A deeply contemplative album...

God Says No maintains the attributes of its predecessor but also delves deeper into the groove-y psychedelia that's also part of the band's makeup.

Kelly's new work offers about as much stylistic variety as he could possibly be expected to, while still remaining in territory familiar to his panting fans.... All in all, the production is sharp, with some fairly clever vocal and percussion arrangement ideas throughout.

Strangely enough, it seems the further Black distances himself from his heroic work in The Pixies, the better he gets.

The blond brothers' creative maturity is evident all over the disc's 13 songs.

Flowers features the familiar psychedelic-tinged pop songwriting, chiming guitars, and unmistakable voice that have always been the group's trademark, but 20 years down the road, experience, nostalgia, and longing have tempered the band's sound.

A dense and textured rock affair that builds a bridge between grunge, goth, and industrial stylings.

Gerald's mastery of his own sound and style generally triumphs over his occasional lapses in focus.

Without the context of the film, the songs don't stand particularly well on their own for the purposes of casual listening.

While Run-D.M.C.'s chest-thumping reclamations of its prominence grow tiresome through the course of the disc -- they need to do more showing than telling -- the good news is that the tracks helmed by the group ("Crown Royal," "Aye Papi," "Ash," and "Simmons Incorporated") show that its own creative touch is still intact.

A smooth and engaging affair, with consistently strong singing and playing from Clapton.

Familiar-sounding as these songs may be, they function as well as any blend of jazz and rock...

Instead of serving up another platter laden with goopy ballads or attempts to revivify '40s swing, Midler sets her sights on more ambitious and varied targets this time, with engaging covers of easygoing soul tunes and a few spicier selections tossed in. The results, while promising, are a mixed bag.

Some of the strangest lyrical fodder ever to inhabit radio-ready fare.

Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars won't prompt the inauguration of a Nobel Prize category for dance music, but like Armand Van Helden's Killing Puritans and the Chemical Brothers' 1999 gem Surrender, its another great example of a maturing dance artist learning to harness the ecstatic abandon of late night dance floor epiphanies to sentiments -- musical and emotional -- inventive and universal enough to flourish in the light of day.

Taken individually, the tracks on G.O.A.T. often stand tall, and as a rapper, LL Cool J is unparalleled -- his delivery is unique and totally familiar. Brought together as a whole, however, the record falls short of the near perfection he's found in the past...

Overall, this is a compelling mix of underground and moderately mainstream fare, and a top-notch -- if long overdue -- American introduction to this seasoned U.K. vet.

But as the songs blow by like so much sonic shrapnel, Rancid runs the risk of trying to say too much too quickly and losing its voice amid the ranting, raging blur.

Production is a dance record, but Mirwais is no mere slave to the rhythm. While other artists keep the BPM pumped up, the songs here drift and simmer. "V.I. (The Last Words She Said Before Leaving," for example, creeps along at a funereal pace for more than six minutes and doesn't catch much of a beat until four minutes in.

Neither a chip off the ol' Bizkit nor the kind of indulgent instrumental workout many ax aces opt for on their solo turns, Big Dumb Face is a work of clever humor, spirited silliness, and, in more than a few places, some pretty good songwriting.

Soul Daddy offers the real spirit of the Daddies, a blend of styles that rocks as much as it swings, taking side trips into soul reggae and smoky lounge blues along the way. The combination makes for a much more potent recording.

The Electric Mile more than meets expectations because this fifth effort is the group's most fully realized.

If you look beyond the ludicrous lyrics, you almost come to respect them as pop barometers. The music draws on everything from alternative rock to funk, but the result is not a melee of sounds but rather well-crafted syntheses.

And while there's a temptation to write this -- and Martin -- off as just another pop-tart confection reprising a proven sonic formula, the fact remains that the singer and his cohorts craft music that's undeniably engaging, tuneful, and, quite often, lots of fun.

Time Bomb packs an incendiary wallop that's as noisy as nighttime on the Fourth of July.

