Nadler's fifth album benefits from a newfound directness. Over acoustic fingerpicking, splashing cymbals, and languidly twanging steel guitar, Nadler inhabits her strongest set of songs yet, pining in a barely adorned soprano for both lost loves and a conjoined twin.

While Sean obviously lacks his mentor's star power or ambition, he shows more heart than he typically gets credit for.

It's about three songs too long and a little all over the place. [Nov 2006, p.99]

Unlike... Worlds Apart, So Divided is built less on brute force and more on hyperdetailed songwriting. [Dec 2006, p.101]

One of his strongest outings ever.

Yet the cameo-packed Olympia shares far more with Ferry's recent solo stuff than it does with Roxy's early-'70s art rock; lusciously arranged lounge-funk workouts.

The 78-minute Spiral Shadow supersizes everything, from song lengths to layers of deep-focus space-rock effects, but the sprawling songs are still built around riffs as sweaty as a south Georgia summer.

Adding electronic gurgles to heavy, prog-rock power chords, The Secret Machines recalls Rush and Black Sabbath at one end of the sonic spectrum ('The Fire Is Waiting') and David Bowie’s spazzier, punk-era edge at the other ('Atomic Heels'). In between those far-flung atmospheric poles, the band proves they’re more than just the sum of their seamless influences.

Oldham remains mostly untroubled on Beware, accompanied by an array of instruments--marimba, cornet, banjo, and flute swirl around placid country-tinged ruminations.

Little Me reveals a variety of textures over time, and when you can decode the lyrics, memorable scenes emerge.

The result of all this hemming and hawing is a captivating reminder of how much weirder this band is than its reputation.

Its slightly peculiar over-reliance on technology only makes it more human, more lovable, and more rock and roll.

Point is at once less sprawling and less insular than Cornelius' earlier work. [Feb 2002, p.110]

When they get the balance right (yes, that reference is from '83) and filter those desires through their own distinct sensibilities, Divine Fits stands with their best work.

6 Feet, like Me Moan before it, succeeds sometimes in spite of itself.

Bluesy single-note guitar lines compete with jagged chording, the bass thumps out counter-melodies, strained yelping dissolves into pastoral harmony. Yet it all coheres thanks to frontman Benjamin Verdoes' pop instincts and the band's jittery energy.

The energetic players temper Farrar's grave persona--for all the vintage touches, this is a deceptively funky band, as the sultry 'Down to the Wire' proves.

With Wiley's vocal attack as sharply acerbic as ever, 100% Publishing is a boldly independent declaration.

Real Estate's gift is that they either don't overthink their melodies or they can't, and the simplicity contrasts with their steady, dreamy atmospherics: instant nostalgia for an angst-free generation.

The Georgia quintet's debut may appeal to My Morning Jacket fans, but songs like 'Heavy Petting' and 'Start Me Laughing' (which recalls Kurt Cobain at his nastiest) possess more growl than that comparison implies.

Hot Mess is flush with other stupid-smart highlights, including 'Pete Wentz Is the Only Reason We’re Famous.'

Both "Smokin' and Drinkin'," featuring Little Big Town, and the rowdy "Somethin' Bad," her and Carrie Underwood's retort to bro-country, feel forced. These are small missteps on an otherwise solid outing.

A disco-swept dreamland. [Aug 2006, p.83]

Their seventh studio album bucks and chugs, balancing the quartet's original alt-country impetus with Rhett Miller's love of power pop. [June 2008, p.116]

On their sixth album, these ever-evolving German indie rockers stick with the electronic-tinged direction of 2003’s Neon Golden, but with a little less emotional heft.

Drawing from a syllabus of 100 essential country tunes compiled by dad Johnny in the 1970s, Rosanne Cash delivers the most enjoyable history lesson imaginable.

It's hard to think of another post-hardcore lifer whose return to active duty is so high-five worthy.

Fiasco approaches his second album as if it's his last chance to get all his conflicted ideas out into the open.

On Being Funny in a Foreign Language, the lyrics remain flippant. The instrumentals are gone. On the following 10 tracks, you can feel Antonoff taking over to guide the band’s more straightforward pop songs. ... It’s the 2022 Antonoff playlist it was crafted to be. It’ll make a lot of people happy. It sounds like it made the band happy too.

Producer Parallel Thought supports the storytelling (and saves the duo from dissolving into navel-gazing) with sharp loops.

Start Here does a great job of cataloging the highs and lows of early milestones: first kisses, first breakups, leaving home for the first time.

Project is prime second-tier Polly, opening melodic and textural doors unlike much else you’ll hear in 2016, and it amounts to a lean, compulsively listenable 41 minutes that makes a conscientious effort to do something larger with her gifts.

Grohl and his pals never set out to write the gospel on modern rock--they only sought to preach it, hammering it into our heads by way of biting hooks and anthemic melodies. There’s more than enough red meat to go around on Concrete and Gold, the band’s ninth album.

