Watson gives Nero's robotic skronk a rare injection of humanity, and the U.K. producers are smart enough to build most of their debut full-length around her husky voice.

The occasionally somewhat disturbing words he pens for that medium knock around on the page with the same ease that they roll out of his mouth.

Bun combines swagger with substance without losing a step. [June 2008, p.104]

The results are brilliant, but the album too often focuses on the latter two-thirds of the album title at the expense of the first.

They still make totally successful, totally stupid modern rock anthems pumped up on three-chord riffs, an abiding love of the sci-fi sex-kitten archetype and a separate track for handclaps.

They hew to a similar early-'70s aura -- nodding to a time when spacey keyboard effects and alt-country dust carried serious cachet.

All hands sound fully engaged on their first album since 2006, which opens and closes with glorious echoes of X's overdriven guitars and yowling male-female harmonies.

No Coast is the work of a proud scene divorcée declaring his allegiance to nothing but verse and chorus. And that's a beautiful thing that too few punks understand.

Five songs, one skit, and just 18 minutes total, this is a concentrated dose of Mr. Muthafuckin' eXquire's spaced-out, drink-and-fuck-too-much, end-of-days rap. It's also frustratingly brief and low-stakes, though it leaves you immediately anticipating his next move.

Despite fairly rote lyrics, Buck's ferocious flow can turn even the most cliched hood yarn into a fire-and-brimstone sermon. [Apr 2007, p.97]

The US debut of Damien Rice's former band turns sentimental mush into something palatable. [Mar 2008, p.97]

Andy Cabic's balmy folk songs pull from pert shades of doo-wop 'Everyday') and Latin syncopation ('Strictly Rule'). But his whispery voice can take on a Donovan-like sultriness, making a song such as 'Sister' far sexier than a song named 'Sister' should be.

Consistently spirited and glowering, a discomforting album that never leaves his narrative comfort zone, equal parts impersonal and important.

Though Kool Herc is just eight songs and 27 minutes long, it's plenty challenging and weighty.

God Forgives is a comedown--sporadically introspective, occasionally rousing, and sort of without purpose.

[Razorlight] give post-Strokes neo-garage rock a tidy soul makeover. [Sep 2006, p.111]

Despite the full dismissal of punk roots here--the blended-in drumming, the lack of rollercoaster twists and turns in the tempos and time signatures--Uncanney Valley's only real stumbles are lyrical.

Oh (Ohio)'s languid chamber folk murmurs as expected with Wagner sketching vivid relationship dramas like a master painter. Should it all sound overly proper, a closer listen revals sly humor in the details. [Nov 2008, p.96]

Much of the record satirizes plastic surgery and oversexed macho men, but despite the ironic humor, there’s a compassion in the music that’s unexpected coming from a band best known for a Taco Bell–referencing novelty hit.

Hooky, blood-soaked bad-love allegories such as "Draculina" and "Dine, Dine My Darling" (check the punny Misfits nod) satisfy like heartburn-inducing comfort food.

A far more sonically consistent and textured work, cushioned in Americana, drenched in soul.... But there's no urgency to this album, which stops looking out at the world and settles in for some serious celebrity navel-gazing. [Nov 2000, p.195]

Even by Hyperdub’s standards--a 20-year lineage of beats birthed and incubated in London’s most soot-smeared corners (grime, dubstep) and Chicago’s windwept streets (footwork)--this is not a light record.

That tight, compressed punch [of staccato guitar rhythms] is augmented by subtle orchestrations whose airy ambience hints at the chameleon funk of David Bowie and the dance minimalism of early B-52's. [Aug 2007, p.106]

Less of an anthemic, balls-to-the-wall affair than Elements of Freedom (still her strongest album overall), this one does have its own liberating, empowering charms.

Like "Tiger," Cardinology is long on midtempo country-rock shuffles that sound comfortable with their own familiarity; Adams isn't straining to reinvent the Great Art of American Songwriting, and that allows you to focus on what he and the cardinals are actually playing, as opposed to what they're thinking about playing.

Upside Down Mountain is a curious, if occasionally disturbing pleasure to listen to. Just don't expect answers when you turn it right side up.

ATL kingpins Young Jeezy, Gucci Mane, and T.I. pay their respects, and Mike mimics their strip-club homilies, but he shines brightest as the trap's "book reader" and "gang leader."

Even with its sonic detours -- the slightly nutty percussion, a lot of general yelling -- the record feels a bit monochromatic, like a just-fun-enough surrey ride whose background keeps repeating.