Fortunately, the old pros gel well often enough to keep things rolling -- with some help. [Jan 2002, p.107]

A near-operatic concept record about fantasy and delusion. [Mar 2007, p.91]

The album is a dark gem, a high-IQ song cycle that combines guilt, neurotic lust, and low self-esteem into piano-based tunes that come studded with lyrical daggers.

There's no instantaneous party classics on Jack Ü – no worthy successors to "Turn Down for What" despite its obvious influence, but maybe a "Bubble Butt" or a "Big Bad Wolf." As a guileless continuation of the escapist, dub-tinged blowout that Diplo effortlessly pursued with Major Lazer, it's one of the beatiest prizes of the year so far.

The sunny brutalism of Rancid's East Bay ska-thrash has lost nary a step and their ethical-emotional rigor is as sweet as it is pure.

Romance, their third album in 24 months, is more slickly assured -- and far less twee -- than its predecessors.

The People's Key proves Oberst has learned to balance a cutting perspective with a bleeding heart.

Black Dirt delivers sulky dirges ("Blood Moon"), alt-country hangovers ("Mange"), and funeral ballads ("Goodbye, Dear Friend") with equal aplomb, as their leader's bedraggled voice groans with hard-earned heaviness.

Ultimately, the set is a little schizo, but it channels enough rap-rock frisson to make it more than just a between-albums snack. [Sep 2002, p.128]

He trades in his 8-bit bloops and Sean Paul remixes to reach for R&B ringtone ubiquity on this solo debut album, warming over Timbo's jittery electro on "On My Mind," but faring better when lashing a live wire across vicious first single "The Vision," and whetting the stabbing synths of "Tron" and "Slaughter House."

Tracking and self-editing issues have always plagued her Minajesty's projects, but never more so than on this one, an album that probably would've landed with bigger fanfare had Minaj not so loudly touted it as all but an instant classic all year long.

Winging away from Major Arcana‘s dark, tense pockets--the jagged, crackling riffs and the jarring way Dupuis’ voice faltered at the end of her desperately insightful verses, as if she were about to fall off a cliff--stretches Speedy Ortiz thin at times on Foil Deer.

With a squeaky Neil Young falsetto, backed by shambly wah-wah guitar and mop-bucket percussion, Earl chirps blithely inscrutable lyrics through a strand of airy, bedroom-psych pearls.

Structural issues aside, the strength of the material on The London Session is enough to place the Queen back on track to relevance, after a number of less-inspired efforts had all but sapped her career momentum.

His deceptively fragile vocal style and skewed lyrical genius were already evident at age 22 in these 13 acoustic songs recorded over two nights at a Michigan Episcopal church.

Throughout, drummers Carl McGinley and Eric Hernandez play tight, tribal beats. The heat subsides at times, but it never breaks.

[Wheat's] most rousing collection. [Jun 2007, p.97]

The only misstep is frontman Adam Levine's raunchy lyrics. [Jun 2007, p.94]

The duo's relentless cool never quite tips over into White Stripes-style heat, giving Midnight Boom the unapproachable, icy allure of a runway model. [Mar 2008, p.104]

This Is Not The World isn't quite the breathless playground once populated by robots and carnival kids, but 'Think Tonight' possesses a fist-pumping riff that's one piano short of an Andrew W.K. song. [July 2008, p.96]

On their eighth album, spouses Brett and Rennie Sparks continue to put a brilliantly surreal twist on everyday subjects, using nature imagery to evoke the weird intensity of all-consuming passions.

Guitars and synths, both shimmering and scouring (depending on the volume level), can’t quite override the sweet harmonies at the heart of 'Die Slow,' nor can the toms stop them on 'Death+' or 'We Are Water.'

His new LP, Nephew in the Wild, is largely cut from the same cloth, a collection of (mostly) sad songs looking back, just from a perspective that’s a little older, wiser, and well-adjusted.

Fully formed songs suggest themselves, but too often prematurely dissolve, with vagaries always favored over the tangible.

Cass McCombs confronts life's miseries with a smirk and a softly rocking beat on this enjoyable sixth album.

Hypnotic and strangely thrilling. [Feb 2007, p.86]

Equal parts faithful-but-twisted boom bap and avant-indie rock, the album drips with elbow grease. [Mar 2007, p.91]

It’s a consistent, methodical unsteadiness that hangs a song on a single blurred synth tone, a suspension bridge between two guitars acres apart in the mix, and then shoots it with bolts of electricity.