Overall, Dimension has some solid moments and no outright duds, but it works better as the basis for a playlist than as a start-to-finish album.

It's alternately spotty and spot-on. [Jan 2007, p.94]

If nothing else, the music is aggressively okay (there's coiled-spring potential in the crackling, anxious "White Teeth Teens"). But its overall unspecialness undercuts Pure Heroine's devotion to playing both sides of Lorde's "only 16" coin.

It’s a better album than 2012’s conflicted, twilit Four, but Okereke’s new grace awaits an engine as powerful as the one enjoyed by his old gracelessness.

On their third album, these dizzying British metalcore chemists swing erratically in an effort to shake genre conventions, flirting with dystopic Max Headroom stutter, electro gloom, and tender indie-folk cuddles.

Lifeline is a commanding, unjammy take on gospel-influenced rock, featuring his most spiritual singing since 2004's Grammy-winning collaboration with the Blind Boys of Alabama.

On their third album, this San Francisco–based, Mark Kozelek–led bunch stumble over saccharine set-opener "Lost Verses" (which channels icky Young wannabes America with less success than Midlake) en route to a beautifully depressing array of funereal folk.

The results feel tossed-off at times, but Iggy still flashes his charm and humor.

Their smoky, atmospheric ballads are too languid by half, but Telefon Tel Aviv's bright melodic palette keeps Immolate Yourself from descending into a dull fog.

Tortoise have erased virtually all of their music’s familiar signifiers, opting now for stylistic mashes that fall into anonymity as often as they reach new, exciting places.

In the case of Twelve Reasons to Die II, the glass is slightly more than half full.

The diversity of the players is reflected in the sprawling songs, many of feel like patchworks.

Equal parts bang and whimper. [Jun 2006, p.81]

The trio are certainly equipped for the challenge, since they're already experienced purveyors of foreboding, romantic, minor-keyed dreaminess; but their dub-tinged candle-flicker sometimes trades haunting for drab.

Murray doesn't sound like he's going anywhere but straight home after last call. [June 2008, p.119]

He’s chosen good material and done right by it. But Kill the Lights sees him both at an apex and a crossroad.

If the studio stuff lacks punch, her live material pulls fresh meaning from her music's subtlety. [Feb 2002, p.110]

As is, Uptown Special plays a little like a Spotify playlist on random--fun, and unexpectedly thrilling at times, but jarring and never totally satisfying.

Craft can be a cage, and come the eleventeenth pleasant chord progression and workmanlike melody, the album's title may portend the listener's immediate future.

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]

In fact, throughout, older brother gets the best of his carefree little sibling. Breezier doesn't always equal better.

The arresting second album from this five-piece trades the jangly folk rock of their only-pleasant debut for a harsher, more jittery approach.

Ultimately, Wild Water never hits as hard as its predecessor, and can't match it in terms of either focus or breadth.

Its follow-up is where they relax--literally. [Nov 2007, p.126]

Justin Timberlake, Timbaland anf Timbo's partner Nate "Danja" Hills, provide a reasonably good return on investment. [Dec 2007, p.118]

Hip-hop-style braggadocio doesn't quite jibe with the band's relentlessly earnest outlook, which comes packaged here in songs no less hooky or propulsive than usual. It might have provided a jolt of excitement, though; even the amped-up standouts (like "Coffee and Cigarettes") are beginning to feel a bit by the numbers.

It's more ideation than practice, which is why the too-cluttered American Beauty/American Psycho won't be this band's American Idiot.

They're an American band that sound like British Francophiles, right down to the pip-pip accent in leader Jay Gordon's Gary Numan pout. [12/2000, p.223]

So no, this is not a cohesive crew album, but has there really been one since Marley Marl's In Control, Vol. 1 came out 24 years ago?

Bear[s] the mark of Big Star. [Jul 2006, p.85]

The follow-up proves Tunstall is no fluke.... but it also maks clear that Tunstall's glaring faults--dull lyrics filled with pedestrian phrases--aren't fleeting, either. [Oct 2007, p.112]

His supporting cast has stabilized around multi-instrumentalists Emmett Kelly and Shahzad Ismaily, but song structures dissolve altogether on Wolfroy Goes to Town.

Stupidity this willful has its limits. [Nov 2006, p.98]

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.

It is a bit Sabbath-by-numbers, but given the weight of history (it's their first studio album together in 35 years), you can see why they would kind of back into the thing.

