The duo's virtuosic picture of the 21st-century city feels so alive it might convince Escape From New York's Snake Plissken to return.

Ruess’ songs are a puzzle: They contain no memorable lines but the arrangements act as if they do.

FWA is slicker than most mixtapes--and on tracks like the opener, his flow remains a spectacle--but there’s also the pervading sense here that he’s playing it safe.

Bangerz is a precise album that flits between bombastic and turgid; it is not very fun.

His lonesome drawl may sound arresting when it's 3 a.m. and you're stumbling home from the bar, but maudlin tunes like 'You Don't Feel Like Home to Me' and 'Some Tragedy' need more than quietly strummed minor chords to sell their hard-luck laments. [Oct 2007, p.104]

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.

With such sharp detail, Kaiser Chiefs have elevated themselves from a singles band to a group that's capable of both having a laugh and making a focused statement about life's less gleeful side. [Apr 2007, p.92]

Ruins mostly sticks to compelling, pretty surfaces and leaves the demons in the background.

At his most excitable ('No Direction'), yearning frontman Steve Schiltz aims for the stadium's back row, Bono-style, though the dogged pursuit of spiritual uplift generates more fatigue than enlightenment.

Old-school romantic Ville Valo croons as often as he screams, so that even when aiming for the stylistic median, a bit of local weirdness oozes forth to make Screamworks more interesting than it's designed to be.

Legendary Weapons attempts a reinvigoration by employing session band 
the Revelations to muster up grooves that recall the sort of '60s soul songs that RZA once loved to sample. It's a quaint idea, but the execution is too slick to mesh with the raps, and fails to evoke the Wu's murky pall.

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.

This isn't a great album, but it is a good one, in a year quietly blessed with a small crop of good records (Metric, Gossip) with dreamy synths and girls up front.

Bernard Butler, hipster rock's Jerry Bruckheimer, produced this impressive debut, a tsunami of galloping rhythms, lightning-charged guitar lines, and choruses that immediately infect your brain.

Justin Timberlake, Timbaland anf Timbo's partner Nate "Danja" Hills, provide a reasonably good return on investment. [Dec 2007, p.118]

Sliding away from his Marc Bolan fixation, Vandervelde sounds more like a subpar Lindsey Buckingham (there's even a cocaine lyric on 'Someone Like You'), offering shlocky '70s AM pop rock on drifting, overlong tunes like 'Need for Now.'

Only the electric "It Begins Tonight," righteous of riff and bonkers of solo, plays to his strengths; the rest is like watching Michael Jordan bat .235 in Birmingham.

There are no musical clangers, and occasionally the guitar work is more ambitious than it needs to be. Bryan’s voice, when it is low and slow, is more exciting than his bro-holler, but both are pleasure for pleasure’s sake--and pleasure is enough reason to listen to this collection.

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

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.

There are no such standout cuts here.

Holy Ghost is something of a wash... Winter Women, though, boasts some of [his] best material. [Sep 2006, p.111]

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

With Gwen Stefani sidelined by motherhood, Canada's Dragonette fills the No Doubt void by walking a similar line between girly electro pop and boyish new wave.

There’s not even anything very embarrassing about Black Laden Crown, the first Danzig album since 2010’s Deth Red Sabaoth--it’s just plain old boring.

This is a concept/protest record about Monsanto, and unless your blood boils as intensely about the issue as Young’s, the protest element of that is handled so clumsily that it sinks the album entirely.

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.

The latest from these Nebraska dance rockers doesn't instantly charm like the '80s flashbacks found on 2001's breakthrough, "Danse Macabre." But its fixation on the present pays off with repeated plays as clashing guitar and keyboard hooks hammer home the Faint's central theme--the chaos of a world in conflict.

This is a pivot, this record, and a shrewd one, but "shrewd" and "boring" are not mutually exclusive.

South's tunes tend to wobble in very slow circles, and Joel Cadbury has picked up soggy vocal habits from Coldplay's Chris Martin. [Mar 2002, p.127]

On his second agit-folk album under the Nightwatchman persona, Rage Against the Machine and Audioslave guitarist Tom Morello incorporates electric instrumentation and foregrounds his sonorously ponderous baritone, aspiring to, if not attaining, the gravity of Johnny Cash, Tom Waits, and Nebraska-era Bruce Springsteen.

