The selections range from pre-Frank material to the last song she ever recorded, all united by a distinctive rawness, her voice kept naked and slightly flawed, despite the sophisticated production.

Like Grandaddy, they know the future isn't glitch-free, but they're gonna throw a good party anyway. [Oct 2003, p.113]

It's a sober cruise down the white line between timelessness and nostalgia. [May 2007, p.90]

Talk a Good Game is her realness in full flower, an album that balances world-weariness about relationships with infectious dollops of sexual agency, tackling the vagaries of love almost exclusively and offering anthems for experiences that every woman has had (or will have) at some point.

This time around, ATR's protest platitudes ("Are you ready to testify?") and electronic skronk-thud ("Digital 
Decay," with female member Nic Endo holding forth on Internet freedom), sound awkwardly dated.

The beats are good. The hooks are memorable, if often corny.... [But] Gone is the sense of humor, fearlessness, and willingness to subvert clichés that he flexed on his generally impressive mixtapes.

Not since U2 built an Atomic Bomb has one band tried so hard to turn each track into a breahless epic. [Feb 2007, p.84]

Alpha Games is a reconfiguration of sorts. It’s not imitating the earlier works in Bloc Party’s catalog so much as it is building from them. Produced by Adam Greenspan and Nick Launay (IDLES, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Nick Cave), their latest creation is an exceptional addition to their arsenal.

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.

When the band's clattering, it's great fun ("Why Not"), but leave the tongue-in-cheek (or is it?) spoken-word title track at home and release the rock instead.

Size's fuzzy, string-laden bass bombs seem a tad sober. [Dec 2002, p.141]

Apparently, this American movie is the story of the predatory woman who comes to your house, whaps the crap out of you, and makes you play the same song over and over again. [2/2001, p.107]

The sonics find themselves not proving enough either. They’re free, to do what they want, any old time. And it costs them.

El Khatib's full-length debut is a fine testament to the power of pomade nostalgia, cigarette-pack-in-sleeve tropes, and Gene Vincent licks.

Adding electronic gurgles to heavy, prog-rock power chords, The Secret Machines recalls Rush and Black Sabbath at one end of the sonic spectrum ('The Fire Is Waiting') and David Bowie’s spazzier, punk-era edge at the other ('Atomic Heels'). In between those far-flung atmospheric poles, the band proves they’re more than just the sum of their seamless influences.

Empire constantly changes its focus. [Oct 2006, p.99]

Patti Smith misplaces her fearless edge. [May 2007, p.90]

There are awkward attempts at the strutting pomp rock of Queen, the pop reggae of the Police, and the wardrobe of the Strokes. [Apr 2007, p.86]

At times, the forlorn vibe can get oppressive--'Peacetime Resistance' goes one love-as-war metaphor too far--but overall, the album is a welcome return from these princes of the bummer.

Her fresh attitude eventually gets lost in a slew of downtrodden ballads that sink the album's second half. In other words, business as usual.

The mood is somber, mournful, and at times, downright postapocalyptic. But the best of these ambient orchestrations, gurgling uncomplicated beats, and scattered vocals add up to something emotionally wrought, even transporting.

1D’s swan song is hopelessly neither here nor there, appropriate to the drinking-age attention spans of an act whose solo careers beckon.

Flat... only a few songs flirt with her previous brilliance. [Apr 2005, p.102]

This set of hissy practice tapes varies greatly in quality with the demented trashing of a Beatles melody on "The Masks" and the snotty sneer of "Can You Give Me a Thrill???" abutting stoned instrumentals and solo noodling.

Where Viva La Vida showcased Coldplay's sense of adventure, this one feels more eager to please; the sonic detail accrues with such speed that it's like Martin and his mates fear you'll bail if they don't grab you straightaway.

Despite some truly awful lyrics--"Don't make me get mad and Barack O-bomb-ya" is particularly wince-worthy--both Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith sound reenergized, boosted by spirited cameos from Redman, Method Man, and Keith Murray.

The riffs have gotten sharper and more jagged as the punch lines have grown duller and less imaginative. Minus his smart-alecky cheek, it's increasingly difficult for McKeown to hold your interest.

Yes, the RZA is a legendary eccentric, but Digi Snacks is too impossibly weird.