Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace is another quality entry in a fantastically average career.

With peaks and valleys, Stay Paid is patchwork, but Dilla's brilliance remains stunningly apparent.

All that pep blots out the undercurrent of longing that made their best '80s songs complicated and bittersweet. [June 2001, p.155]

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.

A workmanlike pop album, vocally immaculate and sonically au courant, but seldom more than functional.

[They] downplay the hip-hop boom-bap... in favor of busy pop jams that mirror the overstimulation of 21st-century life. [Apr 2007, p.93]

Hollywood brooder Ryan Gosling doesn't reverse the rule that actors make dubious pop musicians (see Keanu, Jared Leto, ScarJo), but his rickety collaboration with budding thespian Zach Shields has an undeniable dark charm.

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.

Whether or not you've made your peace with the datedness of Indie Cindy, as well as the sheer pile of things you did not want to see the band do, are you going to put it on repeat? More than you think, but less than they hope.

When things are going right, she reverentially nods to the sumptuous aesthetic that defined Marvin Gaye's What's Going On; when her form slips, it's like Dido gone "groovy." [Jul 2006, p.82]

The Watson Twins' songwriting isn't quite as memorable as their singing; too many of the tunes fade into open-mic background fare.

They’re about the feeling--everything tween inside every grown adult, and thus they are still unmistakably Carly even as she tries on new sounds. When Dedication falters it’s in the latter half, where her producers seem to be trying to chase pop, or at least Spotify “airplay,” by making her sound like everyone else.

It's a Wonderful Life comes off like a Magical Soft Mystery Bulletin. Yet, those iridescent orchestrations seem to be covering for the underdeveloped dirges that dominate the album. [Oct 2001, p.127]

Recommended for anyone who finds Beth Orton too raucous. [Nov 2007, p.125]

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

For the first solo album under his nom de tune, Scott Kannberg eschews the catchy cacophony of his earlier bands--Pavement and Preston School of Industry--for breezily quirky '70s country-pop and late-'60s psychedelia that's two parts Lindsey Buckingham and one part Roky Erickson.

An L.A. album in all senses of the term -- pretty, temperate, and incredibly surface. [Aug 2001, p.138]

The final result is an agreeable enough listen.

Dive is a pretty and sturdily crafted collection of techno maybe-memories-- hypnagogic pop for a very discerning Ikea shopper.

Thanks to frontman Tim Kinsell's pleasantly dispassionate delivery, an ambient coherence permeates the tunes, a quality that's both comforting and numbing. [July 2008, p.98]

More of the same, really, and what same is that anyway? His beats, hooks and musicality tread slightly above water.

The seven-, eight- and nine-minute lengths grow as wearing as the man’s past releases always threatened to, without actually losing momentum.

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

Two Matchsticks evokes the Everly Brothers' sibling intimacy, but Kenny's lonely campfire songs cling to a limited number of minor keys, similar tempos, and virtually identical arrangements.

The middle of the road was always their destiny, it seems, and they arrive with blatantly pleasant but character-free ditties to accompany you while shopping for a smart new Ben Sherman shirt, though those ditties likely will be forgotten the moment 
you exit the store.

Both sides would be well served by a bit of mingling. [Mar 2007, p.91]

Overall, Hawk faithfully follows its predecessors' dusty Americana blueprint, trading a standout Hank Williams cover for two by Townes Van Zandt.

She's more convincing as a moper, but the album's alternately punchy and slinky conclusion is heartening proof that's she's no quitter. [Nov 2008, p.102]

He, like the Beta Band, deftly creates a patchwork of Britain's mushiest styles, from Rubber Soul-era Beatles to Badly Drawn Boy's acoustic wanderings. [Sep 2006, p.108]

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

All in all, this is a well-written, smartly paced, tightly played, thematically cohesive, musically tidy piece of work. It's just that quite a lot of Camper fans probably never considered those qualities to be particularly appealing virtues.

You start out rooting for Lucas when his ex keeps his Pretenders album. But the more mean-spirited he gets, the more his melodies fail him.

