Rarely has whimsical weirdness been done with such finesse.

Well respected for sparse, plaintive bummer folk since his 2004 debut, LaMontagne gets a bit more expansive here, gently juking his earthy rasp with Stax-y horns, guitar twang, and lilting lady backup vocals.

As pure listening experience, Tourist's mazelike structure, full of echoes and switchbacks, best lends itself to listening on shuffle.

The band's typically thunderous melodic sprawl and cryptic musings on life and death perfectly fit the conceptual bill, with everything cranked to its natural extreme.

While that may sound dangerously morose, Death Cab have become skilled with the light/dark juxtaposition.

The lack of in-your-face future-funk arrangements isn't a sign that Beyoncé has lost her appetite for domination; indeed, as a singer's showcase, 4 will probably end up bested this year only by Adele's 21.

Velocifero's grinding soundscapes (honed in part by Alessandro Cortini of Nine Inch Nails) are easy to admire.... Too bad there's rarely much of anything going on below the surface.

Body Music, the full-length debut from British duo AlunaGeorge, could have made an excellent EP.

The debut album from this London quartet, founded by laptop folkies Sam Genders and Stephen Cracknell, lulls you along with its sparsely melodic tinkering and blippy slow burn. [July 2008, p.92]

At times, the results are a bit aimless; even a cute kids' chorus can't save "My Generation" from Joss Stone's wailing or Lil Wayne's awkward motivational turn. When the two principles catch a groove, though, it's impressive.

In 2018, as it becomes more pressing than ever for artists to use their platforms to speak out, Love Is Dead pursues clarity, both in production and politics, with mixed results.

Like their last three records... [Riot Act] balances emotive bombast with a taut, sweaty hard-rock attack. [Dec 2002, p.137]

A half-dozen times on their debut, the Shackeltons sound completely convincing, and that's about six more times than most bands ever manage.

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

We get big-budget bloat, lifeless lines, and none of the warmth or reality that would cause any label to take interest in the first place.

While his desire to evoke the druggy euphoria of early U.K. club music has sometimes jostled against his ear for atmosphere (as on his contributions to the Shock Power of Love split with Blackdown), those two extremes are more fully integrated than ever on these two 13-minute tracks.

The songs that collapse under their own weight find the band struggling to feel epic, but Wolf's Law still soars when the band struggles instead with epic feelings.

A clear attempt to re-create their most commerical sound--which works well on the ingrating antiwar titile track and the glistening time capsule 'Oh My Heart.' [Nov 2008, p.96]

By any math, though, Candidate Waltz is a solid entry point, showcasing the band's mid-tempo stomps (reliably 4/4, despite the title) and Johnson's Zevon-cribbing rasp and wit.

Everybody Talking might not be the very best record Gucci’s ever released--as much as everyone’s rooting for him right now, it’s hard to say whether this album can displace Chicken Talk or Mr. Zone 6 in his vast canon. But it’s by far the greatest cause for celebration in all of Gucci’s career; the iceman comebacketh.

Misfires aside, it’s tough to dispute that although Born in the Echoes may not be a great album, it is generally a competent one.

Spastically twee, painfully saccharine. [Jun 2005, p.108]

Repurposing tired metal tropes for ecstatic sensory trips, these songs are steel-tipped pointillist portraits of vitality itself.

It's no Super Taranta!, but Hutz's minor-key odes to erotic revolution and cosmic evolution still pack a heady, sweaty punch.

While Decemberunderground sounds terrific, at times Havok's dear-diary lyrics are so awkward they're almost laughable. [Jul 2006, p.81]

"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.

Far and away Deftones' most daring and impassioned work to date.

As a memorable exploration of the intersection between hip-hop and the blues, it ain't much.

It's a small, controlled, uncommonly focused album, by an artist well into the kind of middle age that prizes refinement and brevity.

All told, it's an endearing bag of tricks.

Utopia contains several solid entries into Byrne’s pop songwriting canon, but few revelations. Whimsical and surprisingly optimistic, it finds him following several different impulses at once.

The sunny brutalism of Rancid's East Bay ska-thrash has lost nary a step and their ethical-emotional rigor is as sweet as it is pure.

Like Coldplay killing time with the Happy Mondays at Manchester's Hacienda club. [Mar 2005, p.92]

Gradually, he surfaces along with the band's worldly identity, but the sentiments behind the histrionic symphonics often remain obscured, and the band's desperation lacks focus.