War Stories feels more like a random compilation than a fresh exploration. [Aug 2007, p. 110]

As it stands, with its insistence on aggressive polyrhythm and bumping bass, 2 of 2 is most certainly a funky record, but it's hardly a deeply soulful one. That's not a distinction without a difference.

The vibe here is mellow, unremarkable, and a touch contrived. [May 2007, p.85]

Much of the record satirizes plastic surgery and oversexed macho men, but despite the ironic humor, there’s a compassion in the music that’s unexpected coming from a band best known for a Taco Bell–referencing novelty hit.

Five songs, one skit, and just 18 minutes total, this is a concentrated dose of Mr. Muthafuckin' eXquire's spaced-out, drink-and-fuck-too-much, end-of-days rap. It's also frustratingly brief and low-stakes, though it leaves you immediately anticipating his next move.

Employing a variety of producers, Everything undertakes a cathartic reinvention via late-night, sex-driven trips through dim, sweaty basement parties.

The Trickster's best record in years. [Aug 2003, p.119]

They're an American band that sound like British Francophiles, right down to the pip-pip accent in leader Jay Gordon's Gary Numan pout. [12/2000, p.223]

"Original Prankster" is one hell of a rump-shaker... the rest of Conspiracy buzzes from skate metal to Ozzed-up pop to Chili-peppered funk-punk to Billy Squirey sleaze-core. [Jan 2001, p.113]

The surface-heavy results suggest painstakingly remixed outtakes.

Dead Petz is a short-lived album by design.

The erstwhile Moldy Peaches wears out his welcome at 20 tracks, each one unrelated to the last and haphazardly abandoned around the one-and-a-half minute mark. [Apr 2008, p.98]

Clef sounds more invested in his music when he's appropriating other people's songs. [Jul 2002, p.109]

While the vocals and arrangements are more ambitious and arguably better, there's less free play, less of the goofiness and kewpie-dancehall scatting that defined her. [Jan 2004, p.98]

Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded, like a Whitman's Sampler, has something chewy for everyone.

Synth-driven grooves that feel communal and cosmic at the same time.

There's a hypnotic purity to Innocents.

Th Peas keep it exuberantly funky.

As always, Argos stumbles into poignancy on his way to the punch line.

Like cans of Monster Energy Drink, this collection is spracked out and ridiculous and fun and sometimes disposable, just one more shard of debris left in this kid's wake, and his generation's.

Represents a major upgrade in Dashboard's sound. [Jul 2006, p.83]

The muffled, placid Daybreak lacks the burn of the first two parts and never illuminates.

They're still pretty fly for old guys. [Jan 2004, p.97]

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

Most of the energy of New English is poured into his (trademark?) ad-libs. The staccato yeahs and machine-gun sound effects do a good job of convincing you that you’re listening to an exciting project. But after a while, it just starts to make your head hurt.

Its slightly peculiar over-reliance on technology only makes it more human, more lovable, and more rock and roll.

The self-infatuation on this album is less attempted-clever and more ambient, a body-posi constant that gives the plethora of tasty palm-muted figures and colorful production settings a semblance of gravity even if it becomes the favorite of the “Yaaas queen”-abusing straight Facebook friend you had to unfollow.

Beneath the bleakness is a perky mix of deep house, dub, dance-oriented rock, and acid jazz pieced together from bits of live percussion, electric bass, flute, sax, and an overflowing grab bag of indie guitar. [March 2002, p.132]

Her attempt at convincing us she's a loving wife and mother of two, a savvy feminist, and a satirical mastermind mostly comes off as disingenuous.

Under the Boards, finds [Conley] in a surprisingly dark and newwavish mode, bobbing through spare, angular arrangements that overemphasize the off-key bleat that's his albatross as much as the band's signature.

It's weird to think that these Texas upstarts are largely relegated to the fringes of pop--what they do is so basic, so elemental, it's hard to even come up with a modifier to place in front of "rock."

Invaders Must Die is a stirringly workmanlike, if retro, blast of founder/producer Liam Howlett's anthemic breakbeat spazz.

"Demons" and "Ten-Speed" show that Higgins' amber vocals and crisp guitar skills remain, but too much here floats by on a vague cloud of coffeehouse clichés.

