Lovage's schtick wears pretty thin by album's end--but if it works like it's supposed to, you won't need to play it that long. [Feb 2002, p.108]

It's hard to find a heart beneath the haze.... [Aug 2001, p.129]

An ecstatic, angry, gorgeously mournful manifesto. [Jan 2007, p.89]

Her crack band of Dap-Kings have enlivened everyone from Kanye to Amy Winehouse, but their most natural habitat is in Jones' Aretha-like tales of sex, independence, and the good Lord himself.

The contentment Malkmus expresses here is so cozy you might feel a little corny calling it wisdom. But you wouldn't embarrass yourself too much if you called it perspective.

They remain fascinated by heartland mythos, but by becoming more comfortable with their glitzy roots, they've actually found the pulse of something more authentic.

Puzzle gels the Kinks/Beatles sound the group obviously adores with something less dusty. Think the Sea and Cake playing with the Stone Roses. Or a chartier Belle and Sebastian.

The trio’s official debut further expands their musical palette to include triumphant synth rock (“Chalo”) and woozy G-funk (“Julia”).

At its best moments, the EP is experimental and detail-oriented. At its worst, it sounds like an empty pastiche of ideas drawn from a time-tested deck of Reznor-patented Oblique Strategies. ... If consistent, headline-grabbing smaller releases are the way to keep music fans listening and interested in Nine Inch Nails, then keep them coming.

He still enigmatically declares solidarity with the urban proletariat and critiques pop-culture clichés, but Black Up impresses most with its beguiling sounds.

Despite the Dap Kings versatility--they were more hushed and drowsier backing Charles Bradley on last year's Victim of Love--and Jones' indefatigability, there aren't many new ideas here. That's not the point, though. The point is that music from another time can still thrill us in this one because of its practically tyrannical insistence on bliss.

Although Young Thug moves away from exploring emotional pain, SS3 is still very much informed by introspection.

Marling's voice, rich and tenuous, recalls Joni Mitchell, but her fatalistic screeds--sung over acoustic guitar, with an occasional burst of percussion or strings--owe more to Nick Drake and Will Oldham.

Here they expand their primarily folky sound, importing rhythms from abroad and morphing electronic ticks and stutters into a field of chirping crickets.

From the lyrics to the beats, the pleasure of Piñata is in the details.

The Raveonettes haven't sworn off droning melodies and minimal percussion, but the duo's morbid Psychocandy métier gets a slight makeover on their fifth album.

With livelier playing and more memorable tunes, Costello's second straight collaboration with producer T Bone Burnett is a major improvement over last year's ho-hum Secret, Profane & Sugarcane.

Granted, 10 of those are just a minute or less (sometimes far less: "Yet Unknown" is nothing more than a nine-second sample from a news broadcast), and 11 more don't even break the four-minute mark. On the plus side, we're treated to some of the best songs from his recent, out-of-print releases.

Each of her previous three records has its charms... The Green World is no exception. [Oct. 2000, p.182]

The Way and Color is a gem in its own devastating way, but don't be surprised if TEEN occupy a completely different space next time.

The album's most striking moment is "Fallin' Down." Over a ominous guitar riff, the 20-year-old sings, "It's getting heavy / I think I'm getting ready to break down." It's the most honest moment of his short career. The kid sure needs a vacation.

The Moroder-indebted tunes on Real Life are more pop-friendly, but the chopped-up vocal samples on opener "Looking for What" are guaranteed to meld minds, while airy centerpiece "Keep It Up" defies gravity via handclaps and delicately chiming bells.

Like all of High on Fire’s efforts, Luminiferous is an extravagance, no doubt, but it’s their most refined. And everyone can afford a few of those every now and again.

Though Villains is a perfectly solid, occasionally bloated QOTSA album, it’s the first to really feel like a missed opportunity.

Total Loss is a beautiful album, all ambient longing and sadness and spectral pop, rising and falling without warning - no other artist gets more emotional effect out of leaving things not quite finished. But it still feels not quite finished.

ANTI is Rihanna’s first aesthetically personal album, and throughout its disorderly roaming, it remains revelatory in a strict sense; it’s a musical step sideways but an artistic step up.

