A work that retains their signature sound while embracing a more mature and cautiously positive outlook on matters of the heart.

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

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.

Certain moments find the quartet keying in on the same fugal intertwining of beauty and dissonance that Television explored back in the late 1970s.

Ween are at their best when they either dive headlong into ridiculousness or play it totally straight (admittedly, they don't do the latter very often). Here, however, they walk a rickety platform between those extremes and frequently fall into the ironizer's pit.

From its thunderous beginning to its quiet, echoing end, MACHINA/the machines of God is perfect dancing-in-the-dark-with-yourself-'cause-you-have-angst-in-your-pants music.

The duo's most commercial and downright joyous album to date.

While the album stays true to the group's legacy of alcohol-themed, head-nodding party anthems, it falls short by schematically aping other artists' music.

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

While Placebo's latest, Black Market Music, doesn't have any single track as galvanizing as "Pure Morning," Molko, Swedish bassist Stefan Olsdal, and English drummer Steve Hewitt have again crafted a hip-hop-laced collection of hard-driving rock that effectively mixes clever wordplay with solid musicianship.

Celebrity is a few good songs short of becoming a new gold pop standard (Michael Jackson's all-hits Thriller still holds that distinction), but with its well-balanced dance track-to-ballad ratio and uniformly infectious grooves, it does come within moonwalk striking distance...

The results are unfortunately as atrocious as they are blasphemous, setting a tone that keeps Vavoom! mostly falling flat on its straining-to-jump-jive-an'-wail face.

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.

Unfortunately, the heavy-handed folk-pop production... doesn't serve Williams well here.... In general, the overwrought keyboards and Steve Holley's percussion... could use a good slapdown.

Longtime fans will no doubt be initially thrown by the lack of "motorik" beats and general rock action here. Yet after a couple of listens, many of Exciter's songs begin to worm their way into the subconscious.

Surprisingly, Strange Little Girls is a street project -- daring, visceral and engaging, even when it's not fully successful.

It's too lightweight and silly to appeal to those looking for musical innovation, and the songs aren't focused or fully developed enough to grab new fans. Mostly, it's just a really annoying album.

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.

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."

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.

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.

Wildly uneven -

Perhaps what makes The History of Rock most interesting -- and what ultimately validates Kid Rock as the real deal -- is that these old tracks prove that his love affair with rap and rock wasn't something he just cooked up to weasel onto MTV's "TRL."

Unfortunately, this newest attempt at expanding the group's musical horizons is more a lateral move than a vertical one, and the same problems that have plagued Better Than Ezra since Deluxe -- mawkish, derivative material -- undermine this effort as well.

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.

Even though O'Connor adopts a penitent tone on Faith and Courage, this album is no concession to anyone or anything. O'Connor is still O'Connor: strident, contradictory, motherly, seductive.

While Beyoncé is credited with co-writing and co-producing the entire album, merging the Destiny's Child camp with a stronger guiding hand (say, the Rodney Jerkins tribe) might've helped weed out the weaker material -- and kept the flame going throughout this uneven album.

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.

The resulting sonic model represents a giant step in the evolution of sound sculpture

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.

Date of Birth is packed with hard-driving, repetitive beats that are equal parts Wu-Tang Clan and Gang Starr, yet the music lacks either of those groups' charms.

Inevitably, all the shifts in tempo, mood and lyrical slant ultimately hurt Morning View more than they help.

The most memorable tracks on Pieces in a Modern Style feel like high-brow Puff Daddy songs...

Tweekend isn't a giant leap forward for the Crystal Method, but it certainly doesn't keep them trapped in the past.

The spy-music fetish and dubbed-out paranoia of the band's first two albums are traded in for earthy Stax soul and sprightly disco funk, along with plenty of turntable wobbles, wah-wah scratches and analog squiggles...

Van Helden continues to battle being pigeonholed by throwing disparate musical elements into the mix; unfortunately, the resulting musical tapestry is uneven.

Filled with the sort of aggressive, testosterone-fueled rage that has helped make DMX the Henry Rollins of hardcore hip-hop.

The dearth of memorable melodies ruins the once-successful formula.

