The Ark Work is best at its most explorative rather than its most punishing.

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

The Brooklyn siblings forgo their 2007 album’s rock star cameos (Karen O, Gibby Haynes, Fred Schneider) and funnel their adolescent aggravations into nippy punk rousers, where closet monsters and rich kids alike get served a scuzzy skewering.

It plays like a retrospective of his signature sounds. [Apr 2008, p.100]

Psychology textbooks are less linguistically challenged and just as littered with cases of emotional breakdowns. [June 2008, p.114]

Wedged into Tigers' delicate array of Byrdsian pop, "Jerk It Out" will either feel like the album's solitary moment of ecstasy (couch potatoes, we're talking about you!) or an annoying distraction in the midst of a solidly assembled set.

It’s a record full of fits and starts, baffling successes and giggly failures.

Whether Eleanor echoes her grandmother or provides a less mature counterpoint, her gravity melds with Sarantos' gusto for a dissonance that's never entirely discordant. [Nov 2005, p.100]

His 18th, the recently released LP is modern country-by-numbers that will satisfy the faithful and mosey on under the radar of anyone else.

Though the album’s lyrics are occasionally vague, the moments of specificity induce raised eyebrows.

Much has been made of Yelawolf's Southern rock fandom, but Radioactive is more an ode to the Southern hip-hop movement that started to seep across the world a decade ago.

Sir Paul McCartney has made an utterly forgettable, featherweight record designed primarily to appeal to Sir Paul McCartney.

These songs are more believable--touching, even, if you’re not put off by the milky expressiveness of his voice--than the multiple attempts at rapping.

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

Grainger's solo efforts are more restrained than DFA 1979's sweaty frenzy, and ultimately, his blues-frilled rock would be pretty pallid if not for the playfully sarcastic undercurrents.

They return to the infectious anthems that made them Warped Tour headliners. [Aug 2007, p.110]

And while he may never amount to more than Aesop Rock-minus, there's some black magic lurking between his bitter introspection and his myriad producers' "goth-hop" illuminations. [Apr 2005, p.108]

His skill is still intact, but his music lacks its former inspiration, and he only digs a deeper hole for himself by taking aim at the youth.

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 debut by this Seattle indie-folk group suffers slightly from an abundance of niceness.

Folds is incapable of mediocrity, but Way to Normal comes way too close.

A confused, confusing album, MGMT treats contemporaneity as if it were an insulin shot.

Despite gestating for years, IV Play is an album that feels unattended to.

Elbogen pens lively lyrics about car chases and hot DJ ladies, but his arrangements trundle along stiffly, each song rendering an imitation of rock that's as finely detailed as a hobbyist's diorama, and ultimately about as exciting.

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.

Lacking lyrics as memorable as 2006's "Meds," Battle for the Sun is heavier but duller, with the gap between Molko's spindly melodies and the fatter, newly Americanized riffs widening.

Even emo and chamber music get roped into Sidewalks' exclamatory gush, verifying that there truly is no sound these two won't use to support their almost religious commitment to spreading huge grins.

Her vamping can't touch their steamy-windowed originals.

He's proven he can assimilate into the world of mainstream rap while still retaining his singularity.

She's not Katy Perry, not yet Carrie Underwood. But look out.

Lynch handles most everything else here--vocals, guitar, writing, production--creating soundscapes that are dark, unsettling, and often confusing.

This is no slavish style bite by Euro pretenders; it's a delectable refiguring.

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

Glowing Mouth's general disillusionment anchors its sprawl.

A moving listen, despite patches of redundancy. [Oct 2004, p.111]

Does its best to earn a few Daft Punk comparisons. [Aug 2006, p.82]

Lip Lock may not be the best rap album of 2013, but it's interesting, and it's honest. After 11 years, that's a respectable way to ride out.

Bright, anxious pop-rock melodies that pulse with a geeky charm. [Sep 2006, p.114]

Believe sounds so dry and crisp it could have been recorded on a Dell laptop. [Oct 2002, p.113]

Sydney Vermont and boyfriend Dan Bejar have spent the past two years quietly assembling their debut album's sublime folk rock. [Mar 2008, p.102]

There Are Rules doesn't contain a single tune that lingers afterward.

Unfortunately, these hook-starved arrangements tend toward a static brand of ambient cabaret, which makes Amos' lyrics easy to tune out. Too many little earthquakes, not enough seismic jolts.

[He] veers awkwardly into slickly arranged, radio-friendly verse-chorus-verse. [Sep 2005, p.109]

This third batch has something to prove, and Bloom makes the most of it, stutter-riffing his best Toadies impression on “Hearts in Motion” and sneaking the timeless gorgeousness of Sebadoh’s “Too Pure” into “Down.”

The Less You Know, the Better 
is equal parts frustrating and admirable.

Guest shots from rock stars like Tom Morello and Scott Weiland can't make up for a sorry lack of head-banging hooks... [Sep 2001, p.163]

The human element is a diva parade that skates by like Lilith Fair on (dry) ice: opera-lite from Jan Johnston, squishy spiritualism from Dead Can Dance, the dread Sarah McLachlan belting the coda of DJ Tiesto's remix of Delerium's "The Silence." [Jan 2001, p.118]

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

The pop-rock of the album’s first half is relaxed, breezy, intimate, and dull; the twitching beatscapes of its back end are tense, fiery, theatrical, and void.

[He] has a goofy sense of humor and an excellent feel for the dance floor but virtually no knack for song form. [Sep 2006, p.114]

Occasionally, Lee's wit triumphs over his predictability. [Oct 2007, p.106]

It slips down easily, and the duo's knowledge and pedigree (their debut is out on 16-year-old rave label Ultra Records, once home to the Chemical Brothers and Tiësto) also satisfies the yen of longtime dance-music lovers who might be side-eyeing all the Johnny-Come-Latelies.

