April, the third Sun Kil Moon album by Kozelek and friends, has several such sweet spots, the kind we hope will never end.

No song is longer than three minutes and 30 seconds, and the band seems to be on a mission to get in, do it, and get out. It's that attitude that keeps Clinic a fixture, with an unsettling, enjoyable addition to its repertoire to boot.

A rare find in any genre, the entire album holds up from stem to stern as the group deftly gives Nashville what it needs in terms of melody and production polish while mostly sidestepping assembly-line banalities.

Portishead's methods are hardly frozen in time. And that evolution is what makes these elaborately layered tracks such a knotty, mesmerizing listen.

The result is an album that is every bit as engaging as ear-candy as humor.

Thanks to the blunt force of her personality, Hard Candy feels perfectly concerted, without a whiff of desperation.

Part of the appeal as with M.I.A.--is the attitude and defiant urban undertow that draw you in, and, while not immediately accessible, it's ultimately irresistible.

On the Roots' superb, inky-black tale of paranoia, 2006's "Game Theory," the walls were closing in. On the equally gripping Rising Down, the group's 10th album, out today, the walls are getting demolished.

Costello gives us Momofuku, titled in tribute to the inventor of the Cup Noodle, and this collection goes down as easy and tasty as its namesake's ingenious snack.

This time out the musical gambles are bolder and the outcome proportionally more dramatic.

The album is dark and menacing, and also better than the first "Trill," even if Bun doesn't threaten to slap anyone in the face with a pie a la mode.

The years away may have recharged Staples's batteries, but the music itself sounds much the same, which is a good thing.

As usual that pep is paired with tunes that seep into your brain with the stealth of Mann's own beguiling murmur and lyrics that range from poetic to narrative.

Her voice is huskier, veined with the fine lines of age, but that only enhances the sultry sound of the Vineyard's favorite songbird.

His latest is one of his best in recent years.

On her new album, Harris has meticulously written and chosen a group of folk and country songs that support the nuances of that voice perfectly.

That said, it's not an instant classic, but it is the best rap album since Kanye West dropped "Graduation" last year.

Dylan, as a songwriter, may have lost interest in grand rock-band arrangements but not his sense of melody or storytelling.

Burnett has fashioned a sumptuously spooky, if lyrically opaque, work that feels both spacious and claustrophobic.

Anyone who rues the scarcity of smart, serious pop music for grown-ups should snap up the entire Sam Phillips catalog. On second thought, skip "Omnipop." But don't miss Phillips's splendid new effort, Don't Do Anything, a collection that dances in her signature mystery space between darkness and light with strange grace, emotional candor, and winsome hooks.

Upping the studio gloss, turning the amps up--way up--and reining in their more twee impulses, the Montreal bloggers' heroes unleash their inner beast, growing by taking a page out of their colleagues' playbooks.

The album manages to co-opt elements of the Beach Boys - soaring harmonies, tack piano, orchestral arrangements - yet doesn't particularly sound as if it were recorded by the group.

With Med sud, the band proves its indie-pop potential while remaining rooted in its unique brand of spaced-out alt-rock.

Ultimately, Stay Positive achieves the admirable feat of being a record you can listen closely to or rock out to, equally adaptable to late-night wallowing and the party at the water tower.

More than ever, Ribot's creativity and versatility astound, confound, and frighten.

With 10 songs clocking in at just 33 minutes, Modern Guilt feels fleeting, even temporal, and that seems to be the point. It's destined to be an artifact of an age that's rocketing, Beck suspects, toward oblivion.

Working more closely with his band, Hammond has given his songs more dimension, and the ambition.

The new album, immersed in a soul-funk sound with guest spots from the Stylistics and the Last Poets, is contradictory at times, but the idea of building hope through about an hour's worth of music supersedes any effort to brew controversy.

Eschewing any concept of "radio ready" and singing with a gruff immediacy, Mellencamp tackles all of the titular concepts on this folk- and blues-based material with a sense of liberation that is keenly palpable.

His interpretive use of his rich, burnished baritone has never been better, and that remarkable voice is still a force to be reckoned with.

