She's not above revisiting periods where the creative process of collaboration was symbiotic as well as successful.

The McGregors are ultimately at their best when their dynamic isn't overpowered by too many musical ideas.

This album isn't going to win Halstead too much favor critically or commercially, but anyone who holds songcraft, emotional restraint, and melodic grace in high regard should give the peaceful and sincere Oh! Mighty Engine a chance.

Big Bad World is a tidy, enjoyable release, and the Plain White T's deserve points for remaining grounded after a meteoric year.

Snowflake Midnight works as a soothing, gently inspiring song cycle, the likes of which Mercury Rev hasn't made since "See You on the Other Side."

Not that Tennessee Pusher is a huge fall off from "Big Iron World," it's just not a great leap forward and upward, although there are plenty of striking tracks.

Getting back on track, DJ Khaled's We Global corrects all the mistakes made on his disappointing sophomore effort "We the Best" and gets back to the high-quality control of his debut "Listennn: The Album."

There is a sense of urgency and a new dimension of self-reflection not touched upon throughout the holding pattern that was "T.I. vs T.I.P."

Murs was obviously ready to put his best foot forward--and yes, Murs for President is just as ambitious as the title indicates.

Ode isn't quite as strong song-wise as "The Boy" but it makes up for the difference with its deepened palette--again, this palette may not be as rich as some of their peers, but compared to Travis' other work of the past decade, this is richer and livelier as sheer sonics go.

No one tunes in to hear Yo Majesty wax on a provocative level, and they're wise to this. Dancefloor fun is the cornerstone of the record, and the primary lesson to be learned is that there's nothing wrong with grindin' and shakin'.

Such Fun might fill that space over the fireplace, but it doesn't really pull the room together.

Journey to the West is perhaps best experienced on-stage, as it was meant to be heard in tandem with Chen Shi-Zheng and Hewlett's visuals, but heard as its own work, it's hard not to admire, if not exactly embrace, Albarn's achievement here, as his work is not only ambitious, it is serious and understated, the work of a true composer.

The sound of three people ripping through hooky tunes without regard for pleasantries and taste is one of the joys of rock & roll, and Vivian Girls do satisfy on that account.

Both 'Stone in My Hand' and 'Weakness' are redemption anthems that will satisfy sinners looking to be saints. They are the target audience and--along with the Everlast faithful--the ones who will find this heavy, rap-free album rich and rewarding instead of desolate and ponderous.

Not Animal gets better as it progresses--the sparser, melancholic songs are pushed to the front, leaving the band's energetic material to bring up the rear--and Margot's sophomore album subsequently concludes on a high note, effectively masking any sour taste left by the band's battle with Epic Records.

Here with Me is a cozy and wholly comfortable album, one that begs to be played during rainy days and Sunday afternoons.

All the Way isn't Growing's best or most essential release, but it's a likable outing and should have no problem appealing to the New Yorkers' hardcore followers.

This is a graceful set, lit with pretty melodies, subtle instrumentation, and lovely singing from both bandmembers. As introductions go, it's a charmer.

by Tony Brown, Call Me Crazy underscores his greatest strength: getting the essence of a vocalist across in a mix; but also his greatest weakness: the seeming inability to leave a musical backdrop until it's cluttered to death.

While the rewards are there, the hooks are few and far between, resulting in the kind of overly personal transitory album that can either lay the seeds for a full-blown masterpiece, or render the garden infertile.

From a musical standpoint, Damn Right, Rebel Proud is every bit as solid as "Straight to Hell;"...But lyrically, too much of the time all Hank has to tell us is he's messed up and ready to rearrange some faces.

More often than not, though, Flashy is lots of cleverly dumb fun.

Hope for the Hopeless works more than it doesn't, and when it really clicks here, which is often enough, Dennen shows himself to be a unique voice and talent.

It's a typical "kitchen sink" EP, stocked with enough stabs at bawdy blue rave-ups ('Shake That Devil'), oddball narratives ('Hope Mountain'), and plaintive reveries ('Crackagen' and 'Sing for Me') to tide fans over until the headliner arrives.

