Ultimately, the album succeeds despite the extra fuss, not because of it.

Maybe it's fitting that in the same year Wilco found a sense of humor, the glass of chief Bottle Rocket Brian Henneman is finally half-full.

The overly smooth production undercuts his righteous fury, suggesting the group harbors dreams of a Green Day-style commercial breakthrough.

On Voyage to India, Arie is just another girl on the neosoul train. [Jan 2003, p.98]

A jarring, but refreshing, makeover.

After five dark, swift albums, they tread fretfully toward maturity and make it seem like walking into the light. [July 2008, p.92]

Their debut shares Gnarls' yen for psychedelic weirdness and uncharacteristic (for hip-hop) emotional vulnerability, but with beats that are swampy, murky, and--when thumping below moaning guitars and spacey organ melodies--wholly disorienting.

Nothing sounds new, and yet it has no parallel in the old Alice catalog, because they were just so much weirder than we remember.

Nas' heart is in the right place but his mind is somewhere else entirely. [March 2003, p.119]

Their debut suffers from Morello's uneven arrangements, which vacillate between rousing hardcore funk and predictable hard-rock crunch.

The edge is smoothed down here, the bitterness outweighs the resignation, and strangely, the two sound stronger on their own. [Oct 2007, p.112]

The few moments where star power wanes, Teddybears suggest they don't have much to offer on their own.

When the messy, antic songs go pop (the Of Montreal-esque "Paperback Suicide"), they really pop; when they head into comedown territory ("Party Crashin'"), aimlessness ensues. Thankfully, Evening mostly partakes of the good stuff.

Well, pray the restaurant and lounge crowd is ready for a scruffy fellow traveler who can sing about "Cocaine and bourbon / Pinball and pool" without prompting any check requests.

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

You're better off soaking in the good choices here and resigning yourself to enduring the bad ones.

On True Colors, each track tries to be a separate statement as Zedd tries to crash through his own, pre-existing glass ceiling--but the whole falls short of the sum of its parts.

From the deep bellowing bass of Nat Baldwin to the horizon-racing ride cymbal of Brian McOmber, Mount Wittenberg Orca allows Bjork's singular diction to dovetail with the Dirty Projectors' quirky male-female vocalizing, floating weightlessly like a thousand ecstatic whooshes.

Idlewild grasps for a distinctive sound, departing almost entirely from rap per se. [Sep 2006, p.99]

Perry delivers the gurl-gone-wild stuff with requisite sass, but she actually sounds more engaged on "Not Like the Movies" and "One That Got Away"--quieter cuts that recall her singer-songwriter days at L.A.'s Hotel Cafe.

By Act III, T.I. faces down T.I.P. in the mirror during a bizarre skit, yelling, "Why can't you just talk about what's wrong with you? Why can't you just let everything out?" The same could be said for the ambitious but uneven T.I. vs. T.I.P.

M A N I A takes similar chances [as 2009's Folie a Deux] to more mixed results, as Stump belts out absurdly verbose lyrics over glossy, overstuffed tracks. But the album’s more experimental moments aren’t necessarily its strong suit. ... M A N I A hits its stride in the second half, with a pair of tracks that toy with religious imagery and waltz tempos, “Church” and “Heaven’s Gate.”

The indie Tina Turner follows up her tightly wound 2005 comeback, "I've Got My Own Hell to Raise," in the company of Drive-By Truckers and Muscle Shoals vets, whose mannered blues shuffles unfortunately sound like they're backing a beer commercial.

When they work up a good buzz and growl ('Batcat') or hit a scrumptious riff ('The Sun Smells Too Loud'), Mogwai still take your breath away.

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

Songs sag and soar at once.

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

Most of the music is fiercely restrained, characterized by short songs, skeletal atmospheres, and performances that have a mechanistic, flatlined intensity. Bad? No, but stiff, and sapped of the dynamism the twosome seemed to come by so naturally in the past.

The gentler E distances himself from his lycanthropic alter ego, searching for Ms. Right backed by a familiar arsenal of winsome melodies and elegant string arrangements.

Four albums in, this nourish duo are still unwavering in their approach: Chilly, disturbing lyrics emerge from a dense fog of blissful Spector harmonies and squalling Jesus and Mary Chain surf and strings. Only now, those lyrics are more bizarre.

The relatively trim Buoys winds up feeling as minor as 2018’s A Day With the Homies EP, despite being twice as long and bearing far higher expectations.

Hynes stumbles into typical self-indulgent twentysomething pitfalls -- his ideas can be overdetermined, and he often misjudges the thin line between disaffection and narcissism. Still, his imagination is formidable.

