The relentlessness of the pillaging becomes one of the album’s virtues—each song wildly varies from the next, revealing thirty-five minutes of noise and pop that extends far beyond the surface into a slowly decaying singalong monster.

It has one pace, and that pace is “mature”.

This is not a ‘return to form’—how could it ever be? A band of this age have some many peaks and troughs in form as to render that kind of phraseology practically meaningless. Just as Porcupine should, just as Ocean Rain should, Siberia too should be taken in isolation.

Made in Brooklyn is mostly filler and little meat.

Were the album as sleek and steely as “Makes Me Wonder,” we would be crowning and mitering Maroon 5 as master purveyors of white-boy funk.

A highly enjoyable album... one that’s louder than the Liars, more fun than the (new) Strokes, and ten times more dynamic than the Arctic Monkeys.

Review 1: <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1476&PHPSESSID=cae64c01fc4f0115d70d2aaefcf8ddcc" TARGET="_blank">It's as lost and macilent and alluring and eager to please and disturbingly empty-eyed as she is.</A> [Score=67] Review 2: <A HREF="http://www.stylusmagazine.com/review.php?ID=1477" TARGET="_blank">Ultimately, In the Zone suffers greatly from Britney's uneasy transition from teen tart to sexually powerful woman.</A> [Score=47]

It’s enormous, senseless, superficial, selfish, and cocky past the point of absurdity, but it’s never wrong.

Paul and Dan, knowing that the Dating Game skits sandwiching the album were just a poor shadow of the 3 Feet High And Rising game show, had to up the Wacky Factor within the songs themselves. “More guests! More cray-zee guests!"

It would be difficult to convince yourself that The Sun is anything but meandering and listless.

The Cost is bleached of any sort of lifeblood, stumbling out of the gate and moping towards the finish line.

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

Theirs is an unwelcome indie lyricism that lives in a vacuum, devoid of guttural expression and left to vacant, bumper-worthy slogans.

It’s an easy and mostly enjoyable listen.

A quiet, thoughtful, but never uninteresting album.

The second half of the album falls into a malaise as tempos slow and arrangements become more orthodox, placing Bloc Party closer to Coldplay than one would have thought possible two years ago.

Approaching this album, I was skeptical. I was convinced it would be one of those albums with three good songs (the singles) and a load of filler. But it’s actually a solid, quality album with a smattering of great tunes and loads of shuffly beats that will make you lose control of your feet.

Unfortunately, Now is the Time! short-circuits early, leaving us with an empty gimmick and a few good synth-zapped riffs.

Revolverlution illustrates that they can adapt to varying song forms, that they are open to technology and that they are still able to craft gripping hip-hop. Unfortunately, they have also kept up with the hip-hop nation by making an album that doesn&#146;t contain enough decent material to justify its near-ridiculous length.

I’m definitely recommending Unplugged--with reservations, but it’s still a recommendation--but damn, I just wish the fun Keys seems to have on stage would translate more clearly to record.

Uncovering the strands that make up Black Mountain’s debut album helps describe what the album sounds like. What it doesn’t help describe is how well the pastiche is constructed and how enjoyable the proceedings are.

Remember that concept album Tori Amos did that was supposed to reclaim all those male-oriented anthems from their blowhard XY carriers? Smith paints over Amos’ tedious version and executes the idea so much better, without even bragging that she’s doing it.

Precious, effete and insubstantial.

Friends: believe me when I say that the combination between the two disparate elements&#150;unbearably goofy synth-pop and sub-par commentary on various parties&#146; political shortcomings&#150;is indeed a deadly one.

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 realisation is obvious: a happy, contented, motherly Tori Amos is as irrelevant, sterile, and airbrushed as her face is on the cover of this album. Tori: it’s over.

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

Where the Donnas offer confident exhortations and definitive declarations, Kiss And Tell is dribbling with foggy contemplation and emotional explanation.