Despite the Dap Kings versatility--they were more hushed and drowsier backing Charles Bradley on last year's Victim of Love--and Jones' indefatigability, there aren't many new ideas here. That's not the point, though. The point is that music from another time can still thrill us in this one because of its practically tyrannical insistence on bliss.

Although Young Thug moves away from exploring emotional pain, SS3 is still very much informed by introspection.

Marling's voice, rich and tenuous, recalls Joni Mitchell, but her fatalistic screeds--sung over acoustic guitar, with an occasional burst of percussion or strings--owe more to Nick Drake and Will Oldham.

Here they expand their primarily folky sound, importing rhythms from abroad and morphing electronic ticks and stutters into a field of chirping crickets.

From the lyrics to the beats, the pleasure of Piñata is in the details.

The Raveonettes haven't sworn off droning melodies and minimal percussion, but the duo's morbid Psychocandy métier gets a slight makeover on their fifth album.

With livelier playing and more memorable tunes, Costello's second straight collaboration with producer T Bone Burnett is a major improvement over last year's ho-hum Secret, Profane & Sugarcane.

Granted, 10 of those are just a minute or less (sometimes far less: "Yet Unknown" is nothing more than a nine-second sample from a news broadcast), and 11 more don't even break the four-minute mark. On the plus side, we're treated to some of the best songs from his recent, out-of-print releases.

Each of her previous three records has its charms... The Green World is no exception. [Oct. 2000, p.182]

The Way and Color is a gem in its own devastating way, but don't be surprised if TEEN occupy a completely different space next time.

The album's most striking moment is "Fallin' Down." Over a ominous guitar riff, the 20-year-old sings, "It's getting heavy / I think I'm getting ready to break down." It's the most honest moment of his short career. The kid sure needs a vacation.

The Moroder-indebted tunes on Real Life are more pop-friendly, but the chopped-up vocal samples on opener "Looking for What" are guaranteed to meld minds, while airy centerpiece "Keep It Up" defies gravity via handclaps and delicately chiming bells.

Like all of High on Fire’s efforts, Luminiferous is an extravagance, no doubt, but it’s their most refined. And everyone can afford a few of those every now and again.

Though Villains is a perfectly solid, occasionally bloated QOTSA album, it’s the first to really feel like a missed opportunity.

Total Loss is a beautiful album, all ambient longing and sadness and spectral pop, rising and falling without warning - no other artist gets more emotional effect out of leaving things not quite finished. But it still feels not quite finished.

ANTI is Rihanna’s first aesthetically personal album, and throughout its disorderly roaming, it remains revelatory in a strict sense; it’s a musical step sideways but an artistic step up.

This EP is spacious above the obvious clutter, and its grooves more resemble that of a funk garage band, thus there's more to be filled in. The cacaphony of those detuned, clanging metallophones is a compelling listen or three.

The sound is now clearer than on either predecessor; the rapping likewise. And here come Jane's Addiction and the Smashing Pumpkins--this is a slicker, grander record than Significant Other. [Jan 2001, p.112]

staying true to their party platform (sex, God, kissing, etc.), songwriters Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee remain the Ramones of sunbeam, patty-cake pop--even if they sound less like awkward twentysomethings singing about cats and bikes, and more like the countless post-'90s alterna-rockers who owe them gratitude.

Her stormy folk songs (which, on occasion, recall PJ Harvey's) are primal and dark, crammed with ancient mythology and portentous warnings.

And this is how Amnesiac goes, or doesn't: Resonant, dusty somethings, not much on their own, line up and aggregate into something fluid and sweetly steady. [Jul 2001, p.124]

A steely affair that finds Drake and longtime producer Noah "40" Shebib pulling their sound and worldview further inward to increasingly murky results.

Like a lot of young artists who've been flash-fried by the Internet, these guys also aren't so much great as they are getting better, using public interest to spur themselves on. Bossalinis is cleaner and more varied than their mixtapes, but this album is also long.

It's not an essential set, but there's enough here (take the gallant "Grand Army Plaza" for a stroll or seven) to tide you over till the Veckatimest crew sets sail again.

These guys sound like they're genuinely torn between looking up at the stars and trying to find an exit to the sewer. Neat trick, that.

While the hooks and harmonies rarely disappoint, the presence of multiple lead vocalists on each record has, over 20 years, led to a niggling colorlessness, which may account for the band's cult status in these lower 48.

Though she's celebrated for her post-1960 Chess recordings and '67 Muscle Shoals scorcher Tell Mama, her '50s singles, collected here, trace the development of soul's first queen.

The failure to evoke anything specific is what gives Silver Eye its aloof, Bond-theme posture, but in another light, it’s alienating.