The contrast between his interiority and the sturdiness of his compositions is striking. So, too, is the contrast between this album and Heartbreaker, his lauded solo debut. Ranking breakup records is a ghoul’s errand; suffice to say that loss was Heartbreaker’s fuel. Here, it’s turned to fumes.

Big GRRRL Small World sounds like the work of someone too tireless to limit herself to genre lines or defined boxes, and it’s hard work resisting rap’s numerous pigeonholes.

Sonically velveteen the whole way through, it’s certainly a comforting album, though Gonzalez’s efforts to capture the commanding, immediate quality of the music of her influences feel, overall, a little too cautious.

He's great with the hook-meoldy algebra, not so hot on figuring out what to say beyond "Love, blah, blah, blah, la, la, la." [Apr 2005, p.108]

From the way she sings, in big gulps and Teen Wolf growls, to the mystical art-rock ballads she bedazzles with sleigh bells, harps, and choirs, there's enough drama here for a Broadway musical. But her delivery is so raw that every mess feels genuine.

Matsson is a Harry Smith acolyte, but his understanding of Americana (and American English) is fractured, and his songs are jammed with enough surprises to make him seem like a singular new talent.

Here, [Hot Chip] beefs up the rhythms and tones down the indie-geek shtick. [Jul 2006, p.84]

Heartache swells from these swooning folk-pop tunes, but the presence of both of the relationship's combatants ensures that they never drown in it.

Too many perfectly good songs that never quite approach greatness. [Oct 2007, p.108]

This is dance music downsized for iPods but also indie rock expanded for the dance floor. [Jan 2007, p.89]

Playfully sleazy, creatively reckless, and ridiculously, abstrusely, hyper-generously funky. [Jan 2004, p.95]

Their best by a mile. [Jun 2003, p.100]

There isn't a tune on No Cities Left, the Dears' gorgeous second album, that's not pitched at a minor state of emergency. [Jan 2005, p.99]

Quieter and more uniform in sound than the wilfully eclectic Let It Die, the new album emphasizes her sumptuous vocals and ear for a handsome melody. [May 2007, p.85]

Ross's greatest tool is still his presence, which vouches for the strength of his persona when his lyrics can't.

She finally showcases a flow as strong as her vitriol. [Sep 2004, p.114]

As a sequel, Blackout 2 fails to move things forward; but as a revival, it’s a welcome blast.

It's a savage, heartfelt, at times hilarious goth-mosh emopera. [Nov 2006, p.95]

Mostly, it's the wilting pedal steel, warm analog tubes, and lush heartbreak flourishes of "When I'm Gone" that distinguish Rose from the merchants of new country's jingles.

The beats are so simplistic that their minimalist repetition occasionally teeters over into redundancy.

The crisp arrangements often overshadow his stiff, stentorian delivery, but he still manages to convey moments of both personal loss--the death of mentor/Slum Village rapper Baatin--and professional triumph.

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.

They’re about the feeling--everything tween inside every grown adult, and thus they are still unmistakably Carly even as she tries on new sounds. When Dedication falters it’s in the latter half, where her producers seem to be trying to chase pop, or at least Spotify “airplay,” by making her sound like everyone else.

Arcology is very much an extension of that pulsing amalgamation of sounds, while filling out an expanded universe of technological touchstones.

of whether the dance-punk grooves and elusive, histrionic hooks resonate, Thorpe has a point he's determined to make: Even the most sensitive fop can be a hormonal horndog.

PARA, is both exactly what its name suggests and a galaxy of far, far-flung musical touchstones.

Masterpiece never quite improves on this impressive opening run, though the profoundly un-country guitar pretzels of “Interstate” and “Humans” give Speedy Ortiz a run for their money, and the former even ends with one of Saddle Creek’s signature found recordings, just like one of those eight-minute Conor Oberst intros.

As music alone, the band is looser and more flexible than ever, deploying Superchunk’s Jon Wurster for accents and subtleties outside of his main band’s dynamic range, and punching out the gate with highlights as varied as the Louisiana ragtime of “Southwestern Territory” and the punked-up “Choked Out.”