The title track gusts in more forcefully, but on the duo's best songs, they harmonize like Simon & Garfunkel shutting their eyes against approaching shades of winter.

Old-school Weezer fans won't like it, and neither will blog-rock acolytes. But that's the point. Raditude is the murderous revenge of the middlebrow.

The results are hit-or-miss.

Smith sounds less joyful than usual, unable to reconcile religious faith with everyday hope. [Jun 2006, p.79]

[Brown] comes on like a lovable, if genetically engineered, soulman. [Oct 2006, p.95]

Thunderheist is all about the quick dance-floor fix, but Isis imbues her characters with quick-witted wickedness, and producer Graham Zilla churns out Spartan synth tracks that have an undeniably funky buzz.

Indistinct lyrics and plodding dynamics confine most of the songs to "just okay" status, but a few arresting tracks seem destined for a yet-to-be-built rock Valhalla.

Harper sounds most engaged on the disc's loudest, least melodic cuts: "Clearly Severely" is a furious, TV on the Radio–style soul-punk blast.

They're Old Schooled enough to ace history, but the science they drop is strictly C+. [Sep 2004, p.120]

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

Until they ditch folksy archaisms... maybe it's best for 'em young indie-blues fellers... [to] work on the good ol'-fashioned songwriting. [Mar 2006, p.95]

Odditorium... is a chance to repair their cred, and insofar as they have any, they do all right. [Sep 2005, p.102]

Uneven, overly reverential. [May 2005, p.110]

They vacillate between flotational devices and skull-crushers. [Apr 2006, p.91]

Shows a weakness for arena-rock voguing and Dawson's Creek-dipping melancholia. [Jun 2003, p.108]

To divide Hella's mind is to hack their talent in half. [May 2005, p.105]

The beats are so simplistic that their minimalist repetition occasionally teeters over into redundancy.

In their eagerness to show off the range of their toolbox, they stumble. [May 2004, p.101]

A stark, erratic, and perversely back-loaded collection. [Mar 2006, p.96]

These reimaginings... unlock some interesting textures suggested by [Black's] still-scratchy vocals. [Dec 2004, p.118]

This quasi-funky, horn-section-assisted record demonstrates that as a jazz vocalist, Ani's a fine folk singer. [Apr 2003, p.107]

What passed for refreshing last year is merely rote here. [Dec 2005, p.105]

Offers modest formal thrills without much depth beneath its glimmering surfaces. [Apr 2005, p.107]

Unfortunately, the elements that clicked so well on "Giuliani" prove an awkward fit on !!!'s sophomore full-length. [Jul 2004, p.111]

She tries to be jokey, warm, even friendly on occasion--but she also sounds awkward. [Jul 2004, p.105]

What's most British about the Music is their tendency to try way too hard. [Apr 2003, p.108]

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]

Dr. Dog can capture the irreverence and fun of their influences, but the Dylan-esque rambling and McCartney-indebted harmonies ultimately click too briefly, only inducing nostalgia for the moments when Dr. Dog shines.

It's weird how this spiral of genial melodic plaints can sound so weak and self-pitying when it's sung by a pushy dude and not a smart, empathetic woman with a voice. [Feb 2006, p.87]

The production is muddy, the sentiments vague. [June 2003, p.105]

The harpoons that Paul hurls at the industry's blubber have lost their edge. [June 2003, p.105]

Hazy, almost-there stadium anthems that don't quite fill the stadium. [Sep 2003, p.115]

While it offers clear highlights—“Run On,” “Holy Winter,” and “Time Goes By” feel like hallmark songs—its loud-quiet-loud pattern is predictable. This is well-trod territory for MONO, never reaching the emotional heights and cerebral intensity of Hymn to the Immortal Wind, the surprising instrumentation or disco-like drums of Pilgrimage of the Soul, or the more nuanced thematic play of the Dante-inspired Requiem for Hell.

