SZA isn't lost when sharing a song with big names, but she doesn't seem interested in pulling them entirely into her own world either.

While [Quality] cautiously courted the mainstream, he's made mass appeal Job No. 1 of late. [Oct 2004, p.112]

There's a pervasive lack of hooks, not to mention an eerie sense of anonymity.

Cut Mr. Hansen up, and he reassembles nicely, but weirdly enough, it's tough to out-Beck Beck. [Jan 2006, p.92]

Often brilliant, occasionally creepy songs such as the bitter toe-tapper "Without You" and the optimistic six-minute epic "Light of Day" aren't appreciably improved by the trappings, but still cut deeply

Almost every tune on Mo Beauty equals or betters those on CYHSY's lauded 2005 debut.

Ultimately, it's the stuff of a common nightmare--creepily thrilling, but not worth reliving.

Everywhere the guitars are cranked, the sneakers set on stun. [Dec 2003, p.124]

Music as spooky--and ultimately as sterile--as the hospital scrubs and surgical masks they wear onstage. [Sep 2004, p.120]

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

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

It's not that Chromeo's run out of ideas--they've been a one-idea band all along. But now they've got more of the world singing along, so their brand of fun suddenly means a little bit more.

Though still sunny and hooky, Leave No Trace lacks the enigmatic spark of its predecessor, especially now that the words are more readily understandable.

Noel Gallagher wrote two more tunes here, both excellent. Unfortunately, age has softened his heart, and he cedes the album's other half to his bandmates (including lead-singing brother Liam), who offer subpar material.

On her melodically powerful third studio album, she matures into the matriarch of her genre. [Dec 2007, p.120]

The record is crisply produced, with jittery, epic songs that just happen to be about getting older and maybe a little more cynical. [Nov 2007, p.125]

The Only Place delivers riveting drama in a rousing pop package, with Brion rescuing Best Coast from the fuzzed-out, lo-fi indie template, cleaning up their sound and enhancing the potential for mainstream appeal exponentially without diminishing their artistic credibility.

This disconnect between Jesus Piece's gambit and its execution, between Game's intention and the raps served up by his guests, results in the headliner being reduced to a mere spectator on too much of his own album.

Ween are still perved to the core.

Confused and lapsed Pumpkins fans have reasons to rejoice... this is a necessary, welcome return. Unfortunately, MACHINA does linger a bit too long on the softer side of things. But every time the tempo veers towards screeching to a halt, there's a well-timed boost of adrenal sound.

Rain Machine doesn’t have TVOTR’s Berlin Wall of Sound might, but it’s still an accomplished work.

Transpose the communal exuberance of Los Campesinos! to the U.S. and you've got this quintet, who prove that sunny, adolescent, pop-rock catchiness will never go out of style.

No one can say Black isn’t ambitious, and it’s nuanced too; easily Bentley’s most personal, affecting release yet.

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.

Romweber is still ruler of his own bossa nova rockabilly kingdom, skipping from surf-guitar rave-ups to spacey instrumentals to sepulchral balladry, with the occasional Xavier Cugat cover tossed in.

It meshes the two rappers’ sensibilities seamlessly, proving them kindred spirits all along.

Rich-guy gripes, Ying Yang booty boasts, and label-politics rundowns don't wear nearly as well as his amicable down-homey side. [Apr 2006, p.91]

Thier major label debut is drenched in the same warm sonic haze and bizarro imagery as Flaming Lips, but any weirdness comes in the service of the songs. [Nov 2008, p.98]

Fleetwood Mac connected with listeners because their perfect songs enclosed personal imperfections--they created an illusion of glossy best-coast living, then punctured that illusion with brutal truth. Hardly anyone on Just Tell Me That You Want Me summons that friction.

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

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.

Like most comedy albums, this one loses its luster upon repeated hearings.

For "Shakin' All Over," White runs Jackson's goblin-queen croak through the analog fetishist's version of Auto-Tune, while "Rum and Coca Cola" rides the most lopsided punk-calypso groove since Kid Creole and the Coconuts.

