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

Sheets is Campbell's hallucination of a cozy English garden party. [Jan 2007, p.94]

Though he's unlikely to encounter much trouble selling these romantic conceits to his female-heavy fan base, some of the scenarios on John Legend's third studio album could be fresher

John Shade moves with composure and ease through arch, almost dour indie pop ("The Believers") as well as joyous dollops of Of Montreal–inspired electro pop.

Underworld is freed up to focus on crafting memorable tunes that hark back to their electronica heyday, as well as more personal, coherent lyrics. Earnest emotions surprisingly suit these dance-floor surrealists.

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

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.'

Featuring Farfisa, sax, strings, anything but loud guitar, Dancing Backwards doesn't even try, and that's its virtue.

The results vary: "Lost Weekend" is some kind of romantic peak, while the Lennon-esque "I Am the Psychic" is not.

A science fiction romance dedicated to the triumphs and disappointments of the modern world, the Geometrid has all the D.I.Y beats and endearing loops of Looper's first record, Up A Tree. This time around, though, Looper take the grade-school storytelling groove of that record and retool it space-age stylee.

Port of Miami 2 further cements Ross as a mainstay among the aging elite—those rappers whose names now carry them further than their music does. Playing it safe with the sequel to his far more ambitious debut LP, Ross regurgitates that which people have come to love from him, or at least have accepted as his standard.

Pairing dreamy synths and tight riffs, the result is confident and exhilarating.

Save a few deft meditations on the stresses of blog-rap fame ("Flickin'," "L_O_V_E"), rapper Naledge and producer Double-O also sound uninspired, squandering their boyish Ivy League enthusiasm on clichéd odes to nightclub decadence.

It's not a radical departure--there's no 'Kid A' in their future--but rather an engaging sidestep for a band that does triumphantly normal better than almost anyone.

Derulo’s latest, Everything Is 4, proves he’s a workhorse, with possibly even (gulp) a vision.

You've heard these overheated tales of wild girls and outlaw boys many times before. [Mar 2007, p.97]

Their hooks sink deep, but you'll be more likely to hum than sing along, simply because their words so often disappear into the ether like messages traced with your fingertips on a fogged mirror.

With Heartbeat Radio, Lerche aligns all his identities: Gentlemanly melodies glide across elegant guitars and High Llama Sean O’Hagan’s swelling string arrangements.

This is a more mature nod to the bubbly pop that established her fame. And it's a statement from a woman who's come into her own, and who won't be going anywhere that isn't worth her while. We could all do worse than to follow her lead.

Ignore the lyrics, Spears sounds even more like a programmed Britbot than on 2007's Blackout.

Free Energy know that what they're emulating is about bliss not meaning, and they're savvy enough to embrace pop simplicity without condescending to it.

Nix the emo sea-chantey stuff and these two CDs... would be pretty excellent. [Mar 2006, p.95]

It's well within the Boss' right to try and freshen up old material, especially 18 albums in, but this one lacks a through-line beyond the distracting (and occasionally straight-up embarrassing) Morello.

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.

They make each shimmer of postnatal whimsy seem like an eternal gulag of the spotless mind. [Sep 2005, p.109]

Over 38 taut minutes, these New York kids reflect the mirror-ball gleam of primo INXS and "Emotional Rescue"–era Rolling Stones onto the lives of today's young, rich, and wasted.

Buddy Miller pares down the arrangements and Moorer relaxes, allowing her dark, sultry voice to simmer. [Mar 2008, p.106]

Showcases skittering electronics framed by grounded, dynamic percussion. [Apr 2007, p.88]

It mostly works: Shave a couple of the non-Conor tracks and it'd sit comfortably with his best.

It's such a confident display that you barely notice the English-as-a-second-language lyrics. [Nov 2003, p.117]

Strangely enough, Utah Saints have never sounded better... [Sep 2001, p.163]

At times, it's as if he's looking over Rivers Cuomo's shoulder during a chem exam. [Jul 2003, p.110]

The album works best when Black's mood swings between Technicolor dreams and depressing quotidian details.

