Daedelus does with electronic and Latin music here what he and others have already done with experimental hip-hop: boiling genre to an essence and re-imagining it with novel or illuminating instrumentation.

On the older albums, the Rosebuds’ synthesizers could sound like reinforcements parachuted in to cover for inadequate guitars or weak songs, but no longer. The front-and-center synths of Night of the Furies sound like a band hitting its stride.

Short, blunt, and skitless, A Gun Called Tension seethes with everything post-aught genre-fucking needs.

Although Punk summarizes Fatlip's traumatic post-Pharcyde life, the record is buoyant with character.

Their classic albums all had filler, but The Last Sucker has none. Each song is instantly identifiable. Riffs are huge, driving, and upfront. Songs maneuver crisply through choruses and bridges, avoiding the meandering that plagued previous efforts.

With its laptop beats and closely mic’d intimacy, White Bread, Black Beer conforms to the dictates of a creator with endless time to play all the instruments and no one to please but himself, regrettably.

An album of rich country, folk, and gospel music.

It’s not about reinterpretations of songs or giving the fans something to listen to until the next record comes out. It’s a definitive marker, a turning point for one of our finest songwriters.

Digital Ash offers enough swelling, androgynous moments to approach its hype, or at least keep up with its release partner.

Cross is a big party record with a few exciting beats, as well as one of the few examples of desirable audio clipping.

It’s hard not to notice that the best songs on Fourteen Autumns were already featured on last year’s EP.

What really makes Hawley stand out from just about every other contemporary solo artist is his modernization of the classic, silky pop sound and his adjustment of it to fit into today’s world.

Those who have loved Ladytron’s move toward a mix of harsher electro and lighter pop elements will find this a welcome progression, and seemingly a natural one, too.

While the commercial potential of her new album may be up for debate, as a showcase for Rosin Murphy’s talent, Overpowered is an enormous success.

While Psapp clearly echoes its precursors in myriad ways, its sound is ultimately unique and its album far more accomplished than the conventional debut.

Good Arrows is still a series of beautiful songs for that part of us all that just wants to stay in bed all day.

A Drink And A Quick Decision is a pill every bit as sweet as its predecessor, mining similar terrain to achieve equally sexy results.

Ward’s only failure in his bid to create a paean to another era is Transistor Radio’s length.

What is remarkable is the way that they have made a recording that can remain entertaining and engaging, resist becoming background, even while leaving you with the nagging sense that it was about nothing but the act of musical reference itself.

Maxïmo Park haven't just avoided the sophomore slump, they've made a follow-up that suggests that those who threw their lot in with the band instead of, say, the Futureheads made the right choice. Almost as exciting as the music on Our Earthly Pleasures is the potential.

Transparent Things, then, sounds less the work of three programmers and more like a band that plays together and stays together—like Hot Chip holding it a little closer to the vest, maybe.

This is a lovingly crafted compilation that not only represents the raw live power of PJ Harvey but also tips a cap to John Peel and the raw power his sessions had on performers.

Thrills hits upon a unique and confident path that doesn’t seem forced or contrived.

They've lost two members... so perhaps that explains some of the more aggressive focus and minimalist arrangement, but not the surprise-around-every-corner freedom they find within their self-imposed stricture.

It's not as much a progress as DCW, but it's easily its equal.

And though the album sags a little towards the end, with a few shorter instrumental numbers, it’s still an invigorating journey, a caravan of cavorting musicians, careening through the countryside, stopping only to play festivals and funerals.

A subtle improvement on the band’s debut.

Underneath the surface of these grand productions lies hidden undercurrents of malice, disgust and social commentary- all things that would seem to be at odds with a beautifully constructed pop song.

The highlights would be far better suited to lesser status on a great album, and turning away from the impressive vocal performances of Rock Action to fully retreat into vocoders and hushed mumbling is a step backwards. [Note: Score listed is an average of two separate reviews, scoring 91 and 72.]

Review 1: <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1414" TARGET="_blank">All the elements of timelessness are there, but the songs just don&#146;t seem to live beyond the last note. </A> [score=73] Review 2: <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1415" TARGET="_blank">The Shins&#146; music has grown by leaps and bounds. </A> [score=90]

Part Banana Splits, part The Wicker Man, part genius, The Coral may just have produced the most intriguing, tuneful, humorous and enjoyable debut album of the year, and then some.