Her solo debut slightly tones down the Knife's electro innovation but turns up the creepy affect, making lyrically tender tracks like 'Concrete Walls' and hallucinatory sketches like 'When I Grow Up' into reverse Rorschachs.

Devotees from Matisyahu's jam-scene days might balk, but fans of the Black Eyed Peas/Jack Johnson collabo "Gone Going" will rejoice.

The album’s blend of sonic gauze, earnest keening, electronic blooping, analog clatter, ethnic flavor, and nostalgic ’60s pop emits a rainbow glow that’s as comforting as it is comfortable.

Their unholy fuzz feels less triumphant, and the Helmet impression in opener 'Sound Guardians' is some kind of weird. Still, Lightning Bolt's basement has never sounded bigger.

Previously, that technique fostered playfulness, but Menomena's fourth album mostly just broods.

For simian disco, electro-pop remixes by DFA and Hot Chip stand out amid Disc 2's uneven DJ fodder. [Jan 2008, p.98]

It plays like a retrospective of his signature sounds. [Apr 2008, p.100]

Though the 16-track set achieves no sonic heights, Assbring's stirring lyrics and faint yet convincing delivery convey heartbreak gracefully. [May 2008, p.98]

Despite being so joyously engulfed by Sia’s voice, the songs come over as dispossessed orphans, all a variation on that same theme of being lost and held down by overbearing powers and temptations.

It's comforting to learn that Lady Gaga's supposed dark side--The Fame Monster offers a flipside to The Fame's sexy fun--is just as fun-loving and club-rousing as the songs that made her famous, because, really, her playful façade is a huge part of her appeal.

Each song boasts a memorable harmonic shift or guitar filigree or hook, but successive listens reveal an overstuffed package whose melodic involutions aren't complex and/or simple enough to sustain more than an hour's worth of music.

It won't satisfy hook-hungry Jewel fans, but Learn to Sing wears Hersh's experience like a custom-tailored hair shirt. [Feb 2007, p.84]

Something is definitely missing on A Better Tomorrow: not necessarily the cryptic slang and mythology, but that RZA and the other members haven't found something to replace what stood them apart from the crowd.

Gift of Screws boasts a lot of attractive touches, from the lovely acoustic guitar of 'Bel Air Rain' to the crashing chorus of 'Love Runs Deeper,' but less polish would add some soul to the mix.

Raise the Dead works best when power takes a backseat to pop. [May 2008, p.106]

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.

[Producer] Michael Lockwood lets her coast along over bland accompaniment. [Oct 2002, p.114]

Unfortunately, those songs are slight, unfocused things.

Sparta have evolved, with a melodic approach and a postdepression, fist-pumping attitude. [Nov 2006, p.104]

Steadfastly chirping crescendos, whinnying breakbeat stampedes, and the odd evocative vocal.

The band offers their richest, most eclectic accompaniment yet. [Sep 2007, p.122]

Re-Up's wordplay outstrips their production. [Sep 2008, p.122]

The journey is less emotionally fraught than her best work, but just as revealing.

There are just enough bright spots to make this all worthwhile for those too old to wear BAPE.

The deceptive lack of star power would be less of an issue if there was more here to break up the album’s mid-tempo monotony.

Refining Gutter Tactics' murky metal rap with subwoofer bass frequencies and fierce drum programming, MC Dälek and producer the Oktopus still find inspiration amid the noise.

The lyrics are certainly emotional, as he says, but there’s an immediacy to them that feels new for DeMarco, and it doesn’t always suit the music.

Aside from its sheer heft, though, it's hard to imagine it converting anyone who doesn't already care.

Adeptly recorded both through the board and from the audience, Remember is a microcosm of the band's career--an ambitious mess.

Much of 4 feels like beautifully baroque soundtrack music desperately seeking a movie about a rainy afternoon.

The album is their most straightforward yet. Fortunately it's not short on the witty lyrics and solid songwriting that always kept them from being a novelty act. [Aug 2007, p. 109]

When he sticks to cheeky storytelling, the album gains grimy traction, but empty dirges like 'Pacemaker' send it drifting into novelty territory. [Oct 2007, p.112]

There’s plenty of groan-inducing lyrical inanity, and one can only assume the reggae-rock abomination 'Beat on Repeat' was a misguided effort to branch out. Sometimes the middle of the road is the proper path.