Her enthusiasm immediately leaps from the grooves, but this debut also reveals an emotional and musical range her neo-retro peers lack.

E6 can't quite keep it up throughout, though they still sound delighted to mess with sounds both full-throttle ('You're Bored') and loungey ('My Idea of Fun').

Player Piano's handcrafted tales of loneliness and bad romance draw quiet power from Hawk's charmingly reedy vocals, while the layered synths and other scruffy keyboards evoke subliminal longings and anxieties.

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]

To compensate for the loss of [drummer Jerry Fuchs], the band gets by with help from former Outhud/!!! alchemist Justin Vandervolgen, who mixed the album to accentuate its disco grooves (see the title track), and Zombi's Steve Moore, who added synth arpeggiations to the epic arc of "Oaxaca."

This full-length debut confirms Taylor's love for Arthur Russell's underwater electronic grooves, but these fussy, avant-prog slow jams rarely come up for air.

The toughest cuts are still the early singles. But shorty's in the process of becoming something bigger than a hot, patois-spitting grime MC. [Nov 2006, p.101]

Comes off like a less foreboding version of [Sigur Ros'] moody orchestral drift. [Oct 2006, p.94]

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.

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.

By the time one gets to the final track, a head-scratching take on Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," the overall effect is a decidedly uncomfortable numbness.

Minogue delivers bliss like no other (wo)man or machine.

The beats by producers Black Milk, 9th Wonder, and Havoc are strictly no-frills, but just hot enough to keep these cranky yet lovable old MCs' joints from stiffening up.

Deep cuts like "Man or Animal" are as hot as anything this side of Led Zeppelin II. [Jul 2005, p.95]

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.

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.

Vedder's incantatory vocals and campfire instrumentation evoke the eerie beauty of untouched lands. [Nov 2007, p.126]

Drum and guitar free, with stark string orchestration, this imaginatively selected and sequenced collection achieves such a haunting consistency of tone that its spell lingers long after the speakers fall silent.

An impressive balancing act that name-checks Ween and cracks wise about Stevie Wonder's vision while spinning bighearted melodies and harmonies over quirky beatscapes. [Jan 2005, p.89]

Every sweetly conflicted track sounds almost exactly the same, but his perverse playfulness makes that limitation almost feel like liberation.

Even with the occasional middling moments, it's hard to deny the band's clever, boisterous spirit. [May 2007, p.86]

There aren't any plinking pianos or Hollywood strings, but the music still goes big the way we've grown to expect from Green Day.

The album's guitar- and keyboard-heavy production obscures some of his folky Britpop melodies, but it shows off his Bruuuce heart in a big way. [Oct 2006, p.105]

The Adventures of Bobby Ray is a hip-hop Scary Movie, tossing off references (Vampire Weekend sample, Rivers Cuomo cameo) while struggling to establish a distinctive identity.

Overreaches. [Jul 2006, p.88]

Snowflake Midnight ranges widely, from synth-heavy orchestration to film-score dramarama. And between those ambient bookends, there's virtually no filler.

The problem with the fantasy of a major Khaled Album though, is that, like a summer blockbuster, Major Key is too front-loaded.

Herren's stream of consciousness favors laptop techniques and restless exploration, and the results are Ampexian's modestly satisfying minute-long grooves, which seemingly end as soon as they get started.

That penchant for swollen, cathedral­size arrangements--particularly on Coldplay­like cuts 'Late of Camera' and 'In a Look'--is a weakness, but hopefully, Enigk will learn to shake it off in favor of leaner renditions of his winning, winsome tunes.

The result may be the year's heaviest, creepiest, and sexiest hard-rock group effort. [Oct 2007, p.104]

Gibbard’s downcast verses keep Kintsugi all too safely anchored and docked.

It does eventually resolve into "I Heard You Say," a dash of wintry Mamas and Papas pop. Sadly, the trio regresses from there, simply shining up versions of the same old loose, punky love songs they've been hawking for years.