This EP is spacious above the obvious clutter, and its grooves more resemble that of a funk garage band, thus there's more to be filled in. The cacaphony of those detuned, clanging metallophones is a compelling listen or three.

The sound is now clearer than on either predecessor; the rapping likewise. And here come Jane's Addiction and the Smashing Pumpkins--this is a slicker, grander record than Significant Other. [Jan 2001, p.112]

staying true to their party platform (sex, God, kissing, etc.), songwriters Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee remain the Ramones of sunbeam, patty-cake pop--even if they sound less like awkward twentysomethings singing about cats and bikes, and more like the countless post-'90s alterna-rockers who owe them gratitude.

Her stormy folk songs (which, on occasion, recall PJ Harvey's) are primal and dark, crammed with ancient mythology and portentous warnings.

And this is how Amnesiac goes, or doesn't: Resonant, dusty somethings, not much on their own, line up and aggregate into something fluid and sweetly steady. [Jul 2001, p.124]

A steely affair that finds Drake and longtime producer Noah "40" Shebib pulling their sound and worldview further inward to increasingly murky results.

Like a lot of young artists who've been flash-fried by the Internet, these guys also aren't so much great as they are getting better, using public interest to spur themselves on. Bossalinis is cleaner and more varied than their mixtapes, but this album is also long.

It's not an essential set, but there's enough here (take the gallant "Grand Army Plaza" for a stroll or seven) to tide you over till the Veckatimest crew sets sail again.

These guys sound like they're genuinely torn between looking up at the stars and trying to find an exit to the sewer. Neat trick, that.

While the hooks and harmonies rarely disappoint, the presence of multiple lead vocalists on each record has, over 20 years, led to a niggling colorlessness, which may account for the band's cult status in these lower 48.

Though she's celebrated for her post-1960 Chess recordings and '67 Muscle Shoals scorcher Tell Mama, her '50s singles, collected here, trace the development of soul's first queen.

The failure to evoke anything specific is what gives Silver Eye its aloof, Bond-theme posture, but in another light, it’s alienating.

It is his most fully realized album, but also the one that most strikingly situates Scott as secondary to his collaborators. ... For all the interesting things that can be found on Astroworld, it is still way too long and can sound so uniform that it loses your attention.

Though singer Bobby Gillespie's lyrics are still rife with anti-establishment paranoia, songs such as 'The Glory of Love' and the title track are colorful, catchy, and informed by a cautious optimism born of hard-earned perspective and a surprising maturity.

The tunes barely let up until the Mann-led "Hummingbird" and "Honesty Is No Excuse" more than halfway through, and even then the usual boring singer/songwriter-isms become a nice resting place from the otherwise inescapable hooks.

It’s not quite a caricature of what an average rock fan considers The Killers to be, but it’s close. Still, Mirage is markedly superior to its uneven predecessor, 2017’s Wonderful, Wonderful, largely due to the presence of several guest artists.

They almost reach the orbit of their sister band, the Flaming Lips... [Oct 2001, p.127]

From the moment that crystalline keyboard riff and sparse drum machine open the first track, “And That, Too,” it’s clear the band has raised the stakes to match the talent they’ve been hanging out with.

McGee may not know where he's going on his murky head trip, but he's a compelling enough guide that you want to follow him.

In lieu of dynamics, [bassist Thomas] Mayhew's pull-out method keeps the album engaging. [Mar 2007, p.99]

In the end, this is a loud, almost triumphant statement .

Despite frontman Rhett Miller's nice-guy tendencies, Old 97's are way more fun when he gives in to his bitchy side--which is large and in charge on The Grand Theatre, runaway-train backbeats and all.

Too Late definitely scans as a transitional work, a transfixing moment-in-time sort of recording that sees an unprecedentedly fortified Drake firing off paranoid and power-drunk thoughts from his basement, sounding even lonelier than he does than when he specifically talks about feeling lonely.

All Hope Is Gone, reportedly the first thing they've recorded in years without wanting to kill each other, proves that there's still musical unity in disharmony.

