The Glass Passenger, the group's second album, chronicles McMahon's successful battle against leukemia, matching hyperemotional melodies with his tender voice on dramatic tracks.

So is Recovery a classic album? No. But is it an essential one in shaping Eminem's future? Absolutely.

Sadly, as Pit forges ahead in his campaign for world domination, his artistry is what's really being colonized.

[It] scales back the Weimar guignol of 2003's The Golden Age of Grotesque in favor of classic industrial and glam. [Jul 2007, p.98]

Expectations for a crowdfunded album should be naturally tempered, and yet it’s hard to ignore that none of the songs on TLC present an engaging point of view as smoothly or with as much brass as the group’s biggest hits, “Waterfalls” or “Creep.”

Too much of the time, Evanescence get lost in the cavernous spaces carved out by their unsecret weapon.

The quintet mostly stays on message, doling out unpretentious poolside jams that recall ESG, Liquid Liquid, and the Human League.

This quasi-funky, horn-section-assisted record demonstrates that as a jazz vocalist, Ani's a fine folk singer. [Apr 2003, p.107]

The album’s blend of sonic gauze, earnest keening, electronic blooping, analog clatter, ethnic flavor, and nostalgic ’60s pop emits a rainbow glow that’s as comforting as it is comfortable.

Rae is an absorbing enough writer to keep F.I.L.A. afloat. He does a good job of sizing up an unquantifiable horror: being too embedded to relinquish one’s bloodletting past ways.

Regardless, boppers as cheeky and infectious as these sound like sacraments in the church of lo-fi fun.

Felix Stallings Jr. bounces back by sampling, quoting, and paraphrasing other people’s rubbery tunes, and showcasing them in similarly elastic settings.

The world that Worlds conjures is fantastical and defiantly cheery.

Highlights finds the former remix project paring down to less imaginative drum/guitar basics, sounding like a 5 a.m., post-Tiki party K-hole, or sex with a Cabana boy you thought for sure would blow your mind--and then just laid there like a starfish.

Over inventive arrangements that feature more live instrumentation than on any other Streets album, Skinner gives maturity a fresh coat of meaning.

While it’s no We Global or even a We the Best Forever, it’s not without its own outrageous merits.

Occup[ies] a hushed netherworld between classical minimalists like Erik Satie and Timbaland (without the beats). [Mar 2007, p.86]

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.

Hart continues to experiment, ensuring that his wide smile never gets tiresome.

Don't call these noisy Swedes a nostalgia act. Reuniting with producer Rick Rubin, whose low-gloss production emphasizes the quartet's adrenaline rush, the Conspiracy unleash a barrage of topical bulletins.

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]