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.

Longer on nuance than hook. [Mar 2007, p.98]

This debut from electro rocker Simon Lord (Simian) and Big Beat vet Theo "DJ Touché" Keating (the Wiseguys) has a sinister allure when Keating's dark, steely disco productions are paired with Lord's whiny, desperate alto ("I Want Nothing," "I Don't Know").

X's overlong albums have always been exhausting, and this time he sounds bored and fatigued. [Sep 2006, p.100]

That most welcome of albums: a great driving record that exquisitely soundtracks crushes and heartbreaks. [Feb 2007, p.89]

Ultimately, the set is a little schizo, but it channels enough rap-rock frisson to make it more than just a between-albums snack. [Sep 2002, p.128]

Sparta have evolved, with a melodic approach and a postdepression, fist-pumping attitude. [Nov 2006, p.104]

My Morning Jacket sound right at home on "Emmet Otter's Jug-Band Christmas," while Rivers Cuomo and Hayley Williams conjure some bizarro odd-couple energy in "The Rainbow Connection."

The strong-heeled Jackie is far from conservative, and possibly more daring, with three of the year’s best songs at the very top, middle, and bottom.

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]

Something is definitely missing on A Better Tomorrow: not necessarily the cryptic slang and mythology, but that RZA and the other members haven't found something to replace what stood them apart from the crowd.

Unfortunately, those songs are slight, unfocused things.

Taking a cue from Shelby Lynne, the Watsons consult vintage Southern styles for inspiration, incorporating touches of country and plenty of hot-blooded soul.

[Razorlight] give post-Strokes neo-garage rock a tidy soul makeover. [Sep 2006, p.111]

Sophisticated dance-floor mischief rarely gets this sexy.

This isn't Watch the Throne, full of rich and weighty contributions from a man who is still enormously talented. It's rap music as a transaction, with a host of stars and hip names wrangled together to convince you it's not.

There is a sense on V that Live will stay around long enough to ride into the state-fair sunset. [Oct 2001, p.137]

Like all of Lil Wayne's albums, it's a mess; unlike some of its predecessors, it's not a terribly ambitious mess, nor is it much fun, which for Wayne is a sin.

The Buffet is better than just another R. Kelly album, but not enough to be worth saying so outside of a review, much less on a year-end list; call it a good one-night stand.

Variety has never been Audioslave's strong suit. [Sep 2006, p.102]

The fusion is sweet yet corny... and occasionally it's just baffling. [Aug 2001, p.132]

A suite of faux-folkie electro that fuses the introspection of Ray of Light with Music's fast-food dance licks. [Jun 2003, p.99]

The deceptive lack of star power would be less of an issue if there was more here to break up the album’s mid-tempo monotony.

Keenan sometimes winks too much, but he knows when to pull back from the brink of ridiculousness. [Dec 2007, p.125]

But two decades deep in the game, Busta is still beholden to a style that ping-pongs between silly and steroidal, making his stabs at honesty fall awkwardly flat.

Over punchy, driving riffs and crackling drum work, Stollsteimer howls like a guy with much to be pissed about, while the sharp production and dark pop hooks offer a vision of garage rock that's more grand than grimy.

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

The tunes are sub-Weez, but the vibe is right. [Mar 2004, p.96]

Nelson makes his competition sound like thin parodies... he burns the melody down to ashes, never letting a howl do what a moan can do better. [Nov. 2000, p.208]

aside from the nicely scuffed 'Dirt on Your New Shoes,' a general lack of spark or lyrical acuity makes even the album's catchiest songs of predestination ('The Ancient Commonsense of Things'), passive-aggression ('Don't Hide Away'), and whimsy ('Cue the Elephants') register as little more than charming diversions.

Despite the full dismissal of punk roots here--the blended-in drumming, the lack of rollercoaster twists and turns in the tempos and time signatures--Uncanney Valley's only real stumbles are lyrical.

Nice, sure, but whatever happened to naughty. [Jun 2006, p.82]

In a world where 50 Cent name-drops [Talib] Kweli, Mos Def wants to keep the line between indie hip-hop and major-label rap nice and blurry. [Oct 2004, p.112]

[Wheat's] most rousing collection. [Jun 2007, p.97]