A fresh, if unfocused, work saturated with zany personality.

He delivers all this with passion and booming authority: the teacher is back in front of the classroom, where he belongs.

But if it verges on generic pop-rock, Take Back... also has more hooks than a bait and tackle shop.

Lemon Jelly's groovy, Technicolor music exudes a warmth and sense of fun that predates samplers, sequencers and the concept of the DJ-as-auteur.

Revelling/Reckoning is a dense, daunting work -- and, quite possibly, her strongest one yet.

Throughout the album, Cole & co. offer up one pop nugget after another, all carefully honed through warts-and-all shows held in New York over the last few years. The result is that The Negatives isn't just Cole's most consistent disc in 11 years; it's also quite possibly his best ever.

Ditching lo-fi aesthetics for a more radio-ready sound in the spirit of, say, the Raspberries or Badfinger, Pollard has wisely chosen not bury his songs in oblique lyrical references and muddy tape hiss.

Live in New York City is that imperfect creation in which the whole equals something less than the sum of its parts. Taken one song at a time, though, it can be as compelling as live music gets.

Time Bomb is loaded with two things that are markedly absent from most of today's hard rock scene: memorable melodies and a loose but swinging rhythmic foundation.

Colvin has a small but honeyed voice, never too sad or too happy, and multi-instrumentalist [producer John] Leventhal has encased it in caressing arrangements, complete with the occasional string quartet. The ensuing pleasures are generally low-key, and while one can appreciate the attentive craftsmanship applied to each song, the cumulative mood is a little snoozy.

The problem isn't so much that this album sounds dated (not surprising, as it was recorded back when Lil Bow Wow was in pre-K), but rather that the songs are so poorly mixed and produced...

Here's music tailor-made for cruising down the road with the wind blowing through your mullet.

An album of surface comfort masking massive insecurities -- a perfect complement to the nation it so redolently evokes.

Comparisons will inevitably be made between Canto and the Buena Vista Social Club disc, but the most significant similarity is that they both feature great songs and terrific musicianship.

The collaboration ultimately benefits both players, adding a touch of art house abandon to Hammond's at times studied formalism, and authenticity to Waits' Martian grease-monkey blues.

With guitars down in the mix (when they aren't unplugged altogether), Clapton's ever-evolving voice is the real centerpiece.

Listeners might tire of its mechanical edge, but luckily Daft Punk folds in a few more layers. Whether the listener believes it or not, Discovery postulates that club music can possess depth of sound and be more than a never-ending beat that simply marshals your body along with it. Thus, the songs are shorter, more eclectic and rife with hills and valleys of beat that urge you to stop and listen.

But if "Chemistry" is a pure-pop sugar rush, much of what follows is equally sour, often falling into the thematic trap that snares so many post-hit albums: lots of songs about how success is really hard on rock stars and their girlfriends.

It's too bad this independently released album will most likely fall through the commercial cracks, because Stag is one of those rare albums that fuses aggression, good music and sharp institutional critiques without sounding strident or, um, stiff.

None of these songs are as ear-catching as the first album's "Gotta Man." And to play up Swizz Beatz's contributions is to point out how frequently Eve gets lots in the beats when they're slamming, and how she never enhances them when they're not.

Granted, not everything here is top drawer scarf-worthy.... Still, it's worth noting that the album works to a middle-of-the-set peak -- which means that Aerosmith understands the dynamics of CD construction better than bands half its age.

It contains some of the most affecting work she's ever created, exploring the power of songs stripped to their essence, and the juxtaposition of delicate melodies with the explosive emotions conveyed by her lyrics.

Tipsy's second album, Uh-Oh!, doesn't just rehash the mid-'90s martini-music comeback, it recasts it, ushering the exotica percussion, soaring strings, tinny organs and surf guitars of Combustible Edison and Esquivel into a brave new world of looped breakbeats and laptop trickery.

There's the sense that, in trying to be a Tribe-meets-Portishead hybrid, the Manchester, England, production duo of Mark Rae and Steve Christian have missed the target, as if true brilliance lies just around the corners they didn't turn.