Demolished Thoughts is a noisenik's idea of California dreaming; it's also the acoustic record Sonic Youth fans always knew this vintage psychedelia superfan had in him.

Germano's wooziest and most ethereal [album] yet. [Aug 2006, p.78]

On his fifth full-length, this '60s-pop obsessive mostly ditches the balmy homemade chorales of his earlier work for folk-rock verities, crafting his tightest, fullest-sounding record yet.

Their first full-length collaboration since 1991's stellar "Mavericks" is a beautiful set of grown-up pop, meshing Holsapple's emotional directness with Stamey's headier approach.

And while 'Sleepwalking' can't help but sink into the somnambulism its title promises, R&C also get ambitious, abandoning lathery fantasia for something a little earthier. [Apr 2001, p.163]

These songs are more believable--touching, even, if you’re not put off by the milky expressiveness of his voice--than the multiple attempts at rapping.

Produced by power-pop whiz Butch Walker and Fountains of Wayne's Adam Schlesinger, Alter the Ending contains no shortage of high-gloss thrills.

Wandscher (an original member of Whiskeytown) drives the ship with riffage ranging from gently atmospheric to snarling quasi-metallic. Still, it's Sykes' voice that impresses.

At times, the very sonic repetition and minimalism that makes much of Why Choose so effective also hampers its output; the second half of the album especially feels monotonous and weighed down by its musical rigor. Yet Why Choose redeems itself with the brisk, mostly instrumental closing track.

The quality of the set rises and falls with the quality of the band, from the formative fusion of soul, rock, and pop on their first three albums to the sudden, exhilarating sound of it all snapping into focus with 1969's Stand! and the gradual turn into 1971's claustrophobic, paranoid There's a Riot Goin' On and the nimble funk of 1973's underrated Fresh. From there, however, it all fell off just as quickly as it had risen, as Sly's genius dissipated in a downward spiral of drugs and delusion.

The gripping Strangelet strives for a tricky balance of darkness of light... and mostly succeeds, thanks to the raw charisma of Phillips' hangover vocals. [Apr 2007, p.94]

Beirut actually rock, in their extremely geeky way. [Nov 2007, p.114]

Tankian may be taking a break from System of a Down, but his solo debut hardly favors wimpy love songs over political jeremiads. [Nov 2007, p.125]

Throughout the record, words are just pathways through which the melody travels from one sweep to the next, but nothing really comes into focus except an almost free-floating regret and confusion.

Somehow Williams is at his most charged-up and urgent when he’s at his bleakest, though you’d be hard-pressed to remember song titles here.

These young Scotsmen have grime to spare, along with a belief in rock's power to rescue them from it. [Mar 2007, p.99]

Costas coos anachronistically whimsical and hallucinatory lyrics as if she were the ghost of an ill-fated fairy-tale heroine, and the haunted results suggest the greatest psych-folk obscurity you'll never afford on eBay.

This wobbling between attempts to impress the dance music cognoscenti and to make songs as purely delightful as "Coast Is Clear" defines Recess, and occasionally bogs it down.

10,000 Hz Legend offers heavier arrangements, starker contrasts between soft folky orchestrations and hard prog-rock noise, more guest stars, fewer pretty tunes, and several gigabytes of robo-speak. [Jul 2001, p.126]

The musical spitting 
image of his dad Neil Finn (Crowded House, Split Enz), Liam blends sophisticated melodies and wistful vocals with masterful authority.

By setting its course in the equal and opposite direction of Life Without Sound, it becomes its evil twin, a still-incomplete picture of Cloud Nothings. ... Yet Last Building Burning feels like a triumphant return because there isn’t as much pressure on it to do or say anything beyond its purely utilitarian aims. It slaps, shreds, and whips ass in whatever way you see fit.

Four [is] the most consisting-sounding Direction album yet.

At times the writing struggles to keep pace: The concepts behind songs like “needy” and “fake smile” are as relatable as they are predictable, and begin to stretch thin after a couple of minutes. Still, there is an awful lot to like.