Has a laid-back, gleeful quality to it, one that gives the listener the sense that its musicians are making things up as they go along, unable to hide their excitement at the fact that it all sounds so unexpectedly awesome.

The finest Matmos record to date.

La Bella Mafia is one of the top hip-hop albums of 2003, so far.

What happens in The Neptunes Present... Clones is that Pharrell, Chad and co. say &#147;look what we can do&#148;, and then proceed to show us that they can do nearly everything.

The Unicorns&#146; schtick isn&#146;t very difficult to see through; they&#146;re grown adults writing children&#146;s songs for grown adults.

It&#146;s phat, it&#146;s hooky and it&#146;s got tune after tune after tune of stylish, contemporary urban ragga-soul for 60+ minutes, all wrapped round with a voice like socially-aware and really angry honey.

To completely dismiss Camera Obscura for their willingness to partake in this musical grand theft or K-Tel like attitude toward repackaging former eras of music would be unfair; free of the burden of meliorating an individual sound, they’ve been able to craft a consistently enjoyable collection of pop songs that inhabit the passion and style of the music they so clearly love.

I hate to say it, but she might have finally overextended her ambition, resulting in an uneven, discomfiting album.

Sonic Nurse, if not proof of a band bursting with fresh ideas, is at least fresh-sounding.

Its airily liquid, peculiarly French dance-pop is crafted to be almost entirely unmemorable at first, but upon familiarity grow into a wonderfully subtle, hook-laden album of continent-hopping (sub)urban pop which makes an ideological virtue of its superficiality.

Ideally [Fall records will] feature two things: semi-incomprehensible (yet strangely prophetic) ramblings from the eternally tetchy Mark E. Smith, and a band who sound as if their music is perpetually falling down the stairs. The Real New Fall LP delivers on both counts. To much rejoicing.

Easily the most satisfying album of his decade-plus solo career, Illumination marks the first time in ages that Weller has sounded at ease in his own skin: mellow, upbeat, yet aggressive and gritty in all the right places.

This is a rare example of music transcending lyrics in conveying the work&#146;s meaning.

While Seven Swans is possibly a better record than Michigan, with such an overtly Christian sheen, it will be interesting to see if the liberal music press gives it as much praise as it deserves.

Outta Sight/Outta Mind is not an album that you can discuss in measured tones whilst tending to your beard. It is an album that will only cause mass hysteria and blood clots and burst forth Kundalini from the base of your spine like some auto-massage chair plugged into the wrong transformer while you holler &#147;wheeeeaaauurgh!!&#148; and finally slump down into a wet pile of exhaustion.

In the end, that's the best gift the Furnaces have to offer, the simple power of their own joyful racket and clatter, the pure holy hell they always seem to raise.

Apart from Caleb Followill’s distinctive, growly vocals--half-man half-grizzly--this could be a completely different band. A much better band. It’s quite an incredible transformation--and I’ll say this upfront: it doesn’t matter what you thought of their debut, you should listen to this album.

They&#146;ve now released their best album and the best pop inflected metal album since System of a Down's Toxicity.

Despite the increased emphasis on production, like Blonde Redhead's entire catalogue, the chirping, child-like cords of lead vocalists Amedeo Pace and Kazu Makino act as the essential ingredient to the bands avant-garde concoction.

Newman has created a record bearing all the traits that make him such an engaging musical personality in the first place: elliptical wordplay, unusual delivery, and obscenely catchy songs.

Street&#146;s Disciple reveals Nas at a new peak, finally comfortable in the post-millennial hip-hop world.

This is no cynical cash-in; every new track adds gestalt to an album which in its original incarnation was pretty damn great to begin with.

One long sugar rush.

Body Language isn&#146;t so much a massive artistic leap as it is a total distillation of her sound and style.

If Oh Me Oh My was Devendra&#146;s stunning introduction to the wide musical landscape, then Rejoicing in the Hands further marks his emergence as the most unique and important new voice in the music today.

Ultimately your reaction to the first album will define your reaction here. I can foresee a long cult career for Andrew W.K., devoted acolytes swearing he is the best thing ever, and everybody else ignoring him because they don&#146;t know how to do anything else.

It is, to be frank, one of the most remarkable and forward-looking rock albums that you will hear all year, and testament to Lanegan&#146;s ability to take desolate lyrics and fashion beautiful, redemptive tunes around them.

Trip-hop has been brought into the 21st century, at last.

There is no denying the power of this album.