For the Volta, more is always more, but rarely has a band with this much potential been so willing to squander its strengths.

Interpol sounds both strangely distant and overly familiar, like a band struggling to remember who they are.

The problem is that the rantier Bemis gets about poseurs, the more he forgets to write hooks for his invectives, which strive for Real Boy's Broadway-punk propulsive grace, but strain under the weight of unsingable lines.

Haze's attempt to appear undefinable and resist categorization (as Dirty Gold's conversational interludes attest) is a laudable pursuit, but it leaves the record unfocused.

Ultimately, Just a Souvenir is the awesome, but hardly mind-bending, spectacle of an electronica wizard buying a fuzz box.

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

Puzzle gels the Kinks/Beatles sound the group obviously adores with something less dusty. Think the Sea and Cake playing with the Stone Roses. Or a chartier Belle and Sebastian.

Ambitious, uneven. [Feb 2004, p.96]

The resulting cavalcade of "decent bits" seldom leaves an imprint in your memory, let alone your heart. [Nov 2001, p.130]

A pretty accurate representation of the New York rock renaissance. [Jul 2003, p.110]

Their bright Americana ditties have a newly retro, country-fried twist that suits them just swell. [Nov 2008, p.88]

It's patient, pretty music, tinged with a cozy claustrophobia.

These eight tracks--only one of which stretches past the eight-minute mark!--actually make up the Mars Volta's most consistently compelling slab since 2005's salsafied "Frances the Mute."

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.

Her extreme choices can fall extremely flat when she tries too hard to force them to be what she wants (or, to put it in Sinead's own terms, when she winds up coming off as bossy instead of as a confident, charismatic boss). But when they pay off, it's all worth it.

The only misstep is frontman Adam Levine's raunchy lyrics. [Jun 2007, p.94]

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

The frail bodyslams on the band's debut album throb and stagger as if throbbing and staggering were against the grain. [Feb 2006, p.88]

A hectic sonic pileup. [Dec 2003, p.130]

As usual, though, Willett also tries to showcase his brainpower, clumsily referencing works most commonly studied in AP literature....But the four-song EP is perfectly short; if you focus on the sturdy tunes and ignore the pseudo-smartness, it's plenty sweet, too.

The Best Damn Thing rarely takes itself too seriously. [May 2007, p.89]

With Leisure Seizure, Vek doesn't retool his sound much -- slabs of jittery synths underpin his urgent yelps, which start to grate over 12 tracks.

The Getaway is about as good as you can hope for from a band who will, without reservation, hang out in a car with late-night-TV cornball James Corden with lavalier mics forcibly affixed to their naked torsos (a bit of movie magic I’d be okay never having properly explained, frankly).

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]

Pursues a darker strain of irony. [Dec 2004, p.124]

[It] focuses on Rolex-precise riffs to offset a battery of beats, rattles, and ringing bells. [Jul 2007, p.96]

A tepid effort that bogs down their previously rugged and introspective rock with power-ballad vibrato, lurid over-orchestration, and petulantly vague lyrics. [Feb 2007, p.83]

Most of Digital's songs seem somewhat suffocated. [Feb 2005, p.85]

Wilson is clearly energized, and it's delightful to hear one virtuoso finally meet up with another.

[BEP] pick up where the Fugees left off. [Aug 2003, p.119]

The bleaty rhythms and abrasive guitars start to pile up willy-nilly, and some of the more techno sections sound like kids going bazonkers in a toy store. [Oct 2004, p.109]

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

Relying on sturdy-legged piano chords ('I've Seen Enough'), boogie rock ('Mexican Dogs'), and caffeinated backbeats to boost Willett's narratives, Loyalty to Loyalty is rarely subtle.

Overall the young rapper's glorious flare of an introduction has not been brightening. His latest, Summer Knights continues this trend.

Quality-wise, the second half of the album has a higher batting average.

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

Yusuf's supple folk tunes predictably take a more spiritual route, yet largely avoid cosmic corn. [Dec 2006, p.104]

The selections range from pre-Frank material to the last song she ever recorded, all united by a distinctive rawness, her voice kept naked and slightly flawed, despite the sophisticated production.

Like Grandaddy, they know the future isn't glitch-free, but they're gonna throw a good party anyway. [Oct 2003, p.113]

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

Talk a Good Game is her realness in full flower, an album that balances world-weariness about relationships with infectious dollops of sexual agency, tackling the vagaries of love almost exclusively and offering anthems for experiences that every woman has had (or will have) at some point.

This time around, ATR's protest platitudes ("Are you ready to testify?") and electronic skronk-thud ("Digital 
Decay," with female member Nic Endo holding forth on Internet freedom), sound awkwardly dated.

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.

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]

Alpha Games is a reconfiguration of sorts. It’s not imitating the earlier works in Bloc Party’s catalog so much as it is building from them. Produced by Adam Greenspan and Nick Launay (IDLES, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Nick Cave), their latest creation is an exceptional addition to their arsenal.

Phish's first studio album since 2004 suggests that what brought these jam-scene kings back together after a five-year breakup wasn't unbridled passion, but faith in their well-oiled machine.

When the band's clattering, it's great fun ("Why Not"), but leave the tongue-in-cheek (or is it?) spoken-word title track at home and release the rock instead.

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

Apparently, this American movie is the story of the predatory woman who comes to your house, whaps the crap out of you, and makes you play the same song over and over again. [2/2001, p.107]

The sonics find themselves not proving enough either. They’re free, to do what they want, any old time. And it costs them.

El Khatib's full-length debut is a fine testament to the power of pomade nostalgia, cigarette-pack-in-sleeve tropes, and Gene Vincent licks.

Adding electronic gurgles to heavy, prog-rock power chords, The Secret Machines recalls Rush and Black Sabbath at one end of the sonic spectrum ('The Fire Is Waiting') and David Bowie’s spazzier, punk-era edge at the other ('Atomic Heels'). In between those far-flung atmospheric poles, the band proves they’re more than just the sum of their seamless influences.

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

Patti Smith misplaces her fearless edge. [May 2007, p.90]

There are awkward attempts at the strutting pomp rock of Queen, the pop reggae of the Police, and the wardrobe of the Strokes. [Apr 2007, p.86]

At times, the forlorn vibe can get oppressive--'Peacetime Resistance' goes one love-as-war metaphor too far--but overall, the album is a welcome return from these princes of the bummer.

Her fresh attitude eventually gets lost in a slew of downtrodden ballads that sink the album's second half. In other words, business as usual.

The mood is somber, mournful, and at times, downright postapocalyptic. But the best of these ambient orchestrations, gurgling uncomplicated beats, and scattered vocals add up to something emotionally wrought, even transporting.

1D’s swan song is hopelessly neither here nor there, appropriate to the drinking-age attention spans of an act whose solo careers beckon.

Flat... only a few songs flirt with her previous brilliance. [Apr 2005, p.102]

This set of hissy practice tapes varies greatly in quality with the demented trashing of a Beatles melody on "The Masks" and the snotty sneer of "Can You Give Me a Thrill???" abutting stoned instrumentals and solo noodling.

Where Viva La Vida showcased Coldplay's sense of adventure, this one feels more eager to please; the sonic detail accrues with such speed that it's like Martin and his mates fear you'll bail if they don't grab you straightaway.

Despite some truly awful lyrics--"Don't make me get mad and Barack O-bomb-ya" is particularly wince-worthy--both Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith sound reenergized, boosted by spirited cameos from Redman, Method Man, and Keith Murray.

The riffs have gotten sharper and more jagged as the punch lines have grown duller and less imaginative. Minus his smart-alecky cheek, it's increasingly difficult for McKeown to hold your interest.

Yes, the RZA is a legendary eccentric, but Digi Snacks is too impossibly weird.