Morbid.... The beats are never as heavy as the subject matter. [May 2004, p.108]

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.

Sasha is an intriguing but diluted direction.

Evidence and Iriscience remain so humorlessly hard they could guard Buckingham Palace. [May 2004, p.108]

Moonwink's manic tunes are miniature rock'n'roll extravaganzas, with intricate melodies and airtight, detailed arrangements providing a dramatic setting for chamingly woozy singer Nick Krill. [Nov 2008, p.102]

It's when Jet explore the territory between their lodestars [AC/DC and the Beatles] that they go from being decent mimics to inconsequential imitators. [Nov 2006, p.96]

Last year's remarkably lewd "12 Play: Fourth Quarter" may go down (so to speak) as one of the great unreleased albums in pop history. Fortunately, several of its prime cuts, including the silky-smooth 'Go Low,' surface on Untitled, which contains no shortage of fresh raunch.

Consciously or not, U2-style evangelism is all over the Mumfords' bland but biblically titled second album, Babel.

Rather than diluting Lewis' appeal, the mainstream-accessible, arena-sized sound of Eclipse feels like it's unlocking the potential for Lewis to reach new heights with his indie-dressed soul-pop.

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.

Fragments' gives us vacuous, "you go girl" funk that bites Michael Jackson and Grandmaster Flash without either of them biting back.

They just want to rock you into peaceful submission, and they are successful about 70 percent of the time. [Dec 2002, p.135]

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

Before I Self Destruct starts with 50 Cent literally growling, and it ends, on 'Could've Been You,' with Kelly crooning about sniffing his own excrement. Both sound equally laughable.

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

A Perfect Circle prove that they've got not only good taste, but real bite, too. [Dec 2004, p.117]

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

With contributions from various of-the-moment producers (TV on the Radio's Dave Sitek, Santigold's John Hill), the Brooklyn boho's major-label debut is a painfully hip slice of style-mag electro-soul.

Ladyhawke’s long-awaited Wild Things is both a Tegan and Sara-worthy fever dream and a Little Boots-ian collection of expertly rendered synthesized-rock.

The result is a nightmarish mess, but it's no relapse into disarray.

The Heat pay homage to punky Midwest weirdos from Devo to Brainiac over grimy fuzz bass. [May 2003, p.116]

Expends a lot of energy hating the haters and growling at the gold diggers. [Jan 2003, p.99]

This stunning Dane's synths-plus-strings slant on singer-songwriter lovesickness offers refinement over innovation, yet Nanna Øland Fabricius beguiles with a gently insistent presence.

Zoom in on this overproduced second album, dripping with newly emboldened lyrical pretensions, and you'll find cracks in the enjoyable cliches. [Jun 2007, p.91]

Their sophomore effort, the result of a song cycle commissioned by WNYC DJ John Schaefer, shows a thoughtful maturation from winsome debut Taller Children.

Depending on your disposition, former Moldy Peach Kimya Dawson is either endearingly naïve or impossibly irritating. Parents who fall into the former camp could do worse than this children's album (it beats Kidz Bop!), but caveat emptor when uptight grandparents are around.

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

In those rare moments when they're truely wired, Texas' odd couple bring quirky soul to the music of machines. {mar 2008, p.102]

Not Without a Fight bobs and weaves between chugga-chugga riffs and poppy lead licks, with Jordan Pudnik's well-meaning whine bouncing off Chad Gilbert's more assertive (and appealing) bark.

Aneurysm drumming and Offsprung power chords mimic the tiffs of teenage L-U-V. [Nov 2001, p.129]

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]

Flowers, a collection of mystical-seeming noise collages, absurdist dirges, and Pavement soundalikes, is as listenable as it is difficult to pin down.

Embrace Maximo for being smarter than most or just shimmy along. Either works.

Their swirl of guitars and organ is even more densely alluring, but the arrangements let in some welcome light. [Oct 2005, p.137]

Compared to the sleek, grandiose flash of Coldplay's last two albums—Viva La Vida and Mylo Xyloto, both underlined by help from Brian Eno--Ghost Stories feels as melancholically light and airy as Parachutes, while ironically sounding more like Eno.

The now-24-year-old's voice may be simple, but it's distinctive--and as defiant as her album titles.

There are pleasures to be found on Walk It Off, and in the context of Tapes 'n Tapes growth as songwriters, the record is a modest breakthrough. [Apr 2008, p.102]

Blunt and crass, 2013’s Black Panties is all about selling nostalgia for a bygone age of hard-body sexist black machismo that Barack Obama is, in his own quiet way, helping to deflate.

The processed guitar-based tracks on Rug don't quite rollick or shimmer, but with Alanis it's the lyrics, not the music, that count. [Apr 2002, p.114]

Stunning pop for pale after-party people. [March 2003, p.119]

Johnson uses his brain instead, bumming over the war, airplane turbulance, and the widespread deterioration of manners on chewy, Moog-speckled ditties that reveal an arty streak he's kept secret until now. [Feb 2008, p.94]

On record, though--and particularly this one, which presents churchy performances in mixes both realistic and surreal--these same Up With People tropes don't work as well, particularly with prolonged exposure, as inferior follow-ups to promising debuts by the Polyphonic Spree and I'm From Barcelona have proven.

Very little here could be accused of being twee; Folds sounds invigorated to have a rock band behind him again, making him play harder, sing harder, be harder.

It's slight and, even at its liveliest, inconsequential. [Jul 2007, p.92]

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

A 20-minute appetizer that's short, sharp, and impressively tart.