Banhart brings the peace and love, but not the understanding. [Sep 2005, p.104]

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

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

Harper's a master of no genre. [May 2003, p.111]

His third album mostly shelves the wit and sui generis style-clash. [Jun 2005, p.108]

They've de-funned rebellion and turned it into a task. [Oct 2004, p.109]

The Dream of Delphi paints boldly at times, but the overall picture is uneven.

No longer the self-obsessed antihero, Slug continues his shift to serious storyteller, but the narratives here lack coherence and detail, while the music - ominous piano, lonely guitar - feels sketchy, like partial demos.

A prog-rock field trip that will give Diary fans something (else) to cry about. [Dec 2003, p.128]

While Gap is tougher and more fun than 1998's bland debut, Behind the Front, the Peas just aren't that good. [Nov. 2000, p.209]

With tighter, mercifully shorter songs, like the Slayer-meets-slash trasher 'Almost Easy,' they're now defiling America's youth with more substance than style. [Nov 2007, p.114]

It's more cerebral than aggressive.... A derivative effort that makes Keenan sound less talented than he actually is. [Oct 2003, p.105]

Some songs function well as singularities, particularly “New Level” and “Grandma,” which showcase a few of Ferg’s best qualities in spurts, but as a complete work, Always Strive and Prosper is a misfire that presses to be greater than the sum of its parts.

Vast proves his lyrical bona fides on gems like "Horoscope," rasping, "She would use music to escape / Press play, close her eyes, and dreamscape." Unfortunately, OX 2010's middling beats aren't quite as inspiring.

While some of the instrumental workouts (like "Safari Strut") are loose and inspired, it takes a handful of appearances from backpack-friendly rappers Percee P ("Reverse") and Mr. Lif ("The Gift") to keep Earthology from fading into lava-lamp background grooviness.

Thanks in part to an overly generous 73-minute running time, the reteaming rarely feels vital. [July 2008, p.100]

Beyond the fact that her voice is deep enough for her to front Crash Test Dummies, there's nothing particularly compelling about Scarlett Johansson's singing.

As a memorable exploration of the intersection between hip-hop and the blues, it ain't much.

The pseudonym and title (a wink to Yo La's mostly-covers Fakebook) indicate how this lark, with oft-inaudible vocals, is meant to be held up against the band's canon.

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.

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.

Here We Stand is tantalizing, but that's all. [July 2008, p.102]

Unlike her major-label LPs, this is a stringently stripped-down, dark-side-of-the-mountain album that's near impossible to cozy up with. [Oct 2001, p.131]

Skirting the emotional depths that marked his past work, Callahan's new persona feels almost shallow. [May 2007, p.84]

Sonic strategist Eno is clearly in "oblique" mode here.

Brandi Carlile works too hard on By The Way I Forgive You, and though sometimes this results in songs haunted by mourning, it also leads to songs that collapse into bathos.

I-Empire still makes you wonder what constituency DeLonge hopes to attract with such an anti-fun platform. [Dec 2007, p.112]

Rated R, Rihanna's first album since her brutal confrontation with ex-boyfriend Chris Brown, wants to recast her as a searing woman scorned. It doesn't quite take.

Crooked Shadows, their first album in nine years, folds the polished dynamics of contemporary pop into a hesitant, uneven collection of heartsongs that nonetheless ache and soar like vintage Dashboard.

Exciter is basically a vehicle for Martin Gore's increasingly formulaic songs... [June 2001, p.155]

On Chromatica, she seems too afraid or to removed from the Koons-loving side of herself to get too bizarre or to let the production dominate, two of Artpop’s best qualities. ... Chromatica functions as both stopgap escapism and yet another portrait of someone among us who’s trying to patch together her identity again.

Memories does indeed trigger some, particularly when a big-chorused rocker ("The Afterlife") opens up like a razor-blade suitcase. As for the ballads, you're better off YouTubing "Glycerine" -- or one of the tearjerkers ("Forever May You Run" ) from Rossdale's underappreciated 2008 solo disc.

[It] never rests in one spot. [Feb 2007, p.87]