The Best tracks sweep ringing, acoustic-guitar verses into anthemic power-chord choruses. [Sep 2002, p.134]

There are more tracks to like than not, even stretching all the way to the end of the record. If you want Starboy to be a good album, it can be that. It may require some personal editing. It also may require that you ignore what even the most sterilized tracks seem to be about.

Milky keyboard washes and found-sound accents... give the music a darker, dreamier depth. [Sep 2006, p.100]

It's a blessing and a curse that he's never sounded more unhinged. [Oct 2006, p.105]

Sounds of a certain vintage, which can net a poignant, tragic-romantic classic ("The Weekend Dreams"), but occasionally overreaches.

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.

Despite its title, The Formula has its charms. [May 2008, p.96]

Issa Album needn’t be The Infamous, but it could’ve benefitted from a clearer and tighter direction.

The big shift on his beautifully recorded, intermittently moving fourth album under the Sun Kil Moon moniker is that only his nylon-string guitar plucking now accompanies his wounded croon.

For all the squiggly melodies and bumpy computer beats, however, Smoke's strength is his spacey chameleon voice. [Dec 2007, p.126]

The rest of the album can't match that evocative pang on [best track No I Don't]--something like hot coals against cyborg flesh--and is generally more direct.

Their third album sports a more generic, arena-friendly sound, as if displaying too much personality was a liability.

Warning of nightmarish rural invaders in 'The Rifle' and vowing to keep her eyes open on the showstopping sea chantey title track, Diane seems destined for grander endeavors.

Get past glitchy irritants like 'SonDEremawe' and an artful payoff of cerebral, booty-shaking decadence awaits on their ninth album.

The second duo record by the former Talking Heads frontman and his experimental producing partner is a thoughtful singer-songwriter exercise. [Oct 2008, p.104]

Slime Flu has its charms, acting as an energetic reminder of insider-y, turn-of-the-century New York hip-hop long gone: sample-laden, ignorant, and wealth-obsessed.

The Far Field can’t match its predecessor, but it isn’t without its highlights.

The quartet's fervent debut, produced by DJ Erol Alkan, offers a fabulous simulation of '80s new wave, with burping, sputtering synths and sleazy, Bowie-inspired crooning from frontman Sam Eastgate.

They say good artists borrow and great artists steal, but here Gonzalez does neither--his heart doesn’t seem to be in the heist anymore.

Your enjoyment of Love Story will directly correlate with the amount that you enjoy Yelawolf’s singing, because boy howdy is there a lot of it here. If you respect Yelawolf’s progression as a musician and wish him luck on his journey to artistic self-actualization, you will be pleased.

T.R.U. Story contains few surprises, and one less once you realize that its own opening line--"Cut the top off, call it Amber Rose"--isn't threatening decapitation.

Changing Horses' Americana journey is hardly inventive, but Kweller's boyish charm and quirky songwriting keep it more promising than predictable.

Front-loaded with buzzy riffs and cutting vocals, the third studio album from this Swedish band is bracingly ambitious, clearly designed to be heard in arenas and stadiums.

For every instance that seduces you with K.R.I.T.'s prowess behind the boards, though, the mixtape throws up a song that pushes things back into an unfulfilling zone.

Leave Me Alone is a friendly, enthusiastic album of coppery six-strings glinting in the sunlight with the more-than-occasional flat note, scuffing up the album’s already sand-blasted texture with an endearing scrappy quality.

He's reworking his own territory. Which is why we expected the song about sweaty illegals to have a better twisted ending than "all of is are immigrants," and the tune about meth addiction to fell, well, lived in. [Oct 2007, p.100]

When they ease back on the overdriven electronic intensity, Street Horrsing works tribal, tracelike wonders. [Apr 2008, p.98]

If there's a flaw on this Alabama duo's debut, it's predictability. T-Bone Burnett and Jack White serve as executive producer and mentor, respectively, with Laura and Lydia Rogers putting a sister-act spin on dusty Americana--bet you can hear it already.

It’s too long, and large parts of it are corny or forgettable, but in the context of Macklemore as a pop musician--and not a rapper--it doubles down on his strengths: well-crafted, sincere verses about his personal experiences combined with a better hook, usually provided by someone else.

Their biggest asset, though, is singer Hayley Williams, an 18-year-old siren with a killer fashion sense and an undeniable knack for writing contemplative love songs.