Lacking the bluster and/or baritone to pull off the stumbly, ESL lyrics, Migala's drowsy fables wander aimlessly. [Sep 2001, p.164]

For all its iconoclastic ambition, Sea Lion is a low-key charmer. [Apr 2008, p.102]

Sam Beam's breathy croon is as soothing as a lullaby, but just as limited--which becomes an issue over two discs and 23 songs. Yet that very sameness helps this patchwork of singles, soundtrack cuts, and unreleased tracks cohere.

The new three-piece is no supergroup. Robyn’s best work rises above mere competence, and while every song here will keep people on the dance floor, Love Is Free transcends nothing.

It's pleasant, soothingly warm water, sure, but you probably won't want to soak for too long.

The music may be just as strong, tight, and impeccable--this is a band that's been going at it for more than a quarter of a century, after all--but there's a lightness missing here, a lack of passion.

While the Used honestly want to move away from their time-tested sound, the experiments come off as unfocused and confused. [May 2007, p.90]

Though his global messages aren't particularly deep, his skilled, spirited execution sets him apart from other peacenik troubadours. [Oct 2007, p.101]

Linkin Park's fourth studio album (and second collaboration with producer Rick Rubin) contains plenty of aggressively arty material that might surprise fans of the megapopular rap-rock outfit.

At just under a half-hour (a runtime probably inspired by the days when vinyl records could only contain about 40 minutes of music), Lysandre is a frustrating listen.

Flowers, a collection of mystical-seeming noise collages, absurdist dirges, and Pavement soundalikes, is as listenable as it is difficult to pin down.

Though it manages to be both lovely and adventurous, too often MCIII sounds like Cronin falls back on the string beds instead of utilizing them with the same fervor he used to reserve for crunchy, just-this-side-of-DGAF riffs.

It's uniformly catchy. [Sep 2006, p.102]

Sam's Town is basically Hot Fuss with bigger, spanglier guitars and an all-round lack of restraint. [Oct 2006, p.93]

Loney Dear's gauzy pop can be entrancing, but it's also incredibly easy to tune out: Let your mind wander, and the Swedish act's latest goes full blur.

She renders a sad refrain from a lotto ad on 'State Numbers,' slags CSNY on 'The Lighter Side of...Hippies,' and howls that "a loving woman can have the Devil's face" on the acerbic 'Don't Talk in Your Sleep,' making this the duo's most shambolic effort to date.

On cuts like "How Do I Maintain Pt. 1," the rhythmic interplay gets weighed down by its own excess, but the more expansive clouds of synth exhaust in wordless bookends "Run" and "Reintegration Time" offer more rewarding highs.

Though this is a flawed and scattershot project, Wayne remains an artist who makes music like a patissier--his songs are frivolous, delicious, and meant to be relished for just a moment.

There are pleasures to be found on Walk It Off, and in the context of Tapes 'n Tapes growth as songwriters, the record is a modest breakthrough. [Apr 2008, p.102]

There’s still sunshine (check the gleefully voyeuristic 'Paper Planes'), but frequently it’s obscured by autumnal clouds.

Brooklyn's Crystal Stilts filter trembling surf guitar and tambourine shakes through echoing chambers of effects until their wistful, barely-there tunes seem to dramatically float out of murky, cavernous depths.

On this foursome's fourth collection of infectious indie pop, they downplay the sly smirking of the past. [Sep 2007, p.132]

Thanks to KT Tunstall's compelling whiskey-and-cigarettes voice, everything she tackles demands to be heard -- though not everything here absolutely needs to be.

Fern Knight is a delightfully creepy homage to Celtic-Appalachian tradition, and a compelling subversion of traditional folk structure.

The band’s first studio album in eight years takes the Farfisa-surf luminescence of 2003’s must-own, career-spanning Anthology deeper into psychedelia, for good and ill.

Old-school romantic Ville Valo croons as often as he screams, so that even when aiming for the stylistic median, a bit of local weirdness oozes forth to make Screamworks more interesting than it's designed to be.

Rather than give us a full album of "The Strokes Misremember the '80s," the band falls back repeatedly on self-imitation.

For the most part, Varshons is pleasantly predictable, with celebrity cameos (Kate Moss, Liv Tyler) and selections from legendary rakes Leonard Cohen and Townes Van Zandt that practically qualify as typecasting. But the countrified take on GG Allin's 'Layin' Up with Linda' provides a moment of effective shock value, and improbable redemption arrives with the closing track: Christina Aguilera's 'Beautiful.'

The songs here may be marginally less interesting than his best, but it's comforting to know that he can ratchet down the passion without losing it entirely. [Nov 2006, p.98]

If 'Called' and 'Dancing on Our Graves' try too hard to conjure the spooky vibe of ancient American roots music, the persistent acoustic guitars produce waves of modern static tension.