There's not much emotional nuance in Ray LaMontagne's fourth album, which maintains a brokenhearted downer elegance, similar to Neil Young at his most somber and sepia-toned, sung in a beautiful wail that Van Morrison might envy.

Atmosphere's least frantic, most playful album. [Nov 2003, p.114]

Their songs excavate new depths of frivolity. [Aug 2003, p.119]

Without French accents or anime babes, this kind of thing just feels incomplete. [Jul 2004, p.110]

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

The writing still can be vividly evocative, but the uninspired, folky arrangements make her words too easy to ignore.

Tidy and concise, clocking in at 43 minutes, it favors the diminutive gesture to the cloying, hammy affectation that derailed so much of his prior discography.

Though Crosswords’ lackadaisical pleasantness is by no means offensive, there’s no compelling reason for this EP to exist.

The feeling is more of what comes when the drugs wear off: there’s a hint of euphoria, but moreover, it’s a sparse and sometimes desperate reflection on working through anxiety, somewhere between the realms of T-Pain and Tame Impala. As a result, this might be the best BMSR record yet.

Revealing more to outsiders than, say, that entire Nirvana box set, it revels in the seemingly defunct L.A. pop greats' status as old-school virtuosos who turned the new school on.

That astounding guitar mastery is still evident, but Dreaming seems more interested in evoking deeper moods than showing off. [Mar 2008, p.104]

Like "Tiger," Cardinology is long on midtempo country-rock shuffles that sound comfortable with their own familiarity; Adams isn't straining to reinvent the Great Art of American Songwriting, and that allows you to focus on what he and the cardinals are actually playing, as opposed to what they're thinking about playing.

Junior could be just the thing for still-mourning Sleater-Kinney fans or anyone who likes their licks righteous and their indignation more so.

Seedy, feel-bad music. Half-dead, sometimes gorgeous, and willfully dumb beyond repair. Call it alienation porn. Sound awful? Well, it is kind of awful--and rivetingly so.

It's not White Blood Cells or Icky Thump, but at least they no longer sound like they're producing records in a Black Keys factory.

Buoyed by girlfriend and former Dirty Projector Angel Deradoorian and ex-Ponytail drummer Jeremy Hyman, Tare has plenty to bounce off of here.

Peñate sometimes goes astray--'So Near' finds him breezily slinging dopey cliches (“Love is not a game”). Fortunately, his natural exuberance carries the day.

The results range from sublime ("Remember") to so-so ("Safe Tomorrow"), while the beat-broken "Move On" and the oscillating breakdown of "Future Tense" keep things inventive.

The album, as intended to be heard, deftly captures the whiplash mood swings of a volatile relationship, showing how giddy exuberance and bitter despair can intertwine.

Never mind that they still haven’t quite figured out the right formula; for all of their renewed gumption, improved production, and flair with the pen, Pity Sex remain limited by their narrow emotional range and over-reliance on their influences.

With his knack for extracting humor from the mundane, Skinner’s the perfect poet for this snooze of a topic.

Stunningly blending American country, English folk, and Victorian pomp, the album documents a life resigned to sadness amid a world brimming with beauty both real and fake.

The arrangements are so ponderous, the vowel-masticating vocal languor so excessive, you almost wish he'd go whole hog and cover "Ave Maria." [Nov 2003, p.117]

Grohl wrote the riffs, and he hammers like a god, letting his hero singers write the lyrics and man the bellows. [Mar 2004, p.91]

The songs are actually strong enough to hold the weight of the over-the-top arrangements. [Jun 2007, p.96]

Slight echoes of her past work seep through, but mostly she's casting a refreshing new spell. [Nov 2007, p.125]

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.

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.

Despite being haunted by the group's flip from rock-star charade to reality, Congratulations still brims with mischievous energy.

Producer Left Brain breaks ground on bangers that stitch ambient electronica to cracked G-funk, while Hodgy sports the casual swag of Wiz Khalifa or Lil Wayne, with 
a less cringe-worthy sense of humor than his peers.

Nils Edenloff's passionate songwriting comes across as both raucous (“The Dethbridge in Lethbridge”) and gently sweet (the harmony-rich boy-girl cupcake “Don’t Haunt This Place”), consistently marked by a joyful sonic ingenuity.

This dichotomy between the album’s two bandleaders makes the album an authentically interesting listen instead of a throwaway reunion effort.

With coproducers Brian Eno and Daniel Lanois explicitly included in the songwriting, it's an effort to tinker and rough up and refine anew their music's essence--with nobly sketchy results.