Not many of the expansive, leisurely songs on Asleep In The Back stick in the memory once they've ended, but they swoon nicely. [Mar 2002, p.127]

Four years on, Night Work finds the band mimicking Eurodisco on the cheeky title track, the Cars on "Skin Tight," Kraftwerk on the stiff "Something Like This," and Animotion's "Obsession" on pulsing first single "Invisible Light," just a step behind the times.

The result is minor Mary--strong by many standards, a bit tepid by hers.

Reality Check vacillates between Serge Gainsbourg's slutty cool and Jonathan's Richman's childlike poignance. [Apr 2008, p.106]

Though the content--our hero purging his heart, a la Marvin Gaye's "Here, My Dear"--ordinarily would be the focus of discussion for a platinum rapper, the musical structure overshadows his attempts at introspection.

Blööz, blahs and mad-stonerpunk.

Deerhoof's trademark guitar-noise scribbling has been transformed in the studio, resulting in bulky, segmented yet hummable compositions that signify--we think--the triumph of cutesy creativity over grouchiness.

The songs are about love and sex, but a hint of nihilism still lingers in Wolf's melodramatic vibrato. [May 2007, p.91]

Sumner still has a knack for making dopey lyrics sound profound atop guileless Brit-rock jangle and electronic moodiness.

Deradoorian’s arrangements now feel less exploratory than rudderless, her harmonies more droning than direct.

While the rock workouts never transcend their bar-band tropes, on the ballads ("Turn Your Pretty Name Around," "Black Eyes"), Olson & Louris evince real sorrow and regret with little more than a carefully picked acoustic guitar and ghostly organ tracing the tracks of their tears.

Accordingly, In Light is best absorbed in small portions, allowing you to savor the seriously catchy melodies and uplifting vibes.

Some of the tracks sound pretty tossed-off, but it's nice to hear such a brainy bunch not overthinking things. [Feb 2007, p.86]

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

Red of Tooth and Claw, like 2006's grumpier "In Bocca Al Lupo," runs low on contemporary touchstones or appeal. Keep this on your great-grandparents' Victrola, though, for a rainy afternoon of rootsy escapism.

Fender Rhodes–heavy groove of 2006's self-titled breakthrough gives way to more discernible melodies and socially conscious lyrics (see "Oppressions Each"), buoyed by soulful horns and backup vocals.

Too bad inconsistent vocal performances from Prince Po to MED, tempt you to switch the dial on this hour-long jam. [Nov 2008, p.96]

Unfortunately, the newfound confidence doesn't extend to lyrics rife with nonspecific, mixed-metaphorical angst that smacks of the overwrought youth demo they've otherwise outgrown.

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.

There's virtually no tension or drama in Keane's surpassingly pretty pop. [Jul 2006, p.90]

Let Me Come Home goes widescreen with a vengeance, trading in too much of the band's unhinged jig and bounce for a more generic-sounding epic soundtrack -- guitar and bass to the front, strings in the middle distance.

The title of Gomez's seventh studio album reflects the low-key, easy-flowing attitude these boyish Brits have maintained since winning the U.K.'s coveted Mercury Prize with their 1998 debut.

But too often, the Raconteurs' love of twisty, monolithic rock gives way to bombast that teeters between homage and parody.

Shotter's Nation is still clotted with half-realized melodies and gutter-poet grime. [Nov 2007, p.117]

Even the terrible parts of Born to Die are just so lovable, which bodes well for the actually great parts.

So, every sha la la-la and wo-o-wo-o still shines, as the brothers McDonald once crooned in Carpenters cover "Yesterday Once More" (which reached No. 45 hit on the charts in England!), or at least sort of shines: Cleaner production might've buried the vocals less.

The results don’t resemble the King’s hits nearly as much as Prince’s demos.

Both thrilling and baffling, the nine tracks prove that Vernon's appeal lies in his otherworldly sound, not in his broken heart.

DeBoer's political poesy lacks his predecessor's acerbic wit, and his singsong delivery is much less bracing than Sok's full-throated rant.

If the ranting occasionally suggests generic provocation for its own sake, Smith's fury, amplified by the pounding grooves, is oddly uplifting--in moderate doses.

The band retains the frenzied organ chug and indie-prog lurch of days past, and newish frontman Breck Brunson (who joined in 2006) is an impressively expressive yelper, but Ghost Games never skirts the border of sanity as much as it threatens to.