The result is less an uncommonly danceable indie-rap disc than it is an uncommonly thoughtful groove album. [May 2008, p.100]

AFI may not be breaking new ground, but they never forget who listens hardest.

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.

This folkie indie-pop band doesn't slam you with hooks on its fourth album--everything is catchy in a modest, reasonable way.

The harder the music hammers, the flatter the lyrics get. The more the band holds back, the stronger the songs become. Consequently, there's half of a great album here. [May 2007, p.83]

Admire feels oddly reined in, a transitional record by a band not yet willing to completely let go of the past.

It's rarely as lively as 2007's Last Light, but the interplay of organ, cello, and acoustic guitar on "Brooklyn Fawn" has a genuinely comforting warmth.

They're never slavish imitators, and when they goose the velocity--those comparisons gradually fade into classic, shimmery guitar pop. [Nov 2008, p.88]

More stompers like "White Night" and "123 Stop," bubblegum throwbacks with a Wilson Pickett kick, would be welcome.

The production, supplied by stellar guests ranging from Jay Dee and Rockwilder to the Plugs themselves, is clean and airy, with the boys floating on bubbles of flatulent bass and high-stepping over chirping guitar chords.... But if anything foils Art Official Intelligence, it's the wrath of the math: 11 of the album's 17 tracks feature guest appearances.

More danceable (and vulgar) than previous releases.

Here, [Califone] take a straighter path on their seventh album... but with the same basic ingredients. [Nov 2006, p.97]

It's not the conceptul masterpiece he was clearly hoping for, but there are moments of transcendence just the same. [Nov 2008, p.89]

On the follow-up to 2007's terrific Neptune City, Atkins trades that album's lush torch-song vibe for scrappier indie-garage arrangements that drain much of the drama and romance from her music.

From the stark bass-thump to the low-riding pacing, from Erick Sermon's blaxploitative strings on "Double Time" to Dre's tinny march on "X," the tracks complement his tales of 'hood trivia. [2/2001, p.107]

For their previous temporary-reunion album, 2003's Strays, these dark alt gods created a superslick din seemingly designed for radio, but definitely not your heart.

Audio, Video, Disco teeters on the edge of self-mockery, not an unfamiliar position for Justice.

Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons continue to smear psychedelic synth cheese and stereophonic airplane noises over chewy grooves that veer closer and closer to straight disco.

Though the title hints at darker turns, the album never steps out of the glare.

It’s a confusing but enjoyable record that sidesteps the rap hand-wringing and telegraphed weirdness of the drama surrounding Yachty.

The Brooklyn siblings forgo their 2007 album’s rock star cameos (Karen O, Gibby Haynes, Fred Schneider) and funnel their adolescent aggravations into nippy punk rousers, where closet monsters and rich kids alike get served a scuzzy skewering.

On his Rhymesayers debut, Philly's bearded battle rhymer gets consistently meaty beats from producer Jake One, whose soul-stirring tracks perfectly match Freeway's energetic musicality on breathless anthems such as "Know What I Mean." Problem is, proclamations that he's "about to bring that '98 hip-hop back" gradually unravel into bizarrely dated dismissals of other rappers.

Tricky reengages with his pain that gave him his original power. [Sep 2008, p.128]

Even as Intimacy gets sonically or lyrically precarious--'Zephyrus' recalls 'Jesus Walks,' for Christ's sake--it does so while reaching hard toward something exhilarating.

Her vamping can't touch their steamy-windowed originals.

It's sad to see the rocker side that Lynne has unveiled in her live sets turned into histrionic failures like "Trust Me," "Star Broker," and "Jesus On A Greyhound." [Dec 2001, p.154]

Philippe Zdar handles most vocals, sneering through the propulsive dance-punk single 'Toop Toop' but failing to sustain the drones that dominate this overlong disc's second half.

Beneath the glitzy production, the songwriting lacks luster--catchier tunes like 'Daniel' and 'Dem Girls' offer jaunty bouts of melodicism, but the vast majority of this elegant Brit jangle feels a bit recycled.

"Demons" and "Ten-Speed" show that Higgins' amber vocals and crisp guitar skills remain, but too much here floats by on a vague cloud of coffeehouse clichés.

Cole should be fired up to make his own Illmatic, his own Reasonable Doubt, or his own College Dropout. But here he seems stuck somewhere between starstruck and envious, fawning over his idols instead of trying to take their crowns.

It's a lovely place that Soft Will fashions here, but it sounds hesitant about pulling you in, perhaps because its creators are secretly concerned that you'll realize you aren't really going anywhere.

Polishing the snappy pop of their 2008 debut, the Philadelphia-based trio crafts thoughtful tunes about relationship angst and introspective wandering, though it's often hard to get past drummer Jesse Kristin's fidgety beats and Ben Thornewill's hyperactive piano.

The debut album from G-Unit producer Jacob "Jake One" Dutton plays like a crowd- pleasing beat reel for future employers.