Bliss isn't the Boss' bag. Without anything to push against, one of rock's most eloquent lyricists is in the awkward position of having little of interest to say.

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.

On Gunz N' Butta, Cam'ron and protégé Vado (a rapper with Gatling-gun nuance) are roiling and abrasive, twisting down a wormhole of multisyllabic rhymes and Araabmuzik's skittering beats.

I Want to Grow Up involves aspirations rather than answers, and thus little is resolved of the album's many inner conflicts. Only the sweet-and-sour music they're set to offers any kind of relief, deep-fried in fuzz and totally stoked for that Juliana Hatfield Three reunion.

Blends the furious muscle of 2001's God Hates Us All with the more melodic experimentation of their post-Reign work. [Sep 2006, p.112]

It’s hard to remember he was once known primarily as a co-founder of chillwave once you’ve emerged dripping from the warm bath of What For?

These tunes dig deeper than the musings of, say, Michelle Branch, but none are groundbreaking or revealing enough to suggest that Pink has learned to navigate the space between fluffy and toughie. [Jan 2002, p.108]

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

The Other Side of Make-Believe maintains the charm and intrigue that made Interpol indie darlings 20 years ago, but it also finds the band aging gracefully — these brooding New York boys are now men who embrace their emotions.

Vanderslice is tortured and diffuse even by Death Cab standards. [Sep 2005, p.109]

For all of Coldplay’s experimentation, though, there’s no doubting that Viva La Vida, with its sturdy melodies and universal themes--think love, war, and peace--is an album meant to connect with the masses.

Despite numerous cameos from his mates, Drew still sounds orphaned and adrift. [Oct 2007, p.96]

The Meanest Of Times moves beyond connecting the dots between working-class punk and ancient Celtic ditties, with surprisingly thoughful songs that explore lives shaped by drunken violence and Catholicism. [Oct 2007, p.100]

With Bazan's husky baritone, Strange Negotiations suggests an Americana vet like John Hiatt more than an indie lifer. But the change serves him well on "Eating Paper," which works simple wonders with a chunky guitar riff and a steady cowbell, just as the Lord intended.

No doubt this will all slay live, but there are parts on For Those Who Stay where Saulnier's obvious talents and ambitions never quite get three dimensional, though it's obviously not for a lack of effort on his behalf, as this is one band no one would ever accuse of not trying hard enough.

Richard Youngs' 11th solo album on Indiana indie Jagjaguwar ditches the keyboards of his recent releases, instead relying on disjointed guitars, eerily overdubbed incantations, and the rich, multihued drumming of Damon Krukowski (Galaxie 500, Damon & Naomi).

Amid overwrought theatrical gestures, MJB still finds a slinky groove.

Plenty of musicians this diverse and dreamy can lose themselves beneath production textures or simply the weight of their own brain, but Hilton doesn’t shy away from indulging in pop, which is as experimental and transitional a form as any other.

Jones has always savored extremes, and here, she's alternately demonic (the toothy gleam of 'Corporate Cannibal') and angelic (the gloriously autobiographical 'Williams' Blood').

The West Coast threesome's pillowy, nostalgic abstractions veer from the sweeping histrionics of M83 or breezy gestures of various Scandinavians toward a woozy, romantic restlessness

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

Frontman Adam Olenius lobs his bon mots over tunes that borrow from Beck, the Velvet Underground, Bright Eyes, and the Cure. But when Olenius waxes roantic and serves up yet another ace, it's hard to complain. [Oct 2007, p.110]

Feels like rock that Beavis would play if Homme were his pal.

Though Fate's sepia sweetness and the band's ever-improving instrumental ingenuity (see 'em live!) can't mask a vaguely troubling lack of original ideas, Dr. Dog wears the vintage look amiably well.

The songs remain wonderfully the same - simple guitar lines seething like itchy scabs, scathing lyrics scribbled with trembling, coffee stained hands, memories of kissing with nicotine lips.

They've gone one step beyond the underrated Surrender by integrating their two sides: high-octane thrust and airy psychedelic dreaminess. [Feb 2002, p.105]

Surprisingly vital.

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

MacKaye and Farina share a wobbly spirit that wears well. [May 2005, p.110]

Is the entire thing about 20 minutes too long? Probably. But the obvious lack of outside meddling proves that Tyler's auteur status remains intact. He is, in the parlance of our times, still swaggin'. Now maybe he can get to work on winning that Grammy.

The Rumble Strips are so contagiously charged up that it's tempting to overlook their pathetic mind-set.