Milky keyboard washes and found-sound accents... give the music a darker, dreamier depth. [Sep 2006, p.100]

It's a blessing and a curse that he's never sounded more unhinged. [Oct 2006, p.105]

Sounds of a certain vintage, which can net a poignant, tragic-romantic classic ("The Weekend Dreams"), but occasionally overreaches.

The results range from sublime ("Remember") to so-so ("Safe Tomorrow"), while the beat-broken "Move On" and the oscillating breakdown of "Future Tense" keep things inventive.

Despite its title, The Formula has its charms. [May 2008, p.96]

Issa Album needn’t be The Infamous, but it could’ve benefitted from a clearer and tighter direction.

The big shift on his beautifully recorded, intermittently moving fourth album under the Sun Kil Moon moniker is that only his nylon-string guitar plucking now accompanies his wounded croon.

For all the squiggly melodies and bumpy computer beats, however, Smoke's strength is his spacey chameleon voice. [Dec 2007, p.126]

The rest of the album can't match that evocative pang on [best track No I Don't]--something like hot coals against cyborg flesh--and is generally more direct.

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

Warning of nightmarish rural invaders in 'The Rifle' and vowing to keep her eyes open on the showstopping sea chantey title track, Diane seems destined for grander endeavors.

Get past glitchy irritants like 'SonDEremawe' and an artful payoff of cerebral, booty-shaking decadence awaits on their ninth album.

The second duo record by the former Talking Heads frontman and his experimental producing partner is a thoughtful singer-songwriter exercise. [Oct 2008, p.104]

Slime Flu has its charms, acting as an energetic reminder of insider-y, turn-of-the-century New York hip-hop long gone: sample-laden, ignorant, and wealth-obsessed.

The Far Field can’t match its predecessor, but it isn’t without its highlights.

The quartet's fervent debut, produced by DJ Erol Alkan, offers a fabulous simulation of '80s new wave, with burping, sputtering synths and sleazy, Bowie-inspired crooning from frontman Sam Eastgate.

They say good artists borrow and great artists steal, but here Gonzalez does neither--his heart doesn’t seem to be in the heist anymore.

Your enjoyment of Love Story will directly correlate with the amount that you enjoy Yelawolf’s singing, because boy howdy is there a lot of it here. If you respect Yelawolf’s progression as a musician and wish him luck on his journey to artistic self-actualization, you will be pleased.

T.R.U. Story contains few surprises, and one less once you realize that its own opening line--"Cut the top off, call it Amber Rose"--isn't threatening decapitation.

Changing Horses' Americana journey is hardly inventive, but Kweller's boyish charm and quirky songwriting keep it more promising than predictable.

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.

For every instance that seduces you with K.R.I.T.'s prowess behind the boards, though, the mixtape throws up a song that pushes things back into an unfulfilling zone.

Leave Me Alone is a friendly, enthusiastic album of coppery six-strings glinting in the sunlight with the more-than-occasional flat note, scuffing up the album’s already sand-blasted texture with an endearing scrappy quality.

He's reworking his own territory. Which is why we expected the song about sweaty illegals to have a better twisted ending than "all of is are immigrants," and the tune about meth addiction to fell, well, lived in. [Oct 2007, p.100]

When they ease back on the overdriven electronic intensity, Street Horrsing works tribal, tracelike wonders. [Apr 2008, p.98]

If there's a flaw on this Alabama duo's debut, it's predictability. T-Bone Burnett and Jack White serve as executive producer and mentor, respectively, with Laura and Lydia Rogers putting a sister-act spin on dusty Americana--bet you can hear it already.

It’s too long, and large parts of it are corny or forgettable, but in the context of Macklemore as a pop musician--and not a rapper--it doubles down on his strengths: well-crafted, sincere verses about his personal experiences combined with a better hook, usually provided by someone else.

Their biggest asset, though, is singer Hayley Williams, an 18-year-old siren with a killer fashion sense and an undeniable knack for writing contemplative love songs.