Funhouse is a ride, empowered by her post-divorce freedom. In a way, that does make Funhouse unique among divorce albums, as it's the first to concentrate on liberation rather than loss--but if she was going to go in this direction, Pink may have been better off not pretending that she's bothered by the breakup.

The playing is tighter and more polished, but they haven't lost any of their manic energy, and in fact this outing is, if anything, even more energetic than "Head Home."

Fueled by heavy dance tracks and popping electronic beats, The Fame, the first album by the glamorous Lady Gaga, is a well-crafted sampling of feisty anti-pop in high quality.

Their light touch and unfailing ability to deliver un-telegraphed emotional punches on Life Like make the album a strong addition to the Rosebuds already impressive catalog.

Marc Bianchi has, at least for now, chucked his dour Stephin Merritt leanings and adopted a more Nick Lowe-like free-spirited confidence and the whole thing sounds, if not exactly cathartic, at least liberating.

If you give Who Killed Harry Houdini? a serious listen and can get past the initial surprise and mild disappointment, the quiet beauty of the songs, the tender performances, and the beaten down but not broken soul of Emanuel Lundgren are enough to break your heart.

There were some signs prior to this 2008 archival release that this particular gig was pretty good--some of the cuts surfaced on the posthumous live 1999 comp "From Here to Eternity" and the video to 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' came from this gig--but all the decades of disastrous myths help turn Live at Shea Stadium into a pleasant surprise.

Joseph Raglani's brief but quite enjoyable five-song effort isn't some sudden new stroke of artistic genius--instead it aims to hit certain strong points and does so well enough that his future work will be worth investigating.

These ventures into pure '80s shred go a long way to illustrating just how versatile a guitarist Brad Paisley is, and they wind up as accidental autobiography, revealing a side he's previously camouflaged--but now that it's surfaced, it's easy to see why his albums are always among the most adventurous and best country music of this decade.

In its own way, the Wild Beasts' volatile flamboyance is more difficult to embrace than an overtly dissonant experimental band's music, but that's just another way that this group sets itself apart from the rest of the pack--and there's something very liberating about that, even if it's baffling at times.

Like a garish version of his label boss Akon, he's a singer/songwriter/producer who doesn't evolve much over this avalanche of releases and guest shots, but Thr33 Ringz proves he's much more aware of his limitations.

Galore the band isn't as distinctive as its influences, and many of the album's songs are so polished and streamlined that there's little chance for Dragonette's personality to shine through. However, their more adventurous side surfaces on the album's second half.

They give the old noise pop formula enough of a kick to make this a very worthwhile addition to any noise pop fan's collection.

An ambitious exercise of restraint, it's a lumbering beast that's minimal but still feels expansive. Epic, even.

Berlin was a work of tremendous ambition that didn't quite live up to its own high standards, and this live recording seems to trade a roughly equal number of new flaws for those of the original album, but this performance sounds like a legitimate attempt by Reed to revisit his past without being shackled to it, and on that level it's a brave and compelling experiment that (often) works.

David Cook [is] remarkably similar to the debut of his AmIdol forefather, DAUGHTRY, but where Chris Daughtry wallows in his stylized amorphous angst, Cook is a friendly puppy dog, eager to please.

What he isn't, however, is an album-oriented artist, and that's clear on Startin' Fires, his fifth studio release. There's a little bit of everything here, and that's part of the problem.

At its strongest, with songs like the archly titled 'Regal Regalia' and 'Papering Fix,' the band kicks up a huge sounding storm while still providing space for the almost preternaturally clean singing boring through the mix--not as an artificially high volume element, more like serenity in the midst of a storm.

Amon Amarth sticks closely to the same sound and approach that got them this far in the first place.

The Door is a beautifully mysterious and deeply satisfying entry in the ECM canon and a very auspicious debut.

Women may not be easy listening, but it is rewarding listening.

While his previous effort, 2006's "Release Therapy," was much more the thematically tight album and deserved a concept, this loose set of tunes is all-together more entertaining, thanks in no small part to a highly inspired Luda and all the punch lines he lands.

None of this is major but it is enjoyable, worthwhile for the devoted--and it's nice they can get it separately instead of plunking down cash yet again for a deluxe edition.

