The song choices aren’t a deep excavation from the quicksand of their record collection (“Friday I’m in Love,” “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”), and the uniform decision to do these all in a clean format with brushed percussion and campfire acoustics is exactly what one would presume from an all-covers venture.

It's reliably beautiful, if staid. [Dec 2007, p.124]

Fifth Harmony’s talents do get their shine in spots of this front-loaded hodgepodge.

It's far from an implosion, far from spectacular.

Here, they deliver the sort of mid-tempo, orch-pop fussiness that they'd been praised for transcending.

Now even Gary Powell’s drums can’t give these sodden valentines the right kick.... The best Anthems recall a time when Doherty and Barât could still tickle each other.

While Decemberunderground sounds terrific, at times Havok's dear-diary lyrics are so awkward they're almost laughable. [Jul 2006, p.81]

It's a given that Gutter, like the ex-Pulp sideman's five previous shimmering, sepia-toned solo albums, has moments of heartbreaking beauty. Too bad those moments are outnumbered by a reliance on secondhand lyrical conceits (songbirds, shipwrecks) and drifting arrangements.

On the good side, there’s the spacey disco-funk of “Palace of the Governors” and “Begin Countdown.” Describing Deerhoof songs frequently forces you to invent delirious fictional bands to compare them to; the latter of these two sounds like the Meters as covered by an ensemble of Teletubbies. On a handful of songs that litter the album’s second half, however–”Sea Moves,” “Singalong Junk,” “Kokoye”--the band searches at its borders for a new sound to bring back and doesn’t find anything very interesting.

While Jones' confidence as an MC has grown, his talent still lies more with songs of the streets than with songs of the sheets.

Mostly wordless and free of Birgisson's trademark rapturous build-and-release, Riceboy Sleeps is more ideally suited for yoga poses or total headphone absorption.

If you've ever fantasized about Vedder singing you, or your kids, to sleep, consider your wish fulfilled.

At times, the results are a bit aimless; even a cute kids' chorus can't save "My Generation" from Joss Stone's wailing or Lil Wayne's awkward motivational turn. When the two principles catch a groove, though, it's impressive.

Earlimart's sixth full-length doesn't break new ground -- those Elliott Smith comparisons will keep on coming -- or approach the sublime sexiness of fellow Los Angelenos Rilo Kiley. But it's an undeniably solid set of droney hooks.

The thrills come when he jumps off the cross and gets on the dance floor. [Nov 2001, p.129]

No instant classics... but the productions remain fresh, hype, and kaleidoscopic. [Oct 2006, p.94]

They're all pretty good, actually, especially "When It's Over"... [Aug 2001, p.129]

It features another ten songs of standard Pollard-isms--vaguely British, Robyn Hitchcock–esque vocals warped by reverb and Echoplex mazes; surrealistic, first-thought-next-thought lyrics; sudden loud crunches of lo-fi guitar; and melodies that soar but never quite achieve the permanence of his best work.

Trent Reznor's dark symphonies of clank succeed when their bleakness is broken by moments of humanity or hilarity, both of which come from the Nine Inch Nails mastermind's serrated scream. But when Reznor's haunted-spaceship beats combine with the seductive coo of former West Indian Girl vocalist Mariqueen Mandig (his wife) on the trio's debut EP, the results too often suggest a plodding, Matrix-style soundtrack.

The Odd Couple is basically a more refined "St. Elsewhere," without the rap aberrations or goofy covers that made the debut such a wild, bumpy ride. [Apr 2008, p.91]

Rausch’s ambitious structure is an incomplete but laudable step forward. If Narkopop was a belated capstone on the first era of Gas, Rausch might be the first real statement of a coming second phase. And its status as second-tier Voigt doesn’t necessarily portend dire things to come.

His fourth album is a buzzing, overblown concept piece about psychic warfare, in which sheer force of will conquers icky stuff like depression and homophobia.

This is oval-shaped music, circling around the tracks; it’s accomplished, but not particularly infectious.

Songs of Experience, clicks into place more boldly than Songs of Innocence did three years ago. Tempos are alert, riffs punchy, melodies sharp. ... It’s also too bad the album’s second half gets stuck in pensive midtempo mode and never recovers.

Kensington Heights is a mixed bag of aesthetically correct placeholders. [May 2008, p[.98]

Rather than go fierce, Kid Sis has gone house, crafting a debut that's high on her Chicago hometown's pulsating synthetic beats and '80s freestyle reinventions, but low on chiseled rhymes. Move along; no savior to see here.

By design, the band doesn't rock as hard as it used to. Doesn't punk as hard as it used to, either. [12/2000, p.215]

He finally gives his dark, dense instrumentals room to breathe on his fifth album. [Sep 2007, p.136]

These impressionistic songs shudder to life under the weight of passive-agressive feedback, anchored by Bouzulich's melodramatic howl and Tara Barnes' menancing bass. [Apr 2008, p.96]

The main problem with California isn’t that the songs are bad--it’s just that there are too many (16 for some reason), and not enough ideas to fill them.