Thanks to Supergrass' long-standing dedication to the well-placed smirk, they never succumb to sappiness. [Apr 2008, p.100]

Stepping out solo, the energetic multi-instrumentalist--assisted by guests including Dresden Dolls' Brian Viglione--does fine when he keeps things forceful. But when Nicolay decelerates, his weaknesses (cheesy croon, misguided piano) emerge, resulting in over-earnest, loungey balladeering.

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.

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.

A far more sonically consistent and textured work, cushioned in Americana, drenched in soul.... But there's no urgency to this album, which stops looking out at the world and settles in for some serious celebrity navel-gazing. [Nov 2000, p.195]

An album sanded with sad humor and a return to old loves. [Mar 2004, p.96]

On their second album, this Aussie duo's buzzy guitar pop is more hyper and gripping than ever, as she breathlessly spews dramatic tales that have the immediacy of crazed Twitter posts.

Lush, slo-mo, and mildly psychedelic. [Jul 2007, p.102]

Most of these ten tracks, though, make Jason Mraz sound daring.

In most of these dozen tracks (not including a ponderous intro regarding the necessity of risk and a slow-jam sequel to Jay-Z's "Empire State of Mind") Keys seems uninterested in breaking new ground, snooze-controlling her way through a series of familiar piano-soul platitude.

When the hooks of their surprisingly humble songcraft dull, Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. are mostly a spanglier version of the Spoon-fed types that flooded the Internet with serviceable but risk-free indie rock in the mid-2000s.

Though he inexplicably apes Slayer once again ('I'm Alright'), the tempered ingenuity is an encouraging turn.

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

Lovage's schtick wears pretty thin by album's end--but if it works like it's supposed to, you won't need to play it that long. [Feb 2002, p.108]

Extra Playful is as easygoing and steady rolling as he's ever sounded, serving up hooks, elegant Euro-beats, and a modicum of glee in poking fun at his own uptight image.

The Mountain Will Fall is only somewhat transcendent in its quiet moments, and the highs are too few and ephemeral. It’s quaint--a step away from the zeitgeist, but not quite future enough.

Despite its tortuous path to existence, Joyride is a strong, cohesive project.

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.

For now, we’re left with a deeply imperfect and too-often derivative album that is not without its charms, but won’t exactly help form the connection with the average listener that Halsey long ago established with her core fanbase.

Hipsters will hate it, but that's partly the point. Admitting he was "born and raised an Internet hate machine," Deadmau5 knows the power of provocation.

Shadow's bold beat-scaping is missed, but guests galore lace the esoterica with plenty of angsty personality. [Dec 2004, p.124]

Bassist Ariana Murray steps up to provide sonic stability. [Sep 2007, p.129]

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.

There are the irretrievably cheesy moments.... [But] Therein lies the strength of Kiss Me Once: Minogue's ability to turn any contrived situation into something positive, magical, and utterly her own.

Points added for the tiered release options, including a tour laminate for the most devout, and sticking with the drill-press guitar thing. Points deducted for inventing nu metal--still more for songs that won't let an audience forget it.

The sourness of their newfound perspective might be one thing if the music sounded any good, but doesn’t. Arcade Fire have re-committed to running away from their once sky-scraping stadium sound, further experimenting with the island sounds and disco grooves that bloated 2013’s Reflektor.

Ready to Die is a weirdly exhilarating gem, thanks to Iggy's fiery eloquence and the Stooges' still-raw power. Apparently rock'n'roll can be an old man's game after all.

[Simple Plan is] a band as spiritually distant from Dookie as John Mayaer is from Blind Willie McTell. [Dec 2004, p.124]

Blitzen Trapper's Eric Earley performs the amazing feat of making alt-country seem fresh on the band's gripping sixth album.

This time around he's tryin' too hard to be everything to everybody. [Apr 2005, p.97]

All over the map. [Feb 2004, p.104]

The Raveonettes haven't sworn off droning melodies and minimal percussion, but the duo's morbid Psychocandy métier gets a slight makeover on their fifth album.

Suddenly, these longtime collaborators seem like a mismatch worthy of Blind Date. [Mar 2004, p.95]