There's a lot of great music here to enjoy. The political tone on the album is more problematic, though.

She still suffers under the Whitney-Mariah delusion that Volume equals Passion, which proves to be her greatest undoing on this 11-song set.

Beenie Man's smooth adaptability works against him, as the 17 tracks almost inevitably contain a few less than stellar ones. For the most part, however, Art and Life has more good than bad.

But while The Mirror Conspiracy is lush relaxation music, it can be too relaxed at times. Some of the tracks, such as "So Com Voce," feel bland and lack the rhythmic ideas driving standout cuts like "Lebanese Blonde" and "Le Monde."

Even when the band rocks, the music is tethered to a hazy, psychedelic vibe. Occupying each end of the CD's narrow stylistic spectrum are "Pup Tent," which sounds like the Cowboy Junkies covering The Doors, and "Sideshow by the Seashore," which conjures up the image of Crazy Horse being fronted by acclaimed Athens singer-songwriter Vic Chesnutt.

Everything, Everything is a solid live album, and a great introduction to the music of Underworld, even if its most transcendent moments prove to be all too fleeting.

Despite the initial futuristic impression, Cole proves himself to be guilty of the same superficial high concepts that taint far too many dance music albums. Still, there's much to recommend here, especially when Cole sticks to the grooves.

The disc's first single, "Someone Else Not Me," makes it clear that although the band often sticks to the same songwriting formula, there are still new melodies left to explore.

His impressively relentless battle raps offer a barrage of metaphorical violence delivered with a vehement rat-a-tat-tat.

The sort of disc that inevitably prompts skeptics to ask, "You call that music?"

Eitzel's songs, at their best, could serve as fodder for the next Sinatra, should such a crooner emerge from a dingy bar on the far side of town. As performed by Eitzel himself, his compositions resonate with a mix of existential melodrama and black humor that cuts deep to the bone.

The band is beguilingly hypnotic, making music that is decidedly off-kilter. Guitars swirl, grind, and mesh with fluid rhythms and haunting melodies.

The band members unleash meditative, self-consciously poetic jams, solidifying their status as the hipster's Phish.

Another surprisingly coherent and substantial power pop record with solid hooks and memorable songs, another dazzling combination of Anglo-pop melody, arena rock chord changes, and DIY aesthetic.

From the start, Because We Hate You presents itself as a rawer, more blustery affair.

A grab-bag set of videos and live and unreleased recordings that are more of an enhancement for devotees' collections than an introduction for neophytes.

The disc evokes both the heartbreak and the buoyancy of bands like Big Star and Teenage Fanclub.

Though his voice and attitude crosses Pet Shop Boy Neil Tennant's nasally histrionics with Gary Numan's clinical whelp, [Brian] Molko generally keeps his guitar playing tight and tough with Gothic overtones.

Since Headache doesn't go for any of Rush's extended instrumental outings or skewed dynamics, the onus is on Lee and Mink's melodies, which are generally strong and taut, building on familiar elements but adding a bit more sheen and smoothly executed changes to the mix.

The new disc has a feeling of renewal, a sense of freedom, and perhaps even fun.

Scorpion, her second solo album in three years, stands a good chance of blowing up the airwaves and charts, though it still battles with the hardcore elements that made her first album such a disappointment.

This ambitious project explores roots music without the scholarly subtext of an Alan Lomax recording, offering instead a simple but powerful reinterpretation of the originals.

For each misstep (like the relentless snare drum on the opening track "Sunflower") there are moments of sublime beauty like "Laser Beam," which feels more like a prayer than a song.

Supposedly split into two themes, it turns out that the music throughout is interchangeable; any track could have appeared on either CD.

Teddy Thompson, son of veteran singer-songwriter Richard Thompson, avoids the tracks laid out on his father's Celtic-tinged, guitar-centered folk rock and instead mines a pop-lite style framed in a gentle vibe.... Surprisingly, the results are better than one might expect.