Iggy Pop's deadpan delivery on "He's Frank" sets the tone for an album that sometimes gets a little goofy, while the danceable "Toe Jam" pairs David Byrne with Dizzee Rascal (finally!). The lesser-known guests offer more misses than hits.

Though a handful of tracks sparkle, Under Ocean Blvd is a chore to ingest across its regularly lulling 77 minutes. ... Yes, Del Rey sings beautifully and will rightfully be recognized as a veritable voice of her generation — both in technique and disillusion — but here the cool distance she’s maintained between herself and listeners feels more expansive than ever.

Let's Stay Friends almost captures the band's sweaty, live weirdness on record, and it leaves enough breathing room for their wicked smarts to shimmy up through the hip-shaking indie punk. [Oct 2007, p.106]

The storytelling here isn't as sharp as on Common's previous albums. [Feb 2003, p.100]

The result is a listenable, more conventional version of his primary band. Though refreshing in a solo-career context, we've heard most of this stuff before.

At its best, Suckers' baroque pop struts confidently in glam platforms, blithely eager to please.

Singer Michael Vidal owns his gloominess and the band delivers arrangements that are plenty tricky, but their arty '80s excavation rarely finds the gooey, glittering choruses that would truly elevate their stylistic shift.

Effectively reinventing their sound with these glooomy anthems, Booka Shade should still rock the superclubs with ease. But some may miss the clever duo known for the carefree pulse of singles. [July 2008, p.94]

His music is also a hodgepodge: square sax-rock, Motown, bongo-heavy folk ballads, and sunshine pop, all tinted by Shin's guitar, which is alternately savage and buttoned-up.

While 2005's Fear of a Black Tangent was a hilarious, merciless evisceration of rap hypocrisy from the bottom up, he's now trying to address the wider world. [Feb 2007, p.82]

The album's finest moment comes on an aching version of Ray Davies' 'I Go to Sleep' that improves on the original (and the Pretenders' cover) by rendering it as a slow-motion, piano-splashed lament.

Unlike When I Was Born, which made similar pileups sound subversive, Handcream often feels mapless. [May 2002, p.122]

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

Minor Love still packs some Jonathan Richman–esque quirk, as Green croons in a Lou Reed deadpan about goblins, flatulence, and other concerns over solidly constructed lo-fi tunes.

The goofier aspects of his earlier work are missed here, as are his usual naturalistic beats, which have been replaced by squelching, ominously snaky G-funk.

[John Gourley's] thin, inexpressive singing and gloopy lyrics lack the mumbo-jumbo grandeur of Marc Bolan, an obvious influence.

Somehow, these constant flourishes enhance, rather than obscure, the disc's plentiful catchy bits, giving Person Pitch a resonant, off-kilter charm. [Apr 2007, p.93]

Hills and Valleys, their third studio album since reuniting in the late '90s, holds zero surprises--mixing Tex-Mex bounce, outlaw twang, and folkie sincerity--but it feels utterly right, like your favorite greasy meal at the local diner.

Mostly, though, they demonstrate that pop trumps piety.

To most listeners, though, Through the Devil Softly will simply function as a collection of breathily perfect lullabies.

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.

Despite the occasional mosh-pit flare-up, though, Taking Back Sunday emphasizes the band's crafty songwriting rather than the psychological intensity that defined Tell All Your Friends.

Brace the Wave doesn’t really crest above Barlow’s torrential output, it’s just another pre-frayed entry in a catalog of scratchy home recordings.

His songs get to where they need to go, but they’re lacking in narrative, specificity... purpose, if you will.

Like the good postmodern thrashers they are, Gojira blend blast beats ('Adoration for None'), sludge stomp ('Yama's Messengers'), and death-and-doom riff spirals (take your pick) with unexpected quirks, like the solid minute of stick taps that open 'The Art of Dying' and the math rock of 'Toxic Garbage Island.'

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]

On Happiness Ltd., they admirably mess with success, loading up their spastic, skinny-tie ditties with epic heft. [Oct 2007, p.104]

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').

As over the top as all this can be, Amputechture has little of the thrash influence that's made modern prog so deadening, and the impenetrable lyrics... are easily overlooked. [Sep 2006, p.104]

It's gleefully cheeky, but a little safe. [Oct 2007, p.96]

The vocals can still dilate your pupils, but her melodies (on "Ruler," "The Package Is Wrapped") deserve equal attention, as Stern bids to become one of the few finger-tappers who's also a songwriter.

The duo's tinny new-wave pop is spot-on. [May 2008, p.104]

Sounds of the Universe comes on a bit softer, with less industrial guitar clang and more of chief songwriter Martin Gore's dreamy atmospherics.