A smart, sensitive blend of head and heart.

And while not so instantly accessible as much of the band's recent output, the songs still manage to be catchy, if elusively so; this is an album that rewards repeated listening.

It ain't Dusty Springfield's Dusty in Memphis, but it's close.

Midnite Vultures is the album of a great entertainer, not a great artist.

There are more layers here than on Mouse on Mars' last album, 2000's critically acclaimed Niun Niggung, and everything is more intricately detailed, each sound given plenty of space in the mix.

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.

While Bilal's vocal gymnastics -- high-arching notes, off-rhythm choruses and complex harmonies -- add texture to these songs, many of them sound too musically similar to everything else in the neo-soul movement. He's at his best on the tracks that he or his partner, Dahoud Darien, have produced themselves.

Overall, Poses is more daring (and, at times, more mellow) than its predecessor, mostly because Wainwright has densely packed images and sounds in a way that is less immediately catchy and more complex.

Imagine Charles Bukowski or Irvine Welsh reading poetry with musical accompaniment provided by Joy Division, and you've got the general idea.

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

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.

Basement Jaxx create real songs around their chugging house beats.

The resonant and smooth singing takes some getting used to if you're familiar with earlier, craggier, quirkier recordings, but by the gallant train-wreck tragedy of "Engine 143", I found myself singing along.

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

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

Isaac Brock's goofy, hyperactive child voice, capable of earnest whine and arch speed-rap, peels the lid off his inability (refusal?) to come across as cool.

Vega's been good before, especially on her eponymous 1985 debut and its '87 follow-up, Solitude Standing, but never as consistently good as she is here.

Call it thinking-man's pop from a reluctant star, but Figure 8 is a "grower." However weird it may sound initially, it merits repeated listenings.

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.

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.

At first audition, Broadcast is disposable John Barry-inspired pop drenched in overcharged organs, egregious electronic overproduction and languorous vocals that somehow have no residue.

A landmark album that is Carpenter's best effort since 1994's Stones in the Road -- and, quite possibly, her best ever.

By broadening both their emotional and musical spectrums, Tindersticks have come up with their best album yet -- and a classic of its kind.

A lot of what distinguishes Wonderful Life is its fragility. At its best, the music feels as though it could blow apart at any moment.

[rating only; no review]

Continues in the bucolic vein of Deserter's Songs, and sounds almost as wondrous.

Ron Sexsmith actually rocks, albeit only sort of and irregularly.

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.