This is Duncan Sheik at his most orchestrally, acoustically indulgent, and it's a lovely, haunting effort.

A mostly disappointing misfire that seems too eager for commercial pop success.

With Cydonia, Paterson continues on the trippy trajectory he established in 1989 with his debut 22-minute single, "A Huge Ever Growing Pulsating Brain That Rules From the Centre of the Ultraworld."

Unfortunately, they've simply traded one constrictive, predictable format for another.

My World, My Way, despite its flaws, may be the New Orleans label's most heroic effort yet, as Silkk parlays a strong message -- about hardcore rap, and real life, and the relationship between the two.

It's all remarkably effective. In capturing "the ghost in the machine," Mirwais has made a most warm and humane album.

Stephen Malkmus sounds like a great unmade Pavement album polished to within an inch of its life.

These 14 live offerings are a satisfying sampling from each of the band's five albums, though happily the selection leans more heavily toward Penthouse...

Most of the new disc sounds like noisy grooves in search of songs, and the mechanical accompaniment makes the accomplished jazz-rock fusion of such mid-1970s Beck classics as Blow by Blow and Wired sound downright earthy.

Just as Stewart's last major hit wisely spoke directly to his generation, Human unwisely seeks to plug him into the present one.

One of the best things about Ms. C as an artist, especially considering her indie-ish background, is that she hasn't been afraid to embrace plastic pop as a vehicle for self-expression. More importantly, though, having found success within this genre , Vitamin C here takes chances instead of relying purely on formula.

With the twangy, kaleidoscopic blend of country blues, downtown jazz and so many other unexpected flavors and sounds on Bill Frisell's latest album, Blues Dream, one can't help but be reminded a little of the updated American folkloric music score in the Coen Brothers' latest film.

Another smart, danceable collection of cultural subversion.

Little Sparrow captures one of country's greatest talents in top form, backed by some of the best acoustic players around...

J.Lo has a feisty, damn-I-know-I'm-all-that attitude, combined with pulsating, insistent beats that leap out of the speakers and make you wanna move.

Like a legion of goths before them, singer Jason Miller and Manson have many of the same obsessions: the death of God, suicide, the return of God, the slow descent into hell and icky piles of dirt. In Godhead's case, all of that terrain is covered in just the album's opening track, the NIN-meets-New Order new wave rocker "The Reckoning."

While they've evolved into a band that can actually, like, play more than a handful of chords, they wisely stick with what they know best -- trim, fast-paced, crunch-guitar-filled songs about sex and partying.

A sizeable chunk of the album contains what is by far some of the best material this group has done in ages.

Like a cross between Fatboy's cheekiness and the Chems' psychedelia, Super Sound is certainly slick, but it also confirms suspicions that big beat has hit a creative dead end.

Tha Last Meal, mixed and largely produced by Dre (Master P is the executive producer), manages to sidestep the déjà-vu-all-over-again pitfalls by injecting the formula with sly wit, a healthy helping of cosmic slop, and, last but not least, some mind-bending production.

Though many of the songs here are associated with male artists, James usually succeeds in injecting her own womanly strength and style into her renditions, making the tunes indisputably her own.

Judging by the funked-up grooves and the hardcore-with-heart rhymes, he's got the goods to satisfy both the faithful and the fickle.

Recorded at various venues between 1990 and 1996, the versions of the songs that appear on Live are generally rougher and more expansive than their studio counterparts. And they're not only loud: they're heavy. Mike Inez's bass feels like it's jammed in your spine. Vocalist Layne Staley -- he of the well-documented battle with heroin addiction -- sounds like someone in crisis who may implode at any moment. He grips you, and you lose yourself in his struggle. All of this helps make these performances vital.

What a refreshing rarity this is: movie music that's vital to the story being told, yet proudly standing on its own, with no trace of SoundScan calculation in its choices.

From a pounding rendition of "Pistol Grip Pump" by West Coast hip-hoppers Volume 10, to a snarling, grunged-up assault on Bob Dylan's "Maggie's Farm", singer Zack de la Rocha and company deliver atomic thrills with revolutionary fervor. Still, anyone hungry for new insights into this uniquely righteous band, or looking for evidence of risk-taking, may feel shortchanged.