Knowle West Boy marks a long-overdue return to form from one of the founding fathers of trip-hop.

Donkey favors texture over attitude, and while the boozy, shouted choruses remain, CSS now favors a subtler approach.

Canning's effort, however, is a bit of a departure, as he assumes the mostly unfamiliar lead-vocalist role. It suits him well.

With Oberst, there is little filter; the gems and the rubbish all emerge from the same place. Oberst's talent and his unevenness are all of a kind.

40 years after his debut, the curly-haired songwriter continues to play to his strength: three-minute social commentaries that might sound bitter if they weren't so funny.

The album bumps from electronica to cabaret to jazz and back again; it's busy but never feels schizophrenic.

Simply Grand is an album whose charms are too subtle to catch on the first spin or third, but enough listens will make it clear that the album's title is nothing more than a statement of fact.

The Rhumb Line--defined as a straight-shot line across all meridians, for the geospatially uninitiated--mostly just thrums with an uncommon sort of pop radiance.

What makes the record work, though, is Wilson's ability to create melodies that blend the childlike and enthusiastic with the melancholic and nostalgic.

Much has been made of Leithauser's voice, which often feels choked, but on You & Me, could one imagine a more perfect instrument?

Most of all, the music packs as much punch as ever--and more variety, as Staind sometimes departs from its rock-metal power ballads for tunes that suggest Pink Floyd and even Brit band Oasis in the chiming-guitar pop of 'All I Want.'

Apollo Sunshine still aspires to create a self-contained immersion experience, an attitude that, more than any particular strain of their dabbling, makes the band a welcome kind of happening.

Invisible Cinema is the opposite of a silent film. The soundtrack is provided; the listener brings the visuals.

Baez has never sounded wiser, or more deeply human.

Building on a foundation of shameless proto-gangsta synths and witty but under-enunciated lyrics, Fujiya & Miyagi makes party music that is fresh but not (that) foolish.

It's that sprawling sense of humanity that makes Dear Science such a rich listen.

Gift of Screws is only his fifth solo record. Perhaps that's why the singer and guitarist (who turns 60 next month) still sounds so vital and passionate, especially on the voluptuous, opening songs 'Great Day' and 'Time Precious Time,' where his luminescent riffs and nimble finger-picking shine.

What is both surprising and remarkable, then, is how unflinchingly direct, bracingly unfiltered, and wholly intimate the new album, which is out today, sounds and feels.

On his latest effort, Saadiq creates a seamless, supremely melodic set that evokes '60s and '70s soul.

Exit, which was mixed and recorded on a laptop, using a popular program called Pro Tools, is a tribute to the unexpected beauty of everyday things.

What it has in common with its superb predecessors is Lewis's invaluable understanding of what works for her.

Paper Trail tops them both [previous two albums] simply by being content driven, from the plot to the refined delivery.

His dry, enunciative singing style still achieve a remarkable combination of pretension and playfulness. Lambchop may be evolving, but its capacity for sounding like nothing else remains intact.

There are no "eureka" moments on Offend Maggie but plenty of small epiphanies.

With a musician as important as Bob Dylan, our appetite for fresh material and new insights is as deep as the artist's song trove, and Tell Tale Signs, the eighth installment of the songwriter's Bootleg Series, is a feast for casual fans and Dylanologists alike.

It is a surprise and a thrill to hear that even as the band enters its "artsy" phase--expanding its instrumental palette to include mewling saws and clattering percussion--the songs remain uniformly excellent from stem to stern.

The intense and intensely bearded Maine singer-songwriter showcases a lighter side on his superbly crafted third disc.

In other words, Black Ice is a quintessential, if not exactly essential, AC/DC album.

Womack retains some of that homespun charm on this quietly contemplative new album out today.

Pink continues to make everything she touches her own. She uses brains and brawn to turn the mainstream into a complicated place.

If only a few of the tracks rise to the greatest heights of which Adams is capable--like the poignant closing salute to sobriety, 'Stop'--the rest remain impressive pictures of craftsmanship.

Listen a little closer to the sly, snarky lyrics and glam grooves on this feisty debut