Inni--a double live album (plus live DVD)--is a master class in geologically paced, ethereally pretty buildups.

Like the film from which it borrows its title, Lady From Shanghai is an artfully awkward study in malaise.

The title of Clinic's sixth album cheekily nods to the surgical-masked Brits' current, revamped sound--a softer spin on indie pop with their usual gritty agitation almost completely scrubbed away.

Calling Headlights "nice" sounds like a backhanded compkliment, but Some racing wears the tag proudly: it's charming, but never boring [Mar 2008, p.102]

The album's rockers are a serviceable change of pace--especially 'Little Foot,' which channels early, Farfisa-laced Elvis Costello--but it's Mandell's torch songs that ignite.

Beans' avalanche of verbiage can obscure his nuances, but a cast of collaborators--disco evangelist In Flagranti, electro-hop eccentric Tobacco, psychedelic beat guru Four Tet, even Interpol's Sam Fogarino--burnish his rhyme schemes into high-tech funk.

A guitar record equally suitable for a lost weekend or a good cry. [Sep 2002, p.125]

Think Africa ’70 minus the choruses and sax solos. If that doesn’t sound heretical to you, the groove awaits.

The results are fairly stunning. [Nov 2007, p.125]

The first half of this double EP was recorded with a 19-piece Oaxacan band, who pull the songs away from Condon's reflexive melancholy; but next to their pomp, his sparse bedroom electronics on Holland (under the name Realpeople) feel a tad thin.

Eve has moved her Ruff Ryders to the back half, scored some marquee-value collaborators, and found two guys who can mimic Swizz Beatz well enough to fill the spaces around Mr. Beatz's four tracks without too many seams showing. [5/2001, p.141]

The aptly titled Wake Up the Nation hardly feels like a nostalgia trip; in the taut, two-minute boogie-punk number "Fast Car/Slow Traffic," Weller could be describing himself in relation to his heritage-rock peers.

Once you've heard the undoctored edition of Bert Jansch's heartbreaking "Needle of Death," a harrowing tale of self-destruction by heroin predating Young's own "The Needle and the Damage Done," the noisier approach feels like needless gimmickry that diminishes, rather than enhances, one of his strongest sets in a long time.

Unfortunately, timelessness does not always equate with flawlessness.... it is all a little too pristine and sanitized for someone's protection...

The Florida band is now content to catch Pixies-ish waves of gentler mutilation and ride them 
to college-rock bliss.

Even the production on Beyond sounds plucked from the trio's Bug heyday. [May 2007, p.85]

Her vision is worth the price of submission. [Jun 2007, p.90]

Majesty Shredding does favor a more thoughtful pace at times, opening up room for the occasional ornate sonic touch--a horn riff, decorative keyboard figure, even viola.

The shotgun rhythms, spaghetti western guitars, and dubstep explosions intertwine with lover's rock, roots reggae, and other island styles to impressively evoke the pair’s genre-splicing DJ sets.

How to write authentically about a mundane life? Smith's answer involves screwball hooks, surreal evangelizing, and drunken-troubadour gusto.

There are a few strong sonic ties to God Complex, specifically the works of producer Louie Lastic, but this album has greater balance. The full spectrum of sound explored is even richer this time around.

At his most relaxed, however, Fite still sounds like his head could explode. [July 2008, p.96]

Anchored by four tracks from a previous EP that were re-recorded with the hooks highlighted, this nimble full-length wrings catharsis from pop with no lapses into pretension.

The spontaneous vibe seems fitting, with Darnielle's ordinary-guy vocals, embellished by Bruno's subtle guitars and keyboards, giving their observant tales of sexual misconduct ("How I Left the Ministry") and weary struggle ("Cruiserweights") the punch of vivid short stories.

Pairing with producer T-Bone Burnett (who helmed 1986's rootsy antecedent "King of America") and a distinguished pickup band of country heavyweights, he gives his typically fussed-over tunes a tent-revival authority.

"African Velvet"? "Eat My Beat"? Gauche titling aside, Jean-Benoit Dunckel and Nicolas Godin offer no shake-ups on Love 2. Instead, more than a decade into their career, the duo have nearly perfected their wistfully melodic synth- and vocoder-driven easy-listening jams.

Though it's not exactly Leave Home to its predecessor's Ramones, Annie Up is still a pretty tasty serving of grits and sass.

This is not the story of lost faith that these thematic bookends seem to augur, but rather just a bunch of really good songs that have relatively little to do with each other.

El Khatib's full-length debut is a fine testament to the power of pomade nostalgia, cigarette-pack-in-sleeve tropes, and Gene Vincent licks.

The Art of Hustle is about more than misleading filters, though: it’s a thorough testament to how and why Gotti has carried the banner for Memphis since 2005: “Law,” featuring E-40, is superbly ageless.

Beguiling, gorgeous stuff--and smartly funny, too.

Bless their Glaswegian hearts, they never sound bitter, 15-plus years after their brief alt-rock moment.

