So while there's no lack of diversity over Shaman's 70-plus minutes, that's also its undoing: it doesn't hang together. [#12, p.152]

Literate and heartfelt, the album's also a sonic riot, with gutsy electro, dream-pop and feminist rap jostling for attention beneath Sarah Cracknell's creamy vocals. [#11, p.142]

Though The Great American Songbook is bad, it's not shamefully bad--if only because it's too tasteful to risk sinking that low. [#11, p.143]

Robinson establishes himself as a distinctive singer, his world-weary yet optimistic drawl no longer beholden to the rock larynxes of yore. [#11, p.140]

Grohl's every intense metal rave-up quickly passes into a sweet, breezy melody that makes it hard to take most of the songs all that seriously. [#11, p.137]

They're like the best party band at the best party you can imagine. [#11, p.130]

The most distinctive producer-rapper Britain has coughed up since Tricky. [#11, p.143]

Taking sound collage to seamless, organic perfection, Tobin arranges his samples like he's conducting a living orchestra. [#11, p.144]

Too much about Tracy Chapman's Let It Rain is austere. [#12, p.138]

Their sense of perfection is also their downfall. [#11, p.124]

[They] channel post-adolescent despair into 10 groove-centric tracks that will gladden anyone who misses Play-era Moby. [#11, p.141]

Mostly, Ten is The LL Cool J Show -- a reliable sitcom, now in its tenth season, detailing the bachelorhood of a brawny loverman. [#12, p.146]

An utterly competent album that's devoid of politics, not to mention any genuinely exciting studio ideas. [#11, p.136]

On Cry, Hill ripens, showing a boldness few artists ever manage. [#12, p.145]

In updating the duo's dirty old sound, Ball makes the arrangements clunky, too clean and dangerously close to the blandness Almond bemoans. [#10, p.126]

Their tightest, bounciest album. [#11, p.125]

Her haunting voice is perfect for these downcast dirges. [#11, p.139]

Anyone who's enjoyed its predecessor may not find the follow-up effort entirely essential. [#12, p.145]

In their desperate eagerness to please, HHH offer a few modest pleasures. [#12, p.143]

Mascis sticks to his bombastic Dino formula on this record, but he still impresses with anthemic rockers, mellower jams and bluesy numbers that allow his Neil Young-inspired ax to shine. [#11, p.136]

Bounce may sound flat in a few years, but by then its job--to see another million people, and rock them all--will be done. [#11, p.128]

There's little to indicate an intrinsic personality unusual enough to demand your attention. [#10, p.118]

Sensitivity in excess. [#11, p.142]

Mostly, Peaches sadomasochistic come-ons sound like a satire of phone-sex services, without the per-minute charges. [#11, p.139]

Transcends their last album with lean hooks that trade urban melancholy for a surprisingly pastoral warmth. [#11, p.136]

Sadly, though, if Petty's fourteenth album fails to emulate the success of his best work, it won't be because corporations have conspired to turn off his mic, but because it's simply not as good. [#10, p.127]

While perfectly accomplished, this is big-budget background noise, purpose-built for any one of the plush cocktail bars it's soon to be endlessly played in, but lacking anything as distinct as, say, a personality of its own. [#10, p.130]

So diffuse and mechanical, it sounds as if it were recorded by rebellious microchips in a German laboratory. [#13, p.103]