bush's Gavin Rossdale are as free of intended irony as those songs' lyrics are free of fresh content.

Too much of... Out of the Vein struggles to scratch its way into your memory banks, hobbled by its own melodic shortcomings.

Even if you slipped the album into your player without the slightest preconceived notion of who Courtney Love is or was, Sweetheart wouldn't be able to help but strike you as a document of sheer desperation, of a frantic need for approval. Worse, it's the audible sound of a talent in serious decline.

The band's formula for its high-energy, rock-dance mélange is quite simple; take youthful exuberance (average age: 19), add an exceptionally-tight rhythm section, and let the superfluous, over-indulgent jams flow, as they most certainly do over the course of ten songs and just over 55 minutes on this most promising debut.

Too little stands out to make Grand Champ more than an uneven contender.

Odditorium contains the best and worst aspects of the Dandy Warhols.

It’s official: The robots have won.

As long as he continues to believe those who trumpet his vices as virtues, no amount of musical exploration or pretentiously titled solo albums will set him free of the straitjacket he's written himself into.

Its sporadic pockets of accessibility aside, it's difficult to listen to Around the Sun without hearing it as a holding pattern, or worse, a piece of product released simply to keep the R.E.M. brand out among the public.

To be sure, Everything to Everyone certainly packs in the humorous moments that were largely lacking from the group's last album, 2000's Maroon. But it also shows principal songwriters Steven Page and Ed Robertson reflecting on weightier topics related to the band's double-edged popularity.

While there's nothing approaching the memorable hook of Solace's "Into the Fire" or the stalking menace underlying Fumbling Towards Ecstasy's "Possession," Afterglow stays true to McLachlan's impeccably designed songcraft and keen sense of melody.

Make Believe might sound more sincere if the clean, precision-metal production didn’t steamroll Cuomo’s lyrical misery in bombastic arrangements featuring factory-issue power chords and a MOR-safe rhythm section.

This is just well-executed, fun rock 'n' roll.

Birds of Pray just seems clueless, like a high school kid who doesn't realize that his strident need to seem interesting just makes him a joke, and not a particularly funny one at that.

It's certainly not the most bracing thing he's ever done, but it's hardly disposable pop dreck.

There's precious little rocking to be found, and the turgid numbers that make up Baptism's bulk are bogged down by insipid clichés and half-hearted tempos.