Kath's hooky charms ease the ferocity of singer Alice Glass' panting wails and loopy, sarcastic screams. [Apr 2008, p.94]

The latest from these Nebraska dance rockers doesn't instantly charm like the '80s flashbacks found on 2001's breakthrough, "Danse Macabre." But its fixation on the present pays off with repeated plays as clashing guitar and keyboard hooks hammer home the Faint's central theme--the chaos of a world in conflict.

Favoring a bright, treble-heavy guitar attack, the group skew their arrangements in ways that feel more canny than contrived.

Proof that simple pleasures always beat academic detachment. [March 2002, p.137]

Even Klaxons' most ominously rambunctious tracks grind out plenty of bug-eyed dream-pop chants.

Her sophomore disc hardly sounds like something dashed off between higher-profile gigs: Sardonic chamber-folk gems such as "Tower Song" and "You Cheated Me" (in which she tells a lover to "run your scared little ass down the block") offer lyrical and sonic detail for days.

Glow tries so hard to keep the mood pneumatic that it starts to feel over-stuffed, even at just 55 minutes long.

If there’s a quibble with II, it’s that like most doubles, it would be more effective as a single disc.

They've returned to the frantic music of original heroes Gang of Four, banging out songs that vibrate with exactly the tense energy they'd mislaid. [Jun 2006, p.83]

If anything, 7 Days acts as the inverse of The Chronic, wherein a famous hip-hop producer introduced the world to an up-and-coming MC weaned on P-Funk and George Duke; now, it's a pop-cultural hip-hop icon giving a bit of shine to an adept indie producer who can elicit all strains of funk in this 21st-century Zone of Zero Funkativity. It's not the dank, but breathe deep anyway.

Ghostface Killah's ninth album consoles his hardcore constituency: Forty-plus minutes of gritty, soul-sampling beats soundtracking bizarro street tales ("Starkology," "Ghetto"), with lyrical tough-guys Busta Rhymes, Redman, and more than half the Wu Tang Clan tagging along.

It's no "High Enough," but it is a damn fine collection of selected ambient works.

The desire to show subtlety and restraint is quickly overtaken by their visceral need to go buck wild (“Gimme All Your Love” is the best example of that roller coaster). While that pacing becomes a crack in the album’s otherwise polished veneer, it can easily be overlooked once you’re sucked in by all of the sounds and colors.

Vexovoid is possibly the most inscrutable, evil-sounding thing to emerge from Australia since Mel Gibson.

There are no prominent electronics on Island Universe, but it's a relatively ambitious, often distortion-less statement that feels more spacious than the band's (former) basement-rock peers.

They apply a borrowed Steinway Grand and some retro synths to a mess of ideas, from the rockabilly-plus-tabla stomp of 'The Time' to the Arcade Fire mimicry of 'Antonia Jane.' But they really shine on epic, Bat for Lashes-type ballads like 'Never Seen' and 'Waiting on the Sun to Rise.'

For all the period-piece lethargy of "Warm Summer Sun" and 
"I Fall Asleep," though, they balance it out with the blistering "Space in Your Face" and "Honey Bear."

Infinite, often chaotic, near-instrumental psych-prog-punk-metal grooves rich with fine-ground detail. [Sep 2006, p.100]

O'Rourke mostly contributes electro-folk noodling for a laptop-friendly coffeehouse, but Tweedy's tunes are glum gold. [Jan 2003, p.98]

Unlike the Bollywood rock house sound of Cornershop, Clinton shimmies with science, canned beats and funk cornerstones, creating a technology-savvy dance floor pitch. It's so full of disco it could make a glitter ball blush.... Instead of inventive, the album sounds slightly recycled.

Their second B-sides compilation is a clear reflection of that indeliable good cheer. {May 2008, p.94]

Alongside the preternaturally mature croon of frontlady Linnea Jonsson, those threads fit seamlessly:

The songs could use more steam, but Crows reveals yet another color in Moorer's palette.

A brief, somber meditation on his health problems and on the stresses of supporting dozens of friends and family members.

For all its grim honesty, Whitmore's fifth album also boasts a survivor's tenacity.