Hyper-concept pseudo-narratives aside, Devin Dazzle is, in a word, shocking, where shocking = rocking and rocking = danceable and danceable = nuts and nuts = 80s kitsch-sex-funk-house-new-wave-punk-disco.

This is, quite possibly, one of the finest releases of last year, and certainly one of the most overlooked.

A directionless mess that never makes an obvious commercial ploy, never reveals any new ideas and never implies any forethought or central intelligence, yet somehow demands attention throughout, revealing new layers and engaging moments with every listen.

Neko possesses one of the most terrifically powerful voices in music today.

Yeah, she&#146;s sticking with the formula that got her going six years ago, but when it actually works, why bother messing with it?

Secret Wars feels like a keeper, like an album I&#146;ll pull out and play and still love ten years from now.

Kittie's most fully-realised and, for non-metalheads, approachable album yet.

Panda Park might not be one of the easiest albums to get into this year, but given proper time, it reveals itself as one of the best.

Much in the way Pete Rock or Kanye West reinterpret classic 70s soul for a new generation, Since We Last Spoke is RJD2&#146;s trip through the AM dial 30 years ago, the songs of the period experienced anew.

The variety and talent this album offers is enough to recommend it to almost any rap fan.

Dressy Bessy is their most forward, cohesive, and just downright pleasant release yet.

Not just a great record, but a much-needed dose of country-rock reality.

He may not be the first to mix the bucolic with the mechanic, and God knows he won&#146;t be the last, but here all the symptoms of overexposure sink under the unassuming grace of his gifts.

Fennesz makes Boards Of Canada sound like Daft Punk and My Bloody Valentine sound like Oasis.

Short of getting into a time portal and hurling yourself back to the late 70s, this is the closest you will get that sound in 2004.

One of those singular albums that is so richly dense, so unabashedly whimsical and so damned polished.

I don&#146;t see it as a release you can draw much from through repeated listening, but it&#146;s a brave and powerful trip nonetheless.

The songs are light, the production both relaxed and relaxing... the music breathes.

The Heat compares favorably to PJ Harvey&#146;s Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea, offering the same NYCentric references (&#147;9-11 baby boom&#148;), gruff, understated guitar work and narrative aptitude. These are Malin&#146;s stories from the city and they don&#146;t disappoint.

With its charming and imaginative love poems as lyrics, Heart is a true love album that hits all the warm and fuzzy spots directly.

Musically, Holland could be considered the more eccentric and authentic second cousin of Norah Jones.

For all of their rock leanings, they are a jazz combo in the best way possible&#151;each player brings a potent set of chops to his respective instrument.

By trimming excess fat (read: R’n’B choruses), Madvilliany keeps a sense of spontaneity, cutting off unexpectedly and never allowing anything to get stale.

Earle's strongest release in some time.

I Am the Fun Blame Monster is totally vibrant, totally groovy, and once again, totally awesome.

What remains is a sometimes cold, sometimes confusing collection of epics that are more intricate than anything GYBE have ever created.

The Sunday girl may be entering her autumn years, but she&#146;s still an absolute treasure.

This is the type of album impressionable teenagers fall in love with, crammed with melody and variety and thrill.

So ignore the Doris-Day-meets-Eminem descriptions you&#146;re seeing; this is more like Kate Bush meets Phil Ochs.

Ultravisitor appears to be the first album when jazz can completely mesh with Squarepusher&#146;s canonized style.

Rubber Factory is not as consistent an offering as Thickfreakness.... But make no mistake, the strengths here more than amend for the weaknesses.

Significantly altering the sound that won him critical praise and sold a quarter of a million albums takes some nerve. And that's what Showtime is about: Dizzee's newfound confidence.

Inches succeeds, and then some, because the record simply doesn&#146;t sound like it&#146;s been collated together over a nine year period.

Although clearly of more interest to rabid Cure nuts, Join the Dots is enough to bring joy (or, indeed, heartbreak) into anyone's life.

From the onset, this disc excels on a new level.

Review 1:<A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1413" TARGET="_blank">Kish Kash suffers from a surfeit of ideas and sounds; quite simply there is too much going on here.</A> [score=70] Review 2:<A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1412" TARGET="_blank">It is simply how dance music--natch, pop music--should be done. </A> [score=90]

Canned Heat mixed with Kiss and chopped into lines with Elvis and Queens Of The Stone Age.

Uninhibited and hushed in all the right places, it&#146;s safe to say that Comets on Fire have hit their stride.