It's about as good a hip hop album as you will hear this year. Correction: Make that great.... It's hip-hop that plays to the streets and the suburbs with equal intensity, intelligence, insanity and integrity.

It is clear that these two albums need to be heard and absorbed side by side?

Back-to-church-basement harmonies and familiar pledges of eternal devotion.

But what makes Badu a source of deep pride for her black audience (and intriguing puzzlement for her ever-growing white one) is that her mysticism produces its most compelling poetry when set against gritty realities such as drug-dealing boyfriends, jealous neighbors, ghetto etiquette, and the constant war on poverty. As a songwriter, Badu's particular gift is being able to work such everyday touchstones into sublime allusions of spiritual rebirth.

The only complaints involve omissions. Four of five singles between '92 and '94 (among them the minor American hit, "Bang") aren't here, which bypasses the band's crucial early development and leaves only one song from Modern Life, the punchy "For Tomorrow." On the other hand, the disc could easily have shed at least one of its five offerings from Parklife -- most noticeably the title track.

Unfortunately, A Day Without Rain, Enya's first new studio album in five years, lacks the edge that could pry it loose from the New Age niche. The Irish traditional music Enya performed so skillfully in the early 1980s with Clannad has by now largely disappeared in a mélange of sly, Celtic-flavored pop hooks and muddled mysticism. The only mystery is why it took her so long to come up with something so short (under 35 minutes) -- and, in many spots, so uninspired.

On this excursion into the noodle-prone mind of Mr. Lee. True, all the lyrics are his and his alone, but after all this time, plenty of Peart has rubbed off on him, resulting in much impenetrable mumbo jumbo about the universe and its "secrets" ("The Angels Share") and the workings of the mind...

Fizzy but numbingly predictable.... The delightful element of surprise occasioned by Martin's breakthrough English-language debut has been replaced by a formula-milking attempt to replicate its track record. This is particularly disappointing, since in concert Martin stirs things up by doing more than nodding to his roots.

Despite their retro stylings, this Orange County, California band has served up a sixth album that is better (by leaps and bounds) than the punk-by-numbers that dominated their first two albums, 1989's Offspring and '93's Ignition. Further, Conspiracy has more well-written, hook-laden songs than anything found on their fluke indie hit, '94's fittingly titled Smash, or their too-boring-to-be-a-sell-out 1997 major label debut, Ixnay on the Hombre.

Lovers' Rock ranks among the finest albums of the year, as Sade, nimbly utilizing that distinctively smoky, vulnerable instrument that is her voice, weaves gentle yet insinuating odes to love and loss.

Nonetheless, while more ambitious than almost all of today's metal-flaked rock competition, the 19-track Holy Wood is not without its problems. On numbers such as "President Dead" and "Cruci-Fiction in Space," the band seems to be just rehashing old terrain. And, while The Wall may be a worthy role model, Manson and company don't quite have Pink Floyd's lyrical or musical range, adding to the rote feeling that troubles some of this overlong (60+ minutes) disc.

John and Frank Navin, the brotherly core of Chicago's Aluminum Group, produce impeccably tailored bachelor-pad pop with a cynical bite -- like a less restrained Sea & Cake or a more Anglicized Stereolab.... More post-consumer than post-rock, the Aluminum Group's environmentally conscious sounds will make your ears feel as comfortable and cultured as fine quality furnishings.

Another quality installation from an artist who views his entire oeuvre as a work in progress.

It opens with a nine-minute song. It's a concept album. Worse still, it's a science fiction concept album. With songs about robots. But here's the thing: Every time I listen to it, I don't hate it.... The combination of prog-rock ambition, scrappy sounds and the odd hip reference almost make it feel like Pink Floyd growing up and making a disc in the post-Beck era.

Yes, this is their "mature" album, the one where the once effervescent combo that could be counted on for enough hooky innuendoes to excite pre-teen girls and dirty young men alike aspire toward some sort of longer-lasting pop relevance. Which translates here into ballads and a huge dose of R&B-lite. It all sounds very professional, though only a hardcore fan can deny that the bloom is definitely off the rose.