Every track is at least fleetingly familiar, often having that feeling of the B-side that you haven't heard in years.... Still, adding a few hits wouldn't have hurt the soundtrack's shot at longevity...

Some of Hatfield's best work ever... [v]irtually every track here is memorable, and often heart-rending, revolving around Hatfield's strengths as an artist: her baby-girl voice; her frank, naive lyrics; and her acoustic melodies.

As always, the acoustic pop tracks remain the Go-Between's most effective.... It's clear that the band's heyday, those heady times that supplied fans with a surfeit of astonishingly good pop songs... are over, but there's also no doubt that McLennan and Forster can still turn out quality goods.

She's older, wiser, and more steadied in her approach across the 11 songs that make up the album, but had this disc come out in 1997 or 1998, it would've been seen as a somewhat less-impressive follow-up to Relish.

But while it contains its fair share of hypnotic pop gems, The Geometrid is missing that extra something...

The songs, however, are principally concerned with creating atmosphere, as has always been the band's strength. Only this time the atmosphere is centered on Michae [Timmins's] contemplations of his own mortality, and it seeks musical complexity, not simplicity.

It's just, well, it's just another Depeche Mode album -- a solid near-hour's worth of moody, darkly insidious tunes about such time-honored topics as love, death, and pain... and love and death.

Unlike fellow retro-futurists Chicks on Speed and Sylvester Boy, Ladytron doesn't completely upend new wave conventions to make a jarring artistic statement, nor are its songs as transcendent as those penned by Stephin Merritt (the Magnetic Fields) for his Future Bible Heroes project. Regardless, "604" is a smart, frisky, and invigorating listen...

The band continues to mine both the rock and dance worlds with a jagged gruffness that is simultaneously abrasive and catchy.... The end result, though pleasing at times, is ultimately disjointed and erratic.

The Black Eyed Peas are much better musicians and rappers, and play the majority of the instruments on Bridging the Gap. Their songwriting, however, is somewhat suspect...

Well-constructed but largely uninspiring... Its lyrics offer little that's dynamic or artful, so what are listeners really left with? Decent melodies, to be sure, and nicely produced tracks... But deep down, the music and lyrics rarely match up, and few songs establish a mood for long enough to hang your heart on.

It seems that the usual brilliant, blunted band has been replaced by an upbeat upstart that's only recently discovered this thing called funk, while also becoming increasingly enamored by rap -- all at the expense of its sultry, seductive star vocalist, Skye Edwards...

Matchbox Twenty never claimed to be original or challenging or anything more than a lightweight and entertaining pop band. Which is why Mad Season, with its rather casual and jammy feel, is so surprising, so substantial, and much more satisfying than expected.

Pretty self-indulgent and insular, sounding at times like it was made for its creators' pleasure and little else.

Though clever in origin, once these sounds have been identified, the songs themselves are rarely compelling enough to prompt return visits.

P's best effort yet, a 70-minute affair with not quite as much filler as he's weighed in with on past projects.

Singing in an airily accented voice that brings to mind fellow Brit popsters Robyn Hitchcock and John Wesley Harding, Cole evokes aural images of indie radio circa 1985.

The Platform, for all its individual strengths, never hits any kind of synergy as an album.

It comes off softer than its predecessor, and not nearly as affecting.

When Mullins hits his mark (as he often does on Beneath the Velvet Sun), the results constitute Southern-flavored pop at its finest. Just don't expect your world to be rocked by lyrical insights or musical innovation.

The band hasn't taken the same sort of strides it has in the past. That's not to say Wishville isn't a strong album, but in the realm of Catherine Wheel recordings, it doesn't deliver on the promise of Adam and Eve.

As with all her solo work, Sunny Border Blue practically bleeds with catharsis and introspection, but foraging through its dark interiors yields moments of strange, exquisite beauty.

Somewhat surprisingly, for a band that hasn't toured much in its 12-year career, Live is full of edge-to-edge dynamite performances dating from 1990 to 1996.

