The Blokes have evolved into a dynamite backup band, folding Bragg's own lyrics into tight jams at every opportunity.

He may be preaching to the choir at this point, but with rejuvenated style and without those annoying excursions into cocktail swing.

An album that absolutely cannot be ignored.

There's a seductive quality to the simple yet sophisticated and intimate ambience Jones creates with this music.

Rouse has pushed out the boundaries that molded his first two full-length albums. And he's done it in all directions.

This is the first absolutely essential UK disc of the year.

With no new scratches, no innovations, and an abuse of mere battle scratches, the X-ecutioners overcompensate for their overall lack of creativity by cluttering tracks with constant restatements of reaffirmation, forcing even credible MCs to become pawns of the ornamental obsession to their own greatness.

The Ride has Macha's dreamy, pulling, mournful feel, yet as the name Seaworthy implies, this is more blurry blue aquatic.

While Point is ultimately plenty of fun, it's also serious work that can be taken seriously.

Like XTC's Skylarking, the Sunshine Fix's Age of the Sun utilizes the song-cycle form to take listeners on a warbling, blissed-out journey that revolves around the life-giving power of the sun as a central theme.

Elbow is a sad lot, likely to lead to a life of Merlot, Silk Cuts, and a straight razor or two if you don't watch out. They're gorgeous just the same.

The worst mistake you can make is to write off this band as just another sappy, sentimental Brit-pop effort, because you'd miss out on supreme moments of emotional clarity that far outweigh the muddier, more overwrought mistakes.

The edges have all been sawed off of Lynne's sound by producer and co-songwriter Glen Ballard, and she appears as a positively wimpy adult.

This is mellow, ambient electronica that takes its time in getting where it's going, and rewards patient listeners.

Since I Left You is as much of a revelation now as Primal Scream's life-changing Screamadelica was a decade ago.

The Argument is the first outing for the Dischord flagship band since '98's End Hits, and offers substantial improvement over that LP's uneven sonic experimentation.

Get Ready is one of New Order's better works, and that's saying a lot.

Their four-way harmonies soar to meet that now-familiar, West Coast country jangle, tart pop songs blending into a deep, rich mulch out of which melodies grow like wildflowers.

No chips or cracks in this debut's silly-grin inducing veneer, just one short, sharp jolt of postmodern skank.

It's a rare talent that can express such emotions so concisely; even more rare is the ability to deliver them in a near-whisper rather than a scream.

Gold sprawls but it rarely meanders, all the while signaling Adams' rite of passage from alt.country bad boy to Left Coast post-folkie.

Pierce shows neither the vocal presence nor the songwriting chops to justify Let It Come Down's bloated orchestral excess.

Strange Little Girls won't resolve the perpetual nutjob/goddess debate swirling around Amos; there's plenty of evidence on hand for either point of view.

He's a thief, a con, a 60-year-old with nothing to say. And he continues saying it.

Mercury Rev has not only matched the Herculean effort of Deserter's Songs, they've surpassed it.

This is breathtaking, life-affirming music with the power to heal and restore. It's that beautiful.

Even at their best, Quasi can be like the same magic trick performed over and over. At first, it's marvelous and mysterious, yet with each successive time less so, until eventually you figure out how the whole thing is done and lose interest altogether.

It's Vegas redux.

Fan Dance is one of those albums that needs to be absorbed to be fully enjoyed, and those who take the time are sure to find its many rewards.

While a few songs aren't quite as fleshed out as others, nearly every selection on White Blood Cells provides the sort of bluesy good-time kicks otherwise unavailable in today's pop marketplace.

This album is so lightweight and airy, it often consigns itself to the background.

Another rock-solid batch of songs delivered at a typical easygoing pace.

They borrow from Cheap Trick, the Beach Boys, Big Star, Roxy Music, Buzzcocks, and Robyn Hitchcock, and concoct a dizzying potion that sounds remarkably fresh and unlike anything that's come before it.

After the acerbic, introspective detour of Mutations, Mr. Hansen has decided it's time to get his freak on.

Fiona's brand of heartache is a welcome, dark respite from the avalanche of popcrap.

Ultimately, it all plays out like a 60-minute calling card that illustrates hip-hop's most liberal producers aren't afraid to keep on keepin' on.

While the result does contribute to a homogenization of this project and Sebadoh, Barlow's "other band," One Part Lullaby is nonetheless a beautiful, well-crafted LP that proves the songwriter to be an artist who can mature in the world of modern rock & roll and still remain vital.

Eschewing categories entirely, let's just call this trippy l'il slice of vinyl a masterwork, combining elements of salsa, house, reggae, hip-hop, and ska into one remarkably cohesive whole.

The Soft Bulletin posts several clunkers, a few throwbacks, yet manages to it finds its way into some genuinely new territory, and in its wake the Flaming Lips might just be poised to make a masterpiece.

Much of Play sounds like it was beamed directly from planet Sad Guy, but it's far and away Moby's most cohesive and affecting work to date.

If you haven't heard the plaintive and curiously uplifting songs of longing and loss from this rising phenom, you're missing the emergence of one of the most affecting new talents of the past five years.

It all sounds like something you've heard before, but done better, faster, slicker.