It’s hard to say if Homme and Pop are better served by the nine-track length or not. Post Pop Depression doesn’t feel particularly tight or focused, but neither dude is conceptual enough to really justify a larger sprawl.

Highlights finds the former remix project paring down to less imaginative drum/guitar basics, sounding like a 5 a.m., post-Tiki party K-hole, or sex with a Cabana boy you thought for sure would blow your mind--and then just laid there like a starfish.

The playing is impeccable, Black's subtly warped songs uneven. [Jul 2006, p.82]

The sonic expansion is admirable, but perhaps a trip to Miami--instead of Berlin, where some of Weather was recorded--might've been a better atmospheric adjustment.

They return to the infectious anthems that made them Warped Tour headliners. [Aug 2007, p.110]

Cole's keen sense of injustice registers throughout 2014 Forest Hills Drive, whether slagging white artists for artistic thievery or seething over national media outlets pigeonholing black genius into sports/pop either/ors.... But the absence of "Be Free" still detracts. Unless you're the type of moviegoer who sits patiently through the end titles, feel free to duck out of "Note to Self" a bit early and head over to SoundCloud.

Sometimes a record is a feast for the soul, and sometimes it’s a dozen chocolate cupcakes.

Nada Surf face everyday life's cacophony with a pleasant, unfaltering, even surgary approach. [Feb 2008, p.96]

Working with Good Charlotte producer Eric Valentine, the Rejects trick out their hook-jammed anthems with sweet strings, zippy disco beats, and the occasional bit of Gary Glitter bleacher stomp.

Real to Reel is otherwise lacking in the kind of tension that's required to produce an album that's more than the sum of its talented parts.

The result boasts an admirably moody menace, but lacks the debut's darkly comic drive.

Keren Ann's languid orchestral pop is suffused with equal parts Parisian lounge, Golden Age of Hollywood, and polished folk song.

Her third self-produced, self-released record in less than two years, is checkered with sweet-and-salty Americana, despite Lynne's tendency to wander precariously close to Jordache-commercial territory

Return is neither a step up or down from 2010's wave-warping Causers of This or 2011's time-warping Underneath the Pine, yet it's not more of the same.

Their rhymes tend to feed off settling scores rather than giving pleasure, and as a result, this group debut favors punch lines over crafted songs. Still, the single 'The One,' which emits a stanky, rock-starry panache, could be an edgy crossover hit if such a thing still existed.

Though Day by Day doesn't include any tracks as memorable as 1999's 'Beng Beng Beng,' Kuti still shines.

Slower tempos and fewer yuks mean less fun, but tougher backing vocals pump the essential estrogen.

The mournful ballads are achingly pretty, but Rae is most compelling when trying to distract herself from her loss.

The beats are good. The hooks are memorable, if often corny.... [But] Gone is the sense of humor, fearlessness, and willingness to subvert clichés that he flexed on his generally impressive mixtapes.

Empire constantly changes its focus. [Oct 2006, p.99]

Fist isn't quite a God punch, but it hits with legit impact.

Watch the Throne is far too good to condemn them thus, but not good enough to erase the possibility.

When it works best, as on the now globally ubiquitous “Hello” or the show-stopping “All I Ask” (featuring a rending, diva-appropriate performance for the ages), 25 delivers the kind of timeless vibes people have come to expect from Adele, even though the first-person narratives in her songs often still feel oddly generic.

McKeown's Marc Bolan-influenced rhymes and party-time shouts are always wryly slapdash, but the weaving bass line and expansive structure of 'Situation' indicate that 1990s still retain some of the members' arty ambitions.

The strength of this follow-up is not the defiant antiestablishment fist-pumping (though there's plenty), but the tunes.

But primally satisfying as it is, the band's meat-and- taters thrash leaves one hungry for some Mastodon- style lateral thinking.

The self-infatuation on this album is less attempted-clever and more ambient, a body-posi constant that gives the plethora of tasty palm-muted figures and colorful production settings a semblance of gravity even if it becomes the favorite of the “Yaaas queen”-abusing straight Facebook friend you had to unfollow.

The Guilty Office recalls its predecessors, with better engineering focusing the details.

The Antlers still summon widescreen, dramatic moments when their moody tangents cohere, but too many songs sacrifice substance for prettiness, gliding by forgettably.