White Pepper may make listeners put off by Ween's crudeness give them another chance.

They've offered us more inventive, more substantial work in the past...

This disc is all over the map, in terms of style, energy, and overall execution.... the band sounds fine but too often lapses into cuteness with songs that don't hold up beyond novelty appeal.

Stewart is surely a fine singer, but not quite at that level of being able to make the phone book sound like a masterpiece. He needs the songs, and on Human, he's only as good as the material that others provide.

Ratdog is... weighed down on its debut by a sense of its own mortality.... And, like the Dead, Ratdog's forays into spirituality, notably the dippy "Two Djinn," only serve to give unbelievers more fodder for ridicule.

Oops! does succeed in making Spears sound sexier and meatier -- and not that innocent -- as its team of top-shelf producers (particularly Max Martin and Rodney Jerkins) supports her adenoidal vocals and breathy hiccups with bottom-heavy arrangements that provide a bit more thrust and pump to the proceedings.

Manson's most ambitious, musically accomplished, and -- dare we say it? -- mature album to date. Holy Wood treads too much over the same nihilistic territory, raging against a God he claims doesn't exist, and describing in detail a life that he says isn't worth living. That said, there are some musically powerful moments on the album, notably the eviscerating power chords on "The Fight Song" and the galloping rhythms of "Disposable Teens."

The members of Blues Traveler, new and old, still play better than they write songs, but there's no denying that the group's indefatigable spirit remains engaging.

A formless collection that drifts from one tune to the next, weighed down by a general sense of murk that pervades everything from Tchad Blake's production to the song arrangements and the lyrics.

The main problem on At Last is that despite her best intentions, many of the tunes are so sappy that they just don't live up to the high standards a veteran singer can and should aim for.

NakedSelf feels more like a transition than a treatise, like a little bit less when more is actually called for.

When all the elements of Phantom Moon align -- as they do on a handful of songs ("Mr. Chess," "Requiescat") -- the results are mesmerizing.

Because the songs jump so radically between styles, the ultimate reaction to Come to Where I'm From is confusion. Arthur seems to be looking for an identity but not feeling totally comfortable with any of the ones he adopts.

A perfectly serviceable modern-rock record-

But for all its emotional directness and prodigious length, there's a point on All for You where it all starts wear thin and Jackson's moments of celebration and vindictiveness seem played out rather than genuine...

Underlying The Optimist's base -- two complementary voices highlighted by beautifully executed acoustic guitar -- is Turin Brakes' bent existentialism, an expansive vision that adds a feeling of fatalism to many of these songs.

Surprisingly and disappointingly tame.

Tomorrow's Sounds Today belies its promising title by breaking no new ground, and, in fact, retracing some pretty well-known boot-scootin' steps.... If nothing else, it's still a pleasure to hear on Tomorrow's Sounds Today what producer and guitarist extraordinaire Pete Anderson can do with material that is only average.

Lyrically, they've got a ways to go.... That said, Alien Ant Farm shows some real potential.

It gets tiresome, sure, but should this Dogg be put to sleep? Not yet. He's still coming up with funky beats and rhymes (like every single day).

Too often it sounds only half completed...

There's not much fat here, but there's not much meat and bone, either. If the Offspring, still the most successful of all the latter-day Southern California punkers, once had interest in teasing and amusing its fans, it has largely hidden those qualities this time around.

Fifth Release is an intoxicating cocktail of beats and colors that swirl and explode like a Roy Lichtenstein collage. When Pizzicato Five gets in this zone, which they do repeatedly here, all the world's a runway, and everyone's a size four and working it on pinpoint stilettos.

Unfortunately, Rule 3:36, which does feature a few worthwhile moments, doesn't string enough strong tracks together to be a cohesive, effective listen.

This is an album about textures, grooves, and sounds, but it's not really about songs. Once one is done decoding its structure, Look Into the Eyeball is an elegant but empty building.