The whiff of apocalypse is unmistakable. Yet the scent of wildflowers and lovers’ musk wins out.

Consistently compelling. [Oct 2003, p.116]

The idea is to build a monorail between Aphex Twin and Stax Records; the songwriting eventually slacks off, but Lidell's performances don't. [Aug 2005, p.111]

A giddy funhouse of a record. [Oct 2005, p.136]

Its surging orchestrations and and acoustic subtelties seem willfully out of step with current trends, taking time to reveal their unique, and very British, charms.

The Cameras mix sex and spirituality over a gorgeous bed of organs, harps and 12-part harmonies. [May 2003, p.120]

There's an exhilarating, disorienting sense of freedom tot he album, the ruse of rules being ignored. [Aug 2008, p.79]

Malin convincingly wraps his tortured warble around the dust-caked tunes. [#14, p.139]

Their final album is no solemn headstone. The languid beats are hazy with heat-distortion organs and porny electric guitars; the spirit is carefree.

In a style gentler and more richly textured than the crudely amplified minimalism of the series’ debut by Konono N°1, the songs swell in and out of expansive and hypnotic patterns, forming clouds of interwoven rhythms.

Whatever style the Roots take on their eighth album, whether it’s 21st century Sly Stone ("Baby"), flute-inflected freak-folk ("Living in a New World") or epic black rock ("Game Theory"), they do better than anyone else in pop.

This is Love’s ultimate achievement. A band long broken up, and so majestic they’ve been relegated to history books, has been refashioned in a way that makes a fresh and startling presentation of songs as familiar as the Ten Commandments.

THe result is like a cross between R.E.M. and Coldplay, but Idlewild show their true smarts by continuing to attack every track with youthful energy and passion. [Apr 2003, p.124]

[Holland] has been rather mistakenly compared to Billie Holiday; she’s more like Jeff Buckley covering Nina Simone, turning a very modern ear toward yesterday.

Marred only by incredibly pompous liner notes and a lack of worthy rarities. [#23, p.122]

Be picks up where West's The College Dropout left off. [Jun 2005, p.113]

Though less dynamic, the weary mid-tempo arrangements embody the album’s crushing hopelessness, tempered only by John Neff’s elegant pedal steel.

Her understated grooves... ooze natural-woman sex appeal. [Oct 2003, p.122]

At their most thrilling, they fuse the spiky cool of Elastica with the witty self-consciousness of LCD Soundsystem. [Sep 2005, p.131]

A riot of black humor, sex mania and mean-eyed, chaotic rock.

It'll do just fine for now. But here's hoping for a torturously difficult third album. [Oct 2005, p.140]

At 72 minutes, the gorgeous gloom of It Still Moves lasts a bit longer than it has to--but it offers a host of tarnished gems along the way. [Sep 2003, p.126]

Now and then, the energy lags. But mostly, Sugarland’s shameless mining of VH1 Classic hooks keeps their more tepid tendencies in check.

These surging, wordy confessionals are sometimes redemptive but never maudlin. [May 2005, p.121]

The unhurried, full-retail rock arrangements are splashed with lite-R&B syncopations and snazzy-jazz harmonies. [Apr 2006, p.111]

They go for punk rock at the most physical level, until their rhythms feel almost like a rave, as in the seven-minute 'Celebrate the Body Electric (It Came From an Angel).'

Charming and enrapturing, adrift in its own unique, invented world. [#11, p.142]

What elevates the Monkeys into a class of their own is Turner. [Apr 2006, p.113]