On Far Side Virtual, he makes a glowing, glossy album out of everyday digital detritus.

It's like an alt-rock adaptation of a John Cheever anthology. [Apr 2007, p.87]

He seems plenty happy to hone coulda-been Nirvana licks to perfection on Afraid of Heights, which, despite being an album of all-new material, still feels like the Incesticide of his canon.

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.

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.

Bliss isn't the Boss' bag. Without anything to push against, one of rock's most eloquent lyricists is in the awkward position of having little of interest to say.

From the girl in "Till He's Dead or Rises" who has "the fear of Jesus on her side" to the way in which "First Air of Autumn" is an identical twin to Brighter's superior "Perfect Timing," the album sounds like the kind of holding pattern release that causes fan-bleed.

His beat-poet spiel is more character-actorly than ever, but hyphenated-man is also more accessible than you'd think, thanks to Watt's skittery bass lines.

These songs [“Greedy,” “Into You” and “Touch It”], which unite a strong persona--haughty, insatiable, a little manic, really into you--with a vivid pocket version of one style or another, are the core of a swift, heedless pop album, albeit one struggling to emerge from the false notes (“Dangerous Woman”) and rote 2016 obligations (Future) of what’s probably an executive-mandated bagginess.

One Life Stand finds the boys settling down and growing a tad soft in the middle.

Sad-eyed generalists with a knack for cinematic spookiness, they aspire to Wolf Parade's adventurousness, but often descend into lumbering, Interpol-style self-seriousness.

While there's nothing here as dense and biting as the Ministry slams of Bush Sr. in the '90s, Jourgensen can still pile on the jackhammer beats and clever samples.

Some newcomers might find Ecstatic Sunshine's loops tedious, but brain-melting repetition is the point. [June 2008, p.108]

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

This is Barnhart's least discursive outing yet. As a result, it's also his most predictable. [Oct 2007, p.108]

these increasingly experimental Girls remain an appealingly peculiar party band. [Sept 2008, p.112]

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.

Musical achievements that once came easily (if not accidentally) to Sebadoh must now be persistently willed; processes that once pointed toward self-discovery now only offer a familiar balm.

His latest is dedicated to "the spirit of the summer night sky," and that's an accurate, if slightly cornball, description of these six impressionistic guitar instrumentals.

Trades Parachutes-era wistfulness for Kid A-style gloom. [Mar 2007, p.88]

[It] threads seductive, chiming melodies through robotic, New Order-style rhythms. [May 2007, p.90]

Charles Thompson has fittingly made an album that sounds more like the Pixies than any of his previous solo efforts. [Oct 2007, p.96]

She's smart to dress her aching, powerful voice in something other than rhinestones. [Nov 2008, p.90]

Man From Another Time cuts a steady rolling groove that wears well, from the opening salvo of "Diddley Bo" (which turns the Bo Diddley backbeat sideways) to the closing cover of "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry."

Medicine County is more boisterous than 2008's Dirt Don't Hurt, but there's still something pleasantly lackadaisical about Golightly's delivery, and her songs never feel like they've been blindly co-opted.

Each track on this Canadian quartet's second full-length opens with some clever reshuffling of precise drum pecks, TV-hum synths, Strokes-like guitar, and David Monks' reedy, wry vocals. Three minutes later, you're left with the mildly pleasing, indistinct memory of yelped choruses, mathy breakdowns, and mid-tempo breeziness.

She remains singularly compelling and lovable as a celebrity, even if her records don't always match up to her outsized persona. Even at their worst, they only prove that the art is sometimes unworthy of the artist.

[It] scales back the Weimar guignol of 2003's The Golden Age of Grotesque in favor of classic industrial and glam. [Jul 2007, p.98]

The majority of cuts on Goon still feel like demos: languidly spaced chords, carefully measured arpeggiation, and hardly anything so gauche as a groove. The twinkle, such as it is, comes from the vocal.

This throwbackin’ threesome--an expanded version of frontman Guy Blakeslee’s subdued solo outing under the name Entrance--kills it when they stick to the classic power-trio formula.

Looks back to Dixie-Narco, their 1992 EP that brought raw-power ferocity to Memphis soul. [Sep 2006, p.110]

It's a relatively solid record, but without any of the spectacularly gritty flashes the Wu are known for.

Though not blessed with the strength of his father's voice, he makes the most of Dad's knack for pretty melody. [Nov 2006, p.102]

Keep Your Eyes Ahead maintains a dense soundscape with electronic tinges, but adds a fresh, succinct tone, trimming songs to four minutes tops.

The Hold Steady are mellowing, and it doesn't really suit them.

Here, awash in bedroom multitracking, she's more diffuse.

The resolutely midtempo album peaks with the ghostly "Ace of Hz" (recycled from a 
recent greatest-hits record), which polishes chillwave's hazy psychedelia into glossy yet dense ice sculptures.

