Ellison has created one of his most concentrated and fascinating releases.

Four years on, Night Work finds the band mimicking Eurodisco on the cheeky title track, the Cars on "Skin Tight," Kraftwerk on the stiff "Something Like This," and Animotion's "Obsession" on pulsing first single "Invisible Light," just a step behind the times.

This album will never top MM1 or even 1999's Slim Shady LP for the visceral thrill of watching a celebrity twist and distort his own identity like a comic strip transferred onto Silly Putty. But we get rhymes. So many rhymes. More rhymes than some rappers manage in a whole career.

A sideways step in the right direction. [Nov 2006, p.97]

It's all quite mesmerizing, until you notice the overworked lyrics, which weakly describe heartbreak in terms of weather, stars, and, uh, hearts. [July 2008, p.100]

No matter the new producer (Steve Albini), new label, or new percussionist (Emil Amos replacing Chris Hakius), Om's droning bass/drum take on heavy metal still resounds.

Coffey is the star, and on tracks like "Plutonius" and "Space Traveller," his monstrously psychedelic groove still kills.

Despite such surface gloss, it’s clear Franz Ferdinand are still finding their creative footing without McCarthy. The taut arrangements present on previous albums can occasionally give way to moody repetition (“The Academy Award”) or sluggish tempos (“Slow Don’t Kill Me Slow”), robbing the record of immediacy. This is a small quibble, however.

This one is way, way, way better [than her last album], not least thanks to a quaint little ditty called "Body Party."

A magic carpet of woven steel, Transverse soars up and out, borne aloft on ghostly vocals and sheets of guitar noise.

The former Fugee throws hip-hop, reggae, synth pop, and heavy metal into his trademark melting pot with little worry that the results might not blend. [Jan 2008, p.98]

By design, the band doesn't rock as hard as it used to. Doesn't punk as hard as it used to, either. [12/2000, p.215]

Rather than straining for pop sophistication, Fridmann simply brightens and focuses the band's darker, more obtuse corners.

King of the Beach's specialty is Warped Tour–ready choruses, charred with noise and peppered with lyrics from a self-hating surfer teen who sees sunburn as spiritual penance for being a burnout.

Supercharged, furious, hopeful. [Jun 2004, p.107]

With Black Thought carrying the weight, the record buckles. [Aug 2004, p.101]

Positions is less captivating than Thank U, Next and Sweetener, both of which felt more complete and unskippable. But for an album no one knew was coming until two weeks ago, it’s more than adequate.

This is the birth of Will Butler, solo artist, whose career seems just as woozily unpredictable and captivating as that of his "day job."

Each song is immaculately crafted and sequenced, yet with this many ballads, they blur: a play continually in its eleventh hour.

The Hives want it all, so they've risked everything on an album that audibly fights to earn it. [Nov 2007, p.113]

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

It’s no wonder the process felt redemptive for Smith; to exorcise years of mounting bleakness is no doubt a relief, but the resulting record is one that’s compelling for the exact opposite reasons. It’s not a light at the end of a tunnel, but luminescence creeping through the crack of a doorway--illuminating just enough to let you realize just how dark everything still is.

Qui's huffing skree just doesn't have the immediacy of the Lizard's Zep thud. But Yow's ragged bellow has aged nicely into a wheezing croon. [Oct 2007, p.108]

By the time you reach the where-is-that-nicked-from riff of “I’m Not Satisfied,” it’s clear this is Lydon’s most listenable record in 30 years, though Album was a lot more fun and “Shoom,” the catchiest thing here, ain’t “Rise.”

The distinctiveness of these three weirdos and their democratic approach gives this unexpecedly harrowing album a remarkable cohesion.

[The songs] sound like woozy shanties for seasick barflies. [Nov 2006, p.100]

DeBoer's political poesy lacks his predecessor's acerbic wit, and his singsong delivery is much less bracing than Sok's full-throated rant.

“Outlaws” is a surprising Revolution Radio standout, recalling some of the delicate, Queen-influenced moments from My Chemical Romance’s The Black Parade—sensitive music that feels large. The rest of the record varies.