Surfing definitely won't end up on many end-of-year lists, but it's easygoing where "Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon" was often self-serious, and overall a pleasant diversion for Banhart fans.

Human is nothing if not a serious album, not to mention the least enjoyable release in Brandy's catalog. But it could very well be her most useful one.

Here, the pre-recorded sequences of fan favorites "DVNO," "Tthhee Ppaarrttyy," and "D.A.N.C.E." are born again; flipped and redecorated with aggressive house beats to the point that they feel fresh, but they still retain enough familiarity to get fists pumping and mouths singing along.

It's business as unusual and for the BMSR, their business has always been making challenging, inventive. and above all, hilariously fun, music. Fucked Up Friends represents no change in the status quo whatsoever.

In that regard, this self-titled effort is often a tribute rather than a new way forward, but Reinhardt's work is nonetheless very enjoyable, a way to regather these various strands from any number of limiting genre associations and reuse them in a new fashion.

A couple dramatic moments don't quite take full flight, and a handful of tracks are tepid and unmemorable, but OnMyRadio is mostly another set of sturdily constructed laid-back R&B.

Teaming up with some fresh collaborators seems to have done Pollard a world of good after recording the bulk of his post-GBV work with Todd Tobias handling all the instruments; Moen and Slusarenko don't bring a striking level of chops to Brown Submarine, Boston Spaceships' debut album, but their work has an organic feel and a natural energy that helps these sessions sound like the work of a real band.

Dirt Don't Hurt isn't necessarily magical, but it is fun and breezy, as well as a nice addition to Golightly's impressive catalog.

There's every chance that Laura Marling will get lost in the shuffle as the unexpected commercial success of Feist's The Reminder leads major labels to unleash hordes of similarly talented female singer/songwriters, but Alas I Cannot Swim is far better than the average coffee house-endorsed girly pop.

It's often catchy and kinetic in the moment, yet it still feels like Franz Ferdinand has the potential to do more with their music than just slightly tweak and polish a sound they established several albums ago.

Apart from a couple fumbles, By-the-Numbers turns out to be a successfully executed concept and a very pleasant listen.

Compared to "Hello Young Lovers," Exotic Creatures does sound a little starker at points, but it's often also subtler and slyer, tempering bombast in favor of sprightly but also uneasy melodies on songs like 'The Director Never Yelled "Cut'"

With some minor problems, some minor advancement, and some major moments, Da Realist is an overall winner from a rapper who keeps beating the odds.

Fans won't be thrilled doubling up on tracks they already have, but the set is definitely more for them than for those who know little beyond the classics.

A Love Extreme is, as its title suggests, an album of sonic extremes, but those willing to sit through both discs will find a number of eccentric, engaging songs, particularly on side two.

What's truly appealing about Grainger's solo effort is the fun he's obviously having.

While it's a little uneven, Dance Mother is often fascinating, and a big step forward for Telepathe without losing what made them distinctive in the first place.

It's an unfocused album that defies comfortable listening, perhaps deliberately so, but the collision of half-baked folk tunes and uneasy soundscapes isn't as stimulating to hear as it might have been to create.

Wino aims to combine vocal and guitar swagger with psychosis in equal measure on Punctuated Equilibrium--the mark of someone who knows that one of the best things to do with electric guitars is to figure out how to stun the listener and make them queasy at the same time. So if nothing on the album ultimately surprises, it's still a great demonstration of ability.

The whole is still a game enough effort, if nothing else showing Houck's excellent taste in song choices.

Love Hate and Then There's You is the Von Bondies' most consistent album yet.

A mix of veiled threats and bounding guitars, it proves that Dissolver isn't the sound of Iran turning its back on its past, it's the sound of a band finding ways to be more complicated, and accessible, than ever.

Changing Horses marks a defining moment in the songwriter's career, offering up a batch of pastiche-free country music that, like Ryan Adams' "Jacksonville City Nights," may be a promising sign of what's to come.

Frusciante has done a nice job of carving an identity completely separate from his main gig, and Empyrean fits nicely with his other solo albums.