TP-2.com isn't the masterpiece Kelly seems capable of, but it's as strong an R&B album as any since, well, since R., balancing the carnal and the spiritual as convincingly as anyone's done it since Prince in the 1980s.

Fans of "Praise You"'s twisted but hooky soul or the beat-box bonanza "The Rockafeller Skank" may be a bit disappointed with this current collection. Not because the record is a thundering and cohesive example of sequencers used for good instead of evil, but because Fatboy's approach this go around is a lot less (new-) user friendly. The tracks are longer and more measured, many of them built around the ebb and flow so essential to dance music made for the clubs, as opposed to dance music made for TV dance shows.

This collection is a sugar-high set, adrenalized even more than Blink's souped-up studio albums by the waves of Cheap Trick Live at Budokan-like female screams pouring from the audience. And the playing offers plenty of evidence to quiet anyone who thinks these guys are just three-chord wonders.... But young audiences love Blink shows in part for the wiseacre, self-deprecating quips, and this album is full 'em -- and not just between songs, as there are (count 'em) 29 extra tracks of banter lasting over 10 minutes at the album's end.

Twangy guitars, melancholy pedal steel and mournful, high country fiddles abound on this collection... Tomorrow's Sounds Today forgoes the livelier and more genre-bending studio tricks that pushed mid-'90s albums such as Gone and This Time into brave new sonic realms. This time around, as it was in the beginning, the mood is modest, the sound is sparse and sans embellishments.

U2 albums are generally slow growers, so it's much too early to label All That You Can't Leave Behind a classic. One can say with reasonable certainty that it's their most vibrant offering since Achtung Baby, their hardest-rocking one since The Joshua Tree, and their first true soul recording.

Their songs still bulge at the seams with clever ideas, but they're veiled in deep grooves and hooks.... Outkast have developed a major sweet tooth for P-Funk, but what they've picked up from their former collaborator George Clinton isn't his low-end bounce. It's rather his hovering, serpentine vocal arrangements and his acidic political fantasies.... [but] Stankonia's conceptual sprawl isn't all good for the album -- the collection is hampered by more than a little filler.

She has always been a good songwriter -- experimental, dynamic, probing -- but here she demonstrates that she has the potential to be a truly masterful one. With newfound clarity and restraint, and with her usual wit, she examines the ways in which we try to convince ourselves that we are safe in an unsafe world.

Rather than an abdication, In the Mode is a defiant and defensive statement.... This bristling new approach pays off well for the most part. As on New Forms, some of the best moments come when the crew mixes some soul and R&B stylings into the proceedings... At times the determination to keep the beats pounding hard and heavy leads to a slightly generic feel, especially on the instrumental cuts.

Given the changes that both New York and Jackson have undergone over the years, it's fitting that the new album lacks the swagger and bubbly feel of the first edition, and instead leaves the listener sad and gray...

When a tune falls into the jurisdiction of the venerable country-folk troubadour, the accumulated details of any previous readings or associations are stripped away, and its core brilliantly revealed.

Fred Durst may grab the headlines, but Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water really shows that all the power Limp Bizkit are known for comes from their bandmembers who, you know, actually play instruments. Durst's lyrics are wack when he raps and bad high school poetry when he sings.... Of course, there aren't many people looking for deep thoughts from Durst and Co. -- just lots of big, dumb, angry fun. And on that count, Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water delivers.

On their fourth album, Bedlam Ballroom, the Zippers have concocted another stew of lively dance music. Problem is, with so many people having jumped on the swing revival bandwagon, the group's new material sounds dated. And not in a good way, either -- it merely recalls a fad, rather than evoking the bevy of twentieth-century American music styles the Zippers have long been in love with.

Producer Don Was allows the surprisingly girlish, persuasive part of Midler's style to shine, working in harmony with the production and the material.

Jakob Dylan and his team have fashioned an album that's longer on big guitars, crunchy grooves and cool changes than overt confessionals. All told, Breach is a subtle, seamless effort with nary a lull or misstep -- in contrast to its multiplatinum predecessor, the second half of which suffered from a series of pedestrian songs.

