Sincerely Yours, then, remains another sturdy addition to the discography of one of rap's more thrilling creatives.

On Delta, the scope of Mumford & Sons’ ambition is far wider than their abilities as songwriters. The result is an hour-long slog with only a few brief realizations of their old potential before the next crescendo hits.

Their third album sports a more generic, arena-friendly sound, as if displaying too much personality was a liability.

Four years later, with This Unruly Mess I’ve Made, he’s dropped the album that Kanye haters wanted Kanye to make.

This wobbling between attempts to impress the dance music cognoscenti and to make songs as purely delightful as "Coast Is Clear" defines Recess, and occasionally bogs it down.

Despite some bold, funkdafied grunting, it never really gets up off the downstroke... the bar-band bluster only blunts her individualism, making for music that's less Take Back the Night than the Night Belongs to Michelob. [Oct 2000, p.184]

A jaw-dropping act of artistic will and a fiery, proper follow-up to 1994's Live Through This. [Mar 2004, p.89]

Bettencourt's howling power-glam riffs pair well enough with Farrell's alley-cat wail. [Jun 2007, p.95]

At his best - "The Veldt," "Closer," and "Channel 42," which has a nice, Cameo-like wah-funk wiggle - Deadmau5 is a topflight roots-of-EDM mimic. At his worst, he's a troll.

It's too tepid to be offensive. [Feb 2006, p.87]

Although frontman Mikel Jollet still falls on life's thorns, the band's second album supports his weighty themes with more instrumental muscle.

Racing through 11 disjointed songs in 30 minutes flat, Ra Ra Riot never give their material a chance to breathe. Instead, we're left with somewhat impressive ideas, squandered with impressive vigor.

Sadly, nothing else on the Whip's debut matches that electrifying outburst, as the Manchester, England quartet downshift into a less savage, more sensitive sound often verging on generic synth pop.

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

Relapse is really just another overlong summer blockbuster. We sit through it, then go look at pictures of kittens on the Internet, and wait until our souls snap back into place.

With intervention from the boys of No Doubt and production help from Steve Albini, this sprawling album earns a fair hearing.

It's a solid formula--trouble is, anything resembling emotional complexity gets blasted away by the heavy-metal howitzer of Don Gilmore's production. [Oct 2002, p.117]

Too bad that the production here is decidedly mortal.

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

As long as Midnight Memories offers chorus after chorus of Gary Glitter-style fodderstompf, it sounds like the best boy-band album since No Strings Attached.

That toughening process continues on this intrepid eight-song mini-album.

The change in emphasis is jarring at first, but embrace your inner goth and you'll realize that the band's signifiers--frontman Tom Smith's outsize baritone, a penchant for high drama--remain intact.

Hey, if the Spank Rock and M.I.A. collaborator wants to two-step around in just a tank top, rude bits to the wind, that’s her prerogative--but there are consequences, and that’s where I Love You struggles.

Ultimately, it's the vocals that carry Endlessly. There's no whitewashing of the singer's eccentricities, which feel more pronounced here--she can be gruffly nasal (the oft-repeated chorus of "Well, Well, Well" never stops sounding like "whale, whale, whale") while remaining wholly beguiling.

If only she was as shameless lyrically as she is musically, she wouldn't be feminist (who cares) but she'd simply be worth letting in your ear.

Unfortunately, the newfound confidence doesn't extend to lyrics rife with nonspecific, mixed-metaphorical angst that smacks of the overwrought youth demo they've otherwise outgrown.

Their major-label debut gets by on smarmy-smooth suburban- pop melodies, cheeky genre mash-ups, and good bad jokes.

The playing is impeccable, Black's subtly warped songs uneven. [Jul 2006, p.82]

This is grade-A grade-B pop metal. [Oct 2004, p.120]

Alongside the preternaturally mature croon of frontlady Linnea Jonsson, those threads fit seamlessly:

There are no prominent electronics on Island Universe, but it's a relatively ambitious, often distortion-less statement that feels more spacious than the band's (former) basement-rock peers.

Minimized guitar bluster emphasizes his ample vocal assets, but Flowers wilts when the sunny tempos subside, revealing himself to be an AOR softie.

Buying the latests CD from a novelty act is like sitting on the same whoopee cushion twice. [Oct 2000, p.180]

A sweaty, first-take orgy that sometimes suggests Tom Waits fronting the Stones, only clumsier. [May 2007, p.84]

The only offensive thing about this English electro-rock outfit's debut is how blatantly they rip off Justice ripping off Daft Punk.