Dilated Peoples continue to hold down hip-hop's middle ground with inoffensive mic purism and sophisticated production a la mid-'90s DJ Premier. [Dec 2001, p.158]

So, no, Marr isn't exactly reinventing rock here--he already did that. The Messenger feels more like a tribute to his youth, to his home, and to all the musicians he's worked with over the past three decades.

Here, his three sidemen elevate [DeLonge's] emo tendencies to something grander and more timelessly romantic--though somewhat less exciting. [Jul 2006, p.82]

Minus the mock-heroic guitars, frontman Tjinder Singh's globalist critiques lose some of their pop-political punch.

They return to what made them one of the '80s most reliable rift-heavy outfits. [Oct 2007, p.99]

This far less satisfying collection of gussied-up outtakes and posthumously completed tracks shifts the focus back to the packaging that progressively dehumanized Jackson.

Byrne and Clark rarely interact vocally, sometimes suggesting two solo outings spliced together; and the grooves have an anonymous vibe.

As always, the Crows are too indebted to the sounds of the past to truly signify in the present. [Aug 2002, p.114]

As an artistic statement, Stripped is all over the place--it's a move toward hip-hop, it's a move toward rock, it's ghetto, it's Disney. [Dec 2002, p.137]

Lynch handles most everything else here--vocals, guitar, writing, production--creating soundscapes that are dark, unsettling, and often confusing.

We Are Born accentuates Sia's goofy party-girl side: Produced by Lily Allen's mate Greg Kurstin, it's full of up-tempo electro-pop jams that sound like Amy Winehouse covering Toni Basil's Mickey.

In small doses these acoustic dirges and country-rock laments--played at tempos that make Crazy Horse sound like Slayer--pass by indistinctly, but over time, the slow-blooming guitar solos and age-old folkie melodies of tracks like 'Bowery' and 'Trouble in Mind' reveal their sturdy, dignified strengths.

It's a sober cruise down the white line between timelessness and nostalgia. [May 2007, p.90]

Western Xterminator ventures further from the '90s opiate-blues legacy of Trux, sounding more exploratory than RTX's debut. [Mar 2007, p.98]

The only offensive thing about this English electro-rock outfit's debut is how blatantly they rip off Justice ripping off Daft Punk.

Their more subdued follow-up doesn't dirty things up much, but it does give some character to the quartet's airtight groovemaking.

Folds is incapable of mediocrity, but Way to Normal comes way too close.

Solid and well crafted. [Nov 2007, p.135]

This odds-and-ends comp is unusually straightforward.

Conditions of My Parole, featuring a supporting cast that includes Keenan's son Devo and ex-Mars Volta drummer Jon Theodore, reveals a more reassuring side of a singer better known for willful alienation.

You'll immediately recognize the masterful melodies and rock'n'roll sentiment, for better and worse. [May 2007, p.86]

Though Bonfires' pacing is erratic, the band keeps winsome romance close.

Scorpion is stronger when Drake stops narrating the circumstances of his own life and simply writes more of the breezy, cocksure songs that seem to come so effortlessly to him.

A sideways step in the right direction. [Nov 2006, p.97]

The tagets haven't changed much, and Bad Religion still hits them hard. [Aug 2007, p.98]

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.

You'll find [it] either icky or inspirational. [Jul 2006, p.83]

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]

The Glass Passenger, the group's second album, chronicles McMahon's successful battle against leukemia, matching hyperemotional melodies with his tender voice on dramatic tracks.

The group's final album (they broke up in October) still punches like a champ, with sharp bursts of intelligent energy.

The fusion is sweet yet corny... and occasionally it's just baffling. [Aug 2001, p.132]

Sometimes the album sounds backward when it isn't. Rarely does it sound like one person squeaking out notes in succession--more like a bunch of dudes filling a tape with improvisations, rewinding to the cool parts and haranguing some hapless studio engineer to razorblade it all together.

French actress Charlotte Gainsbourg's voice is small and unaffected (a stage whisper, indeed), but Beck, her producer-songwriter for 2010's celebrated IRM, tends toward the opposite extreme.

Cherry Bomb is both impressive in its ambition and absolutely stunning in its aimlessness, weaving countless genres into multi-part suites but still coming off undercooked in its entirety.

Working in Tennessee glides along on its Bakersfield groove with the greatest of ease, despite the album's title.