Kid A represents the first time in Radiohead's short history where their desire to do something different has outrun their ability to give their experiments a personal imprint. The problem with the album isn't that it's introspective, or obscure, or even that it's derivative (alternately conjuring Eno, Aphex Twin, Pink Floyd and so forth), but rather that the striking group personality so well defined on the last two collections has seemed to evaporate.

Green Day's melodies are as delicious as ever, and the band continues to integrate acoustic guitar into its sound without getting all granola on us. But as a songwriter, Armstrong's neither here nor there, unable to fully abandon his goofball roots but not stretching far enough to score the breakaway great album he's always seemed capable of writing.

I readily admit I was confused by its unusual instrumental combinations, by the turn-on-a-dime melodies and rhythms, and the "still searching after all these years" lyrics -- by its relentless eclecticism. Still, I kept listening, and at the end of the day found myself having trouble escaping these meandering, insinuating songs.

With Sailing to Philadelphia, however, Knopfler fully reclaims his near-unique position as an instrumentalist of purpose -- one whose every note seems to have a reason for being. That reason, of course, is in service of his beautifully written and masterfully arranged songs.

Hiatt holds down the drummerless rhythm with his acoustic six-string and a National resonator guitar. The boisterous atmosphere (everybody hoots and hollers) evokes a back-porch picking session, and Hiatt's songs draw from similarly down-home sources.... a recording that reflects the spirit of musicians who live to sing and play.

Many of the 14 songs here are laced with the type of psychedelic lyrics that have always characterized Kirkwood's writing...

The Friends of Rachel Worth is the first new Go-Betweens album in a dozen years, and, remarkably, it's as if they were never away.... an ever-so-slightly-updated sound with a hint of lo-fi -- something the Go-Betweens pioneered on their earliest albums, before they found their more renowned intimate style.

Traditionalist rock fans have got to be cheered by Fastball, a group plucky enough to take on teenage pop bands and rap-rock sensations with perky harmonies and piles of guitars. But in the end, songs like these shine brightest outside of the album context, as stand-alone songs coming out of the dashboard radio.

Fortunately, for most of the album, the soft-but-solid Austin backing band assembled by guitarist/co-producer Derek O'Brien is as well seasoned as Nelson, and shares his gift for making a little go a long way. And, ultimately, the best tracks may well be those sung by Willie alone.

Folkish acoustic guitar and lumbering trip-hop rhythms grind the second half into one bland, undifferentiated musical mass. Because she's an icon, she probably doesn't feel comfortable releasing a formal coup of an album where she toys with French disco-house the entire time.

One of the most exciting pop-music experiments to along in a long while.... Selmasongs works as an album, not just as a souvenir of a daring cinematic and musical venture.

A borderline adult-contemporary sound that's catchy and exuberant enough to gloss over the intermittently dark verse.

With its superslick production and Mariah Carey-esque vocal histrionics, the "Latin" elements in Mi Reflejo are more sanitized than Santana-ized...

Righteous Love turns out to have been worth the five-year wait, as it boasts a higher percentage of good songs than Relish, a more organic instrumental sound, and a singer whose vocal finesse now matches her raw power.

Red Dirt Girl is a model of tasteful genre blending: a little bit country and a little bit electro-ambient pop.

Twisted Tenderness hits its turning point on the title track (RealAudio excerpt), a solitary, surefire progressive-house hit that recalls the Pet Shop Boys' 1999 album, Nightlife. From that point the album's energy improves considerably -- so there's the twist: It's not new, but it's improved.

A seamless and transcendent eight-track mix culled from a handful of 1998 and 1999 performances...

Melodies howl along before being ground down under the weight of distorted guitar. Strings float songs along, then scrabble against the flow.

A six-piece with musical roots in the '60s, fronted by a sensual-sounding blonde bombshell called Debbie, the Januaries' most obvious reference point is Blondie.

Replete with tasty elements borrowed from jungle, drum & bass and contemporary Afro-pop, their fifth full-length album manages to blend and synthesize all their disparate source material better than any previous effort save their startling 1982 debut.