It's wittier than it is moving or insightful, but give McGuinness time.

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

Food & Liquor II is fine and good. It's just not The Great American Rap Album.

with songs as strong as bluesy snarler 'Great Scott!,' the gospel-leaning 'Fear,' and stomp-along 'Tired of Being Good,' the musical debts are easier to forgive, if not ignore.

Gibb... is the seamy, sex-fueled yang to the ascetic yin of the Magnetic Fields' Stephin Merritt. [Oct 2006, p.98]

[Patterson Hood] cedes too much of the spotlight to competent but less distinctive mates Mike Cooley and Shonna Tucker. [Feb 2008, p.92]

The Ruffinas are far better the less seriously they take themselves. [Mar 2008, p.97]

[It] succeeds best when it shakes off the doldrums. [Jun 2007, p.92]

The vintage makeover suits them well. [Oct 2007, p.100]

Each track bleeds into the next with seamless precision, borrowing each other's fantastical effects from both mid-century analog plug-ins and modern digital tricks.

It’s understandable that Joanne finds Gaga performing authenticity, if only because it’s the strongest way to convey artistic evolution to the masses in 2016. The image here--the illusion, really--is as imperfect as it is meticulously rendered.

RJD2's collaboration with Philly singer Aaron Livingston bears the qualities that have divided the instrumental hip-hop producer's fans since the 2006 misfire The Third Hand -- most prominently, jazz-rock ellipses and thin, expressive vocals (Livingston's are only slightly better than RJ's own efforts).

Rae Sremmurd are at their best when they're doing what they want, rather than eschewing their oddities in favor of radio-friendly hooks ("Safe Sex") or buzzword phrasing.

Many emotions clearly still linger, but as a songwriter, he seems to lack the desire that he once had to simply be sincere. [Feb 2008, p.95]

Occasional static aside, it seems Refused are really making good on their long-stated goal to take the airwaves back, or at least vibrating a little closer to the right frequency.

Bad Witch, like its two predecessors, contains glints of exploration tempered by maturity and consistency. ... It’s a strangely tentative gesture from an artist who made his name as a longform auteur.

At his best, he sounds like he's sweating it out in a kitchen with flypaper dangling from the ceiling. But on The Appeal, he could be anywhere.

Thing of the Past contains no original songs (although it's unlikely that anyone without a nasty crate-digging habit will recognize most of these tracks), but Vetiver are awfully well suited to the material, and Cabic's vocals--sweet, smooth, and golden--shine.

Rain in England, a therapy-session testimony that sounds like Soulja Boy having a Damascus moment in the champagne room over a beatless synth tide--is his least accessible.

[The songs] sound like woozy shanties for seasick barflies. [Nov 2006, p.100]

Both the album’s most grating and gratifying moments sound like they could’ve emanated from a Hot Topic 15 years ago. There’s danger in that nostalgia, but when it’s good, it’s great. It’s a decidedly uncool record from a band that’s long since stopped caring about these things.

The Thrills have matured into pretty crafty tunesmiths. [Nov 2007, p.125]

Not since U2 built an Atomic Bomb has one band tried so hard to turn each track into a breahless epic. [Feb 2007, p.84]

Guitar-less but heavy on the organ, sax, and hands-to-the-heavens claps, this home-recorded debut swings like demos of actual '60s hits. Lyrically, it's less finessed.

While his whispery vocals work well amid the woozy atmospherics of 'Strong Animal' and 'Three Months Paid,' it's a shame someone else can't sing Raposa's dour, sketchy tunes. [Dec 2007, p.112]

The first album under his own name is stranger and more varied, a psychedlic/psychotic kaleidoscope worthy of early Animal Collective. [Oct 2008, p.114]

The production smudges the songs into fuzzy watercolors, and Orton's twangy burr can't always cut through. [Sep 2002, p.128]

There's plenty of that spacey/dirty sound on Loud, even when the tracks don't fit the trance template. [Apr 2002, p.122]

Though Benson’s fourth solo album is less distinctive and more finessed than the work of his money gig, it still puts his secondhand fame in perspective.

When I Never Learn aims for pop, it's the hazy Shangri-Las variety; the melodies are Li's lushest to date, but the smoke never clears around them.

Tweedy's influence shows primarily on the two songs he wrote, especially the stoic title-track ballad. Yet the album's best moment belongs solely to Staples--a spare version of Randy Newman's "Losing You" that might well stand as definitive.

No matter how much Lenny plays it hard, there isn't that much difference between his ballads and his rock moves. [Dec 2001, p.151]

Like all of Lil Wayne's albums, it's a mess; unlike some of its predecessors, it's not a terribly ambitious mess, nor is it much fun, which for Wayne is a sin.

The results don't always play to the singer's melodic strengths; ?uestlove sounds a bit reined-in, too. Occasionally, though, they send up some serious sparks, as with a raw garage-funk take on Baby Huey's "Hard Times."