Minogue delivers bliss like no other (wo)man or machine.

Trent Reznor's dark symphonies of clank succeed when their bleakness is broken by moments of humanity or hilarity, both of which come from the Nine Inch Nails mastermind's serrated scream. But when Reznor's haunted-spaceship beats combine with the seductive coo of former West Indian Girl vocalist Mariqueen Mandig (his wife) on the trio's debut EP, the results too often suggest a plodding, Matrix-style soundtrack.

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.

Over brutish synths and hammy bleats, the puerile brosefs' third album shares, among other witticisms: Gonna have a house party in my house.

Early EPs were lumped in with math and prog bands, but those impulses recede on this debut full-length: Clearly there's some showing off on "Carrying the Wet Wood," with intricately intertwined fretwork and drumming, but it's all in service of sing-alongs, tied together by Dave Davison's pinched, inimitable voice.

The third album from New Jersey's Steel Train is a textbook example of how to use splashy arrangements and high-octane performances to enhance tepid material.

The wonderful Street Songs of Love brightens slightly without losing intensity.

The title of the Roots' ninth studio full-length suggests a more fulfilled mood (Obama victory, gig as America's favorite late-night house band), at least compared to the screw-faced abyss of their last two records.

The Miami-born, Paris-based socialite subsequently wastes most of her somewhat-dated debut album boasting about MySpace friends and fiddling with torturous, Ed Banger-produced synth pop.

Steadfastly chirping crescendos, whinnying breakbeat stampedes, and the odd evocative vocal.

We Are Born accentuates Sia's goofy party-girl side: Produced by Lily Allen's mate Greg Kurstin, it's full of up-tempo electro-pop jams that sound like Amy Winehouse covering Toni Basil's Mickey.

So is Recovery a classic album? No. But is it an essential one in shaping Eminem's future? Absolutely.

Ghosts' flowing, synth-backed melodies are a vast improvement on 2006's hammy In Our Bedroom After the War, if not 2004's near-perfect Set Yourself on Fire. Cute isn't what Stars aim for, but it's often what they achieve.

Throughout, Randolph's playing is joyously flashy, yet never glib or predictable.

On Body Talk Pt. 1, Robyn confidently chronicles the heartbreak ("Dancing on My Own") and pleasure ("Dancehall Queen") of epic disco nights like she's ready to rule.

American Slang sticks to the template Fallon's been hammering away at since the band's beginning; its stories star the same kind of characters and its garage-punk sound still sparkles with flashes of Motown and R&B.

The abundance of spacey synths and clattering, reverbed percussion makes Thank Me Later feel like ideal cruising music for a ramshackle UFO, but it also incorporates dynamics like few other hip-hop albums before it.

Two years later, our Canadian antiheroes return with something deeper than digital histrionics and crazily infectious beats.

Bless their Glaswegian hearts, they never sound bitter, 15-plus years after their brief alt-rock moment.

Buried under reverb, distortion, and computer st-st-stutter, our pop astronaut mostly wastes the forward-thinking production with cringeworthy lines.

He can disavow his youthful rage all day, but Gabel is at his best when he's feisty.

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

Each track on this Canadian quartet's second full-length opens with some clever reshuffling of precise drum pecks, TV-hum synths, Strokes-like guitar, and David Monks' reedy, wry vocals. Three minutes later, you're left with the mildly pleasing, indistinct memory of yelped choruses, mathy breakdowns, and mid-tempo breeziness.

Before Today still sounds like it was dubbed to cassette and left on the dash of a 1983 Datsun for an entire summer. Every aspect seems faded and warped, but that doesn't obscure Pink's savvy maneuvering.

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.

While Temple's hermaphroditic alto endures the costume changes, the songs often don't, and the couple of undeniably great tracks -- like the rigid, kinetic "Collector" -- get lost in the parade of influences.

Four albums on, Mike Stroud and Evan Mast have barely altered their instrumental electro/indie/hip-hop hybrid, except to expand and refine its tasteful details.