The DJ's fleet-fingered precision and explosive, intimidating drum-machine attacks are a distinct form of performance art, and one that's hard to fully appreciate through headphones alone; Remixes is simply no substitute for his live act. But these tracks are still a crucial part of his identity.

The component parts are limited and austere as always (though this time he’s added on a Roland bass synth to his instrumental palette), which makes it all the more impressive that he’s able to conjure such brilliance out of them.

Wincing is a purposefully low-impact affair. [Jan 2007, p.87]

Chemtrails feels somewhat unmoored. It’s the quietest, most delicate music of Del Rey’s career so far, comprising several gorgeous arrangements, but very little of it feels particularly magnetic, especially when stacked against the rest of her songbook. The lyricism is, at moments, uninspired.

At a relatively spry 62, Maal’s voice retains both upper register strength and youthful clarity.

Kudos to main Pretender Chrissie Hynde for changing the script: Her collaboration with young Welsh singer JP Jones feels fresher than anything she's done in years.

The Swedish quartet--best known for "Jerk It Out," featured in an iPod ad a few years ago--also churns out concise, addictive tunes that wrap fierce emotions in soaring old-fashioned '60s garage pop.

Unlike on his first two albums, González twists the volume knob up just enough here to sonically divert Vestiges & Claws from its predecessors (or bedroom pop pioneers Nick Drake and Elliott Smith).

Almost every tune on Mo Beauty equals or betters those on CYHSY's lauded 2005 debut.

Gucci is not always so reflective; sometimes he's as broad and bracing as a ball-peen hammer....But more often than not, the prolific MC (in 2009, he released more than 100 songs on mix tapes) limits his id, and emphasizes a surprisingly gripping superego. Case closed.

C'Mon, C'Mon makes such consensus-building sound like a virtue, imagining a world where the Dixie Chicks and Stevie Nicks and Emmylou Harris and Dr. Dre's bass player can all ride the same tour bus. [May 2002, p.118]

Nothing on this full-length debut is so insidious, though several tracks come close.

Pompadoured George Taylor Jr. has more than enough melodic grace and pretty-boy swag to nail the sound.

An album to savor, then, or forget.

The album does an admirable job of living up to its low- key title (with spare acoustic tracks) and its situation (with loosey-goosey, classic-rock-indebted numbers).

Reliably excellent but emotionally detached, the Sea and Cake's eighth album is of a piece with their first seven.

The record's nuances are divulged in layers and folds, through a latticework of instrumentation and, shockingly, some uncommonly good songwriting by band members other than Stuart Murdoch.

This record is scattered enough to alienate fans who want more consistently upbeat music. But if you’re onboard for the weirdness, the sequencing works surprisingly well.

Not the Actual Events is probably the grimiest Nine Inch Nails release since The Fragile. Rather than running the gamut between overdriven steamrolling and receding, glitchy ambience as on most of the work Reznor loosed between 1994 and 2008, the EP realizes a specific, portentous mood from several equivalent angles.

More than a decade on, this band is peeking out from behind the veil of obfuscation in an effort to stay relevant; they haven't totally abandoned the whimsy and fantasy, but they've toned it down--almost to save themselves.

It's another solid collection that echoes his day job from an artful distance.

Brings a welcome grandeur to Ward's honeyed rasp and nimble guitar picking. [Sep 2006, p.114]

The lower-key approach pays off here. [Sep 2007, p.138]

Yours Truly occasionally provides pummeling feedback rock ('It's the Weekend'), but when Lytle's lullaby vocals suggest, "You should hold my hand / While everything blows away / And we'll run to a brand-new sun," it's like Bruce Springsteen's open highway finally reached a melancholy kid from Modesto.

"I want us thinking outside the box," Shakira tells a lover on her third English-language studio disc. And musically, at least, she succeeds throughout the wildly eclectic She Wolf.

Glass Boys is easier to navigate, and doesn't engender the same awe [as "David Comes to Life"]. But its brevity allows Fucked Up to loosen a little--to indulge in sounds and tones they forwent when their albums sprawled. Less space, and more stuff: the band keeps getting denser.

But it's like the guitars have had their teeth fixed and bleached, like a extremely loud Colgate commercial.

These are the kind of go-with-the-flow countrified tunes that the Grateful Dead used to spin between epic jams, but with a more delicate acoustic touch. [Jul 2006, p.90]

The music privileges texture over catchiness. [Jun 2007, p.97]

NY's Finest has everything you'd expect from this legendary producer. [Mar 2008, p.108]

The detached aesthetic can turn anesthetic when the tunes occasionally falter or the overdubbed grooves fail to generate frisson, but the sweetly twitchy one-two punch of "Dressed in Dresden" and "Last City" brings this studiously chic debut to a sweaty climax.

Mica Levi leads her trio through this 28-minute cockeyed burst, each song a bizarre little post-punk contraption that sounds like it’s ready to fly apart and wreak havoc. Yet her debut is also insanely disorienting fun.