M A N I A takes similar chances [as 2009's Folie a Deux] to more mixed results, as Stump belts out absurdly verbose lyrics over glossy, overstuffed tracks. But the album’s more experimental moments aren’t necessarily its strong suit. ... M A N I A hits its stride in the second half, with a pair of tracks that toy with religious imagery and waltz tempos, “Church” and “Heaven’s Gate.”

This is the album that Justin Timberlake is too famous to make in 2013, its musical scope and track lengths modest, its sexual appetite and commercial ambition immodest, its star willing to offer up whatever cheesy line, vocal acrobatic, pop hook or funk groove or electro flourish that it takes to keep you listening.

In the end, this is a loud, almost triumphant statement .

Occasion opts for Kanye-esque stadium-status beats, merry lyrics that include perhaps the only rap reference to a "bar stool in Poughkeepsie," and a joyous closing cut called "Walk on Air."

[Their] big beats lack the sure-shot hooks of their 1997 debut. [Feb 2004, p.104]

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

While the Used honestly want to move away from their time-tested sound, the experiments come off as unfocused and confused. [May 2007, p.90]

He mostly raps on point and with confidence. But the actual words coming out of his mouth sound like they were brainstormed by a bunch of kids idling in an eighth-grade English class.

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.

Whether he's drunk on optimism or writhing in psychic pain, his relentless quest for enlightenment is gripping and inspiring.

Fist isn't quite a God punch, but it hits with legit impact.

It all rings hollow due to how thinly sketched out the writing and production is. Much of it is awkward, directionless, and, at times, just confusing--showing an artist grasping at a million ideas and hoping to grab one, with none of it being done in any interesting or shrewd way.

He trades in his 8-bit bloops and Sean Paul remixes to reach for R&B ringtone ubiquity on this solo debut album, warming over Timbo's jittery electro on "On My Mind," but faring better when lashing a live wire across vicious first single "The Vision," and whetting the stabbing synths of "Tron" and "Slaughter House."

Amazingly enough, she does sound almost human. [Jan 2002, p.108]

Where her past albums felt messy but painfully sincere, Younger Now comes off as safe and overly sanitized, with the frisson that made Cyrus a star all but entirely blasted away. ... Still, the album has some plainly good songs.

When the hooks fall off, his lone-gunman purging becomes more tiring than cathartic. [Dec 2003, p.128]

Doesn't build much on the Buffett ease and placeless island rhythms of Johnson's previous albums, but hey, ambition is for the ambitious. [Apr 2005, p.102]

People from New York trying to sound like people from England trying to imagine what Neil Young would sound like if he were in Coldplay. [Oct 2005, p.137]

Supermodel's failing is that it's copying one of the foundational records of this trend, which is, you guessed it, Torches. It's hard to think outside a box you built yourself.

Cudi's unrepentant attitude is partly why Indicud sounds so engaging, at least during the album's sparkling first half. (Sadly, he doesn't have enough good songs to fill out its hour-plus, 18-track length.)

Whether they're trying to obscure the songs' perceived flaws or make some sort of dazzling artistic statement, the band opts for grandiose production (courtesy of Jacknife Lee) and sprawling arrangements--cue the orchestra and the choir--that blunt the effect of Lightbody's deceptively strong songwriting.

They return to what made them one of the '80s most reliable rift-heavy outfits. [Oct 2007, p.99]

While it's still easy to dismiss his shock tactics as puerile and insensitive (if you're gonna sing about someone "pretty as a swastika," they'd better be really ugly), he hasn't sounded this vital--and tuneful--since "Mechanical Animals."

You know you're in trouble when Avril Lavigne starts sharing song titles with R.E.M. and Pink Floyd.

They might not know where they're going, but they have no doubt they'll get there.

Produced by power-pop whiz Butch Walker and Fountains of Wayne's Adam Schlesinger, Alter the Ending contains no shortage of high-gloss thrills.

Snoop's 11th album unevenly celebrates his all-over-the-map persona.

These tracks lack the energy to power a glow stick. [Mar 2004, p.96]

He's got many peaceful, breezy songs about peaceful, easy feelings but lacks the hooks to hang 'em on. [Jun 2003, p.109]

But if the rote button-pushing gets bleak, the beats and battle rhymes are state-of-the-art. [Jun 2004, p.103]

Has moments of cheese-ball grace. [Mar 2006, p.95]

Unabashedly upbeat, MC Zumbi compares ghetto life to being a "caged bird," but even when he dismisses haters ("Burning incense, yeah, they tried to call us yoga"), he sounds optimistic.