More polished and refined than the EPs, Fight Like Apes and the Mystery of the Golden Medallion (named in honor of an obscure Mr. T movie) skillfully walks the grey area between mainstream and underground, spit-shining frontwoman May Kay's effortless pop smarts without losing sight of their zany outsider appeal.

Definitely track down 'Meet Me in the Garden' as it stands head and shoulders above the rest of the album, but give the rest a chance too.

The tone of the relationship songs is more upbeat, and even occasionally lighthearted, relative to those of "Testimony: Vol. 1," adding a pleasant contrast to the more serious material.

Despite the catch phrases and recycled riffs, nothing about Habeas Corpus is authentic--it's all trashy punk that trivializes anything it touches--but what's fun about it is that Living Things do it all without a sense of awareness.

Throughout Hush he proves adept at constructing interesting soundscapes built on guitar tones and dynamics and not just sheer volume and distortion.

200 Million Thousand provides a fair share of these moments and because of that you can say the album succeeds. It just could use a little more teenage head and a little less brains.

Though some of the tracks contributed by Dark Was the Night's artists are a touch too predictable, it's uncharitable to nitpick too much when the collection offers so much music for such a good cause.

Feel. Love. Thinking. Of. is a decent enough album as a whole that sometimes falters but features fine moments of brilliance when the Batke brothers filter out their cheesier influences.

Radio Wars demands its listeners heed that siren song, and it's truthfully hard to resist.

As far as guest rappers, old friends like Teddy Riley, Keith Murray, Redman, Havoc, plus an especially on fire KRS-One are here, making this album short on new developments but greatly appealing to those who long for the way it used to be.

A little more variation from song to song, a little more of their own sound, or another song or two as compelling as the best stuff here and the POBPAH's debut would have been classic. Settling for impressive is fair enough and good enough for fans of loud, fuzzy, and heartfelt indie noise pop.

Keeping a good thing going, Uncle Charlie follows the formula of the former Gap Band vocalist's previous release, "Charlie, Last Name Wilson," which climbed to number ten on Billboard's album chart.

This is a rare talent and while it's not perfect, largely due to those dreary Tedder tunes, much of All I Ever Wanted does justice to Clarkson's considerable skills.

Midnight at the Movies plays more like a subtle step forward for Justin Townes Earle than a quantum leap, but if the "The Good Life" suggested he was a talent to watch, this record confirms that he's a new writer to be reckoned with who doesn't need to trade on his family name.

It's just a solid album, and just another example of Boeckner and Perry's tingling creative chemistry.

Taken as a whole, Not Without a Fight is a pleasant listen, mature in its outlook, and happily adolescent in its vigor.

Where experimentation with layered instruments enhanced the grandness of "Happy Hollow," here it's taken one step overboard with additional flute, clarinets, and violin arrangements added on top of the supplementary horn section, to the point of making this their lightest, earthiest release to date.

Oldham's brand of folk music is certainly old enough and weird enough, but there are noticeably fewer moments of beauty and fewer lyrical revelations than on his best material.

Repeated listens help to sort things out, though, and the subtle shadings of Grrr... do become more apparent the more you listen--in fact, the album is a perfect example of the old rock crit cliche "The Grower."

Best summed up as a deranged Mardi Gras (the cover art is perfect), it's a strange little album, and surprising that something so alienating and overwhelming could also be so utterly listenable.

Adult Nights is an engaging debut from a band that wears its sunny California influences as well as if they were born and bred there.

If you are patient, there is more than enough here to hold your attention and take you on journeys through love, lust, tragedy, and longing and bring you home again.

They're in a slump with their songwriting, and subject-wise, every song here has a companion piece on some earlier album, but that doesn't mean the party is spoiled.

Royksopp remain among the best at middlebrow dance-pop, crafting music that can and will rule the supermarket aisles while still having a shelf-life longer than the canned ham you'll find there.

Two Suns is nearly as graceful and poetic as Bat for Lashes' best work; it's just that the album's massive concepts and sounds require a little more time and patience to unravel to get to the songs' hearts.

It's a weird blend of power-driven grunge and melancholy: a fever dream that sweats out weary sadcore as it primitively pounds out acid rock drudge.