At this point, Wilson looks like the most important new artist to hit country music since the Dixie Chicks.

Another fine batch of eloquent, classic sounding pop songs, with a little bit of mustard added to it as well.

The inferior quality of the covers belies the excellence of American IV’s originals.

In country music, it’s all about the chops--and Millan doesn’t have ‘em. Yet.

It’s the band’s throatiest, most pressing and urgent release to date.

The album is not quite a match for The Facts of Life, then, but a more than adequate follow-up.

Overall, the impression generated by Tulsa for One Second is one of inoffensive pleasantness.

Tellingly, the consistently likable Guilt Show falters only when The Get Up Kids overextend their grasp and depart from their nearly infallible pop formula, as on the “experimental” claptrap of the album’s last two tracks.

Disparate though its individual elements may seem (and they certainly are), the sum of the parts is remarkably cohesive.

It's not a complete disaster--the songs are still there, shining proud and (far too) loud--but each listen brings a constant, aggravating reminder of the sloppy production.

Pencil Ne-Yo in as R&B rookie of the year--and don’t be surprised if no one trumps him before 2006 is gone.

This is the Prince album we wanted Musicology to be.

First Impressions of Earth is the first pretty good album of the year.

The middling adult contemporary slop, although awful, isn’t what ultimately drowns In Our Gun. That blame can fall squarely in the lap of misguided attempts at moody electronica, something the band has more successfully dabbled in previously.

The album has a smooth flow, using careful production and consistent guitar tones to blend the different musical influences and varied performances into a piece.

As beautiful as many of these songs are in terms of immediacy, their lackluster instrumentation never allows them any lasting appeal.

Always a wee bit more clever than anyone gave them credit for, the Keys are now a pretty good Zeppelin knockoff for the indie crowd, and little more.

Ultimately, The Day After is another middling album from a tremendously talented rapper who will never get the respect he deserves because he's all too eager to make compromised crossover records.

This record is the first time the Fucking Champs have actually managed to capture the actual emotional colors of their own banality, rather than trying to piss a whole two-minute solo all over the place.

Memory Almost Full is as good as an album as this devotee of frivolity can make in his mid-sixties.

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

This is a solid, sturdy set of songs befitting their rootsy-but-not-exactly-honky-tonk settings.

Banhart's efforts to expand himself have left him woefully unable to play to his strengths in the rare occasions he bothers with them.

There’s just not much to get; these 9 tracks awkwardly move from one improvident moment to the next, collectively assembling a record that might elevate the mood of an extreme skiing video but does little to lift conciseness.

As mechanised as their rhythmic focus can be, there is flesh, bone, and brain beneath the near industrial barrage of beats.

Kotche delivers on all accounts, tastefully propelling the music into timelessness, nearly filling the shoes of his faves: The Band’s Levon Helm, Beefheart’s Drumbo.

Easily their most cohesive and satisfying full-length to date, Chapel shows that Weatherall still has a few tricks up his sleeve and isn’t afraid to use them.

In Colour trades much of the punch from their first self-titled full-length for a more tender (is that even possible?) and reflective muse.