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

Lacking Pierce's unifying vision, The Carnivorous Lunar Activities Of ... tries hard to make a virtue out of stylistic schizophrenia, and only partly succeeds.

While fans expecting "Thong Redux" might be disappointed, there are flashes of (dare one say it?) integrity and substance nestled deep in the banging beats and big-time excesses that make Sisqó, well, Sisqó.

A strong rebound that finds lang supported by the sleek, techno-lite production of Damian leGassick?

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.

It's ironic that for all of his intelligence, passion and obvious talent, Canibus chose to stoop to the caveman mentality so apparent on this release.

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

Mink Car is all over the map, an ideal piece of entertainment for listeners simultaneously blessed and cursed with high IQs and attention deficit disorder.

V doesn't bring Live right back to earth, but it does find the group playing to strengths, experimenting with recording techniques, and striving for renewed relevance.

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.

For the most part, Malpractice unfortunately matches Redman's pro forma boasts and refreshing modesty with pro forma music and not-so-refreshing beats.

Rule's scattered third album mixes love and war with uneven results, as his simple lyrics and unimaginative storytelling outweigh the stellar musical moments on this 16-cut collection.

While Carey has never been a particularly confessional musician, Glitter seems a step in a more cathartic direction, from which subsequent albums should no doubt benefit.

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.

For the most part, the seven new tracks on The First of the Microbe Hunters, which is technically an EP, feel all too similar to last year's Cobra Phases Group Play Voltage in the Milky Night...

Between the songs sung by the cast and those by famous popsters, Music From Baz Luhrmann's Film "Moulin Rouge" has a split personality, but this purposefully assembled collection is more cohesive than you'd think -- and that's something that can't really be said for most modern film albums.

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

At once epic, playful and a little bit strange, the duo's latest effort perpetuates the brothers' patented geek-chic, though things come across as more introspective and ambient this time around.... Alternately excellent, kitschy and lackluster...

His most consistently slamming release since 1990's Brick by Brick.

Devils Night is nothing special, and it's only saved from the slush pile by Eminem's inventive, cutting-edge raps and Dr. Dre's so-funky-it's-evil production.

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...

The album never truly develops, as the group prefers to rehash old stuff rather than break new ground.

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."

Unified Theory play melodramatic art rock (with a capital AOR) in a Meatloaf-meets-Jane's Addiction kind of way. Their music plods along with all the grace of a Pinto sans muffler, substituting grandiosity for grace and thus failing to achieve the dramatically transcendent sounds that Roy Orbison and Jeff Buckley once made.

While love- and life-torn Alexakis might lyrically be working familiar terrain here, he has the smarts to place his odes to abuse and regret into an intriguing assortment of different contexts, making this album well worth listening to

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

A relatively bloodless album, a work that seems formatted to satisfy the demands of the marketplace without really transcending them.

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

Mandy Moore is a pop album to be proud of: every song has a good melody, a solid hook, and dramatically improved singing from its star.

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.

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.

On Bridge, they're still traveling down the long and winding improvisational road, with most of the tracks averaging around five minutes in length (as is true with most of their studio albums). This time out, though, the songs feel like they're twice that.

It's hard to imagine The Golden D as having much of an impact.

With Lewis' weighty, tuneful voice and Mike Mushok's meaty, anthemic guitar, Staind recall the Soundgarden/Alice in Chains era of early-'90s rock. Free of phony posturing, DJ scratching and over-reliance on vapid thrash riffs, they're almost like an alternative version of today's mainstream metal.

Wishville is seamless, expansive and full of go-nowhere moments.

Communicate's energy level lags in places, trying to make up for in quantity what it lacks in consistent quality.

If you fish around a bit, you'll find several good ideas here, some of which may have worked better in different hands.

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.

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...

Lions has got style to spare, but ends up light on meaty hooks.

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.

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

Would this band be getting so much attention if Keanu Reeves wasn't the bass player? Of course not. Do they stink? No. Are they any good? Maybe.

The Surfers teeter on the brink of conventional rock values. However, throughout the new album, singer Gibby Haynes drives the proverbial truck into the ditch with rambling psychotic speeches.

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.

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.

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