Barroom confessions that are more soulful, if somewhat less tuneful, than her day band's. [Sep 2006, p.106]

The best parts of this boy-girl duo's second album sound like some obscure '50s act, the kind that ought to list "reverb" as a band member.

It is an acceptable listen--on par with the Kills’ previous record, 2011’s Blood Pressures--but your best hope for enjoying it is to manage your expectations.

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.

He's already sophisticated enough to paste lines about real heartbreak onto chunky, melodic beats ("True Story"), then turn around and be an equally passionate goofball ("Getting Dumb"). Leaning toward the latter could make him a star outside the backpack circuit.

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.

He’s not really in a fun mood, and the music follows. The lushness has diminished, and the work evokes increasing comparisons to ‘70s singer-songwriters like Randy Newman and Harry Nilsson, who hid their acidic commentary within sturdy pop structures.

Here, tunes about racism, consumer culture, and the evils of TV hit their marks, then hit them again and again and again.

Revivalist? Sure, but this refreshing, smarter side of the late '80s has yet to be co-opted into a hipster fashion show.

Size's fuzzy, string-laden bass bombs seem a tad sober. [Dec 2002, p.141]

Hooks are typically meant to stick, and after the infectious opening tracks, very little of Barter 6 does.

The sound is too slick by half, but Craig Finn's rhymes still resonate.

Bellowing hoarsely while ivories tinkle and muted guitars gently twang, he comes across like a scenery-chewing Method actor marooned in a stoic Ingmar Bergman flick.

Add some beatboxing courtesy of Tom Waits (!), and you have an occasionally forced, yet boldly magnetic change of pace. [May 2008, p.94]

Prekop's crew have mastered a more intricate approach, seasoning their gently introspective tales of "distracted and lazy" lovers with stronger ingredients. [Jun 2007, p.95]

And if you've ever wondered what might happen if Jean Michel Jarre polluted the folk tradition of a Blue Ridge town, or you want to hear references to British pantomime, Bruce Haack, and Karen Finley within ten minutes-or if you're Japanese-this is probably your album of the year.

For all his three relationships spanned and catchy tunes composed, Gibbard is too nice to dish it out, and too bland to reveal any meaningful lessons learned.

His slumbery Jonathan Richman-meets-Beck vocals make every song a potential slacker lullaby. [Mar 2007, p.97]

Tinted Windows' debut is even less left-field; these hook-crammed power-pop jams are safe and bouncy enough for Jo Bros fans and Stacy's mom alike.

His 18th, the recently released LP is modern country-by-numbers that will satisfy the faithful and mosey on under the radar of anyone else.

Drawing is occasionally eager and unstoppably pleasant, but just as often drifts as dazzles.

Geist keeps it coolly retro. [Nov 2008, p.91]

Golden State merely sounds like Bush--not as buffed as 1999's The Science of Things, but slicker than 1996's Razorblade Suitcase. [Dec 2001, p.152]

Though the hooks and melodies are spread a little thin... Lerche still has a convincing charm in his lighter, acoustic moments. [Feb 2007, p.84]

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]

The songs appear to take chances--sweeping chord changes, symphonic progressions, darts into electronic sound--but there's little at stake.

She lacks the flexibility that jazz demands--she simply can't swing. But when she interprets material (from downbeat bards Randy Newman, Colin Meloy, and others) that matches the drug-ravaged wreckage of her vocal chords, she kills.

A noisy, cranky piece of work. [Jul 2007, p.91]

The sound misses the arenarific pump of 1999's Redd Kross-produced Get Skintight, and with that album's move from junk-punk to semi-pro metal now complete, the talent gap in the group has started to glare. [2/2001, p.108]

It's only when Pterodactyl embrace their underlying pop core and ratchet up the jangle--see the breezy "The Break" or the '60s sunburst "Searchers"--that Spills Out makes an effective splash.

FWA is slicker than most mixtapes--and on tracks like the opener, his flow remains a spectacle--but there’s also the pervading sense here that he’s playing it safe.

A post-masterpiece puzzler where the kicks just keep getting harder to find, spread-eagle between pop limitations and artistic aspirations. [12/2000, p.214]

Her... most streamlined effort yet. [Sep 2006, p.104]

From grandiose opener "Pink City" to the haunting mixture of reverberating voice and piano on the title track, it's evident that singer-songwriters MJ Parker and Charlie Cokey have closely studied Veckatimest's artisanal harmonies.