At an hour and 45 minutes, it’s a lot. But throw QC’s formidable team at streaming services and something will probably stick. ... For anyone willing to take the full plunge, it’s a mostly satisfying chance to hear the sound of contemporary rap evolving in real time.

Iggy Pop's deadpan delivery on "He's Frank" sets the tone for an album that sometimes gets a little goofy, while the danceable "Toe Jam" pairs David Byrne with Dizzee Rascal (finally!). The lesser-known guests offer more misses than hits.

Their debut begins with a rousing arena-rock anthem called 'Death' and then delivers detached variations on the same subject for the next nine tracks with a professionalism that's simultaneously compelling and creepy.

Women’s Rights has its share of more complex situations as well, not to mention the occasional fourth chord.

Thing is, dubstep's slithering textures actually suit Davis' demented croon, particularly in the cuts produced by Skrillex.

An over-the-top homage to sex whose emotional age equals its bloated number of tracks: 15. [Mar 2004, p.93]

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.

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.

It's unfortunate, then, that most of Vol.1 winds up sounding like rejected Aerosmith ballads. Which is to say, epic, overproduced anthems made to accompany Ben Affleck anthropomorphizing animal crackers on Liv Tyler's stomach.

Musically, Everclear sound almost exactly the same as when they signed with Capitol in 1995: punk, profoundly polished. But the details Alexakis sprinkles into the mix keep things interesting. [Apr 2003, p.102]

Think Africa ’70 minus the choruses and sax solos. If that doesn’t sound heretical to you, the groove awaits.

Playing to splintered attention spans, This Is War insistently splices bits of other artists' work into a facile crescendo of mega-angst and ephemeral drama.

His persistent self-flagellation could do with more hooks, but Remember packs pain by the pound.

Kravitz's irony-free pastiches often satisfy like the best work of his rock and soul forebears; and considering his tastes, that's a remarkably high standard.

Their most immediately pleasurable album. [Sep 2006, p.104]

Her insights plumb poetic shallows. [Jun 2006, p.81]

It's a breath of fiery air, then, that their latest is as close to a return to classic form as anyone could reasonably expect.

All that stands between this young English foursome and Perry Farrell-ian Valhalla is a lack of a truly rippin' axman. [Dec 2004, p.124]

A mediocre album without the ambition to flirt with the terrible, Beauty Marks manages to land in the middle of Ciara’s discography when boldness is required.

And if you've ever wondered what might happen if Jean Michel Jarre polluted the folk tradition of a Blue Ridge town, or you want to hear references to British pantomime, Bruce Haack, and Karen Finley within ten minutes-or if you're Japanese-this is probably your album of the year.

Boasts road-toughened guitars and a welcome accusatory edge. [Aug 2003, p.116]

With Courtney Love the only original member involved, Hole's return is nominal, but Love's resurrection is very real....It's only when Love throws a pity party on a series of slow jams that sincerity eludes her.

Front-loaded with buzzy riffs and cutting vocals, the third studio album from this Swedish band is bracingly ambitious, clearly designed to be heard in arenas and stadiums.

Their petulantly plagiaristic third album--mired in singer Sam Endicott's uncharismatic Robert Smith–in-a-wind-tunnel moan (imagine that hair)--continues to stuff downtown Gotham streets into predictable, rhyming-dictionary couplets.

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

Where 2001's Discovery coyly gene-spliced cock rock and New York garage, Human merely cuts and pastes. [Apr 2005, p.105]

Gough pens poignant pop-rock tunes... but he overdresses them, adding bells and whistles where they're not needed. [Nov 2006, p.96]

The goofier aspects of his earlier work are missed here, as are his usual naturalistic beats, which have been replaced by squelching, ominously snaky G-funk.

Each song isn't particularly interesting or life-changing, but, damn, if every one of them doesn't boast a hook that sticks in your head until you're humming "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" just to exorcise it. For better or worse, this is talented songwriting...

Tinted Windows' debut is even less left-field; these hook-crammed power-pop jams are safe and bouncy enough for Jo Bros fans and Stacy's mom alike.

Sinister remixes of cuts fronted by Martina Topley-Bird and Elbow's Guy Garvey reconnect Massive to their stylistic descendants, while further refining their calm on the verge of chaos.