Though Welcome doesn't quite congeal into an artistic statement--it's more like a collection of promising demos--Pants flips his shopworn styles with more panache than the average bedroom producer.

A New Tide also contains some of the band's most straightforward material yet.

Patrick Sullivan and company hint at broader possibilities on their fourth album, verging on a nasty ZZ Top-like boogie in 'No Dreams," and tiptoeing into funk on the crunchy rocker 'Alive Among Thieves.' [Oct 2007, p.108]

Most everything here is played too fast and mixed too loud, the live instrumentation doesn't swing, and the vocals often suggest karaoke Kylie Minogue. But the songwriting remains period-perfect and consistently well crafted.

After honing their Cure impression on 2007's breakout "Our Ill Wills," these heart-on-sleeve Swedes team up with indie crossover producer Phil Ek (the Shins, Modest Mouse, Fleet Foxes) for a third album of ably crafted sincerity.

When the clamor stays spare, the threesome's clank and bleep stumbles into beauty, and their feedback morphs toward free jazz. [Nov 2006, p.105]

A poor man's Aimee Mann. [Jan 2003, p.99]

Playing like 12 unmastered seven-inches varying wildly in style and volume levels, Nothing Fits vacillates between feral Wire putter, psych-addled Wipers soar, and bleary No Age blur.

Slinging new styles and innovating them are separate matters. [Oct 2006, p.100]

Flavorsome but oddly ordinary. [Aug 2006, p.77]

Even if he never wins back the Interpol/Bright Eyes bystanders he lost with 2004's overly heavy, underachieving self-titled punt, Smith finally rewards longtime fans with a proper Cure album, not a quasi-solo-project facsimile.

If the lyrics are getting all the attention on Digital Garbage, it’s only because the music is exactly what you’d expect. Mudhoney’s sound hasn’t changed much since the early ‘90s. ... Mudhoney are comfortable with themselves to a fault.

Nelly's caught between a rock and a hardass place--he's too edgy to comfortably collaborate with 'N Sync's Justin Timberlake but too corny to dig into the Neptunes' sleazily sinister beats on lead single "Hot In Herre." [Aug 2002, p.109]

The album frequently slips back into forgettable genericism, and its back half is mediocre--but it’s also a strength. At its high points, Revival is marked by this lush, sphinx-like readinessss: as if, after a decade and a half of being nonstop front and center, Gomez has finally figured out what it means to center herself.

The anger is a new look for him, as is the role of political pundit or chronicler of social ills. And ultimately, Ludacris still sounds best on tracks like the NC-17 "Woozy." [Oct 2006, p.99]

5SOS finds a balance in their sound here that feels right for them, and ultimately the accurately titled Sounds Good Feels Good suggests there isn’t actually all that big of a gap between the boy band and pop-punk milieus, and probably never was.

The competition is tough for Emo's Most-Avowed Dramatist -- Gerard Way? Jared Leto?! -- but Panic! at the Disco singer Brendon Urie might take the golden compact.

The more down-the-middle SVIIB shows that these postscripts aren’t always special, but we’re grateful for the closing chapter nonetheless.

Again Into Eyes only truly perks up near the end when they call up their inner Psychedelic Furs on more straightforwardly swooning ballads like "Faith Unfolds."

Armstrong, bassist Mike Dirnt, and drummer Tré Cool push Idiot's conceits even further on 21st Century Breakdown, a slick, class-obsessed, 70-minute, 18-song, three-act cycle that trades Bush-era indignation for Obama-era resignation.

All three of these projects emanate a tasteful, bloodless efficiency. The songs appear to take chances--sweeping chord changes, symphonic progressions, darts into electronic sound--but there's little at stake.

Things go slightly south with wedged-in jokes, but if you overlook those interruptions there's enough fuzzed-out fun and tender, Shins-like classicism to transcend any retro trappings. [July 2008, p.100]

The inspired moments of sunny pop and weirdo noise seem effortless, but so does all the aimless jamming.

The Dead of the World holds firm to the orthodox occult black metal machinations we’ve come to expect.

Predictable and immaculately produced, these arena-shakers offer a familiar brand of Jersey cheese, but where Jon Bon Jovi once was kind of quixotic ('Livin' on a Prayer'), he's more contemplative than ever, turning out meditations like 'Live Before You Die' ("There'll come a day when you have to say hello to goodbye").

Boss finds the duo still feral but also forlorn. [Oct 2007, p.106]

Lasers works best when the grabby hooks, electro beats, and conscious rap rants are all turned down a notch.

As defiant as this gang of four wants to be, they can't help but humbly return to their strengths.

He cuts through Slime & reason's rudeboy grime with poker-faced nerve. [Nov 2008, p.100]

When [Ethan Miller] bellows, "Lord, have mercy on my soul," the result is hokey, irresistible fun.

Of course, it’s much too much, but the fact that it works at all is a testament to their commitment to well-honed rock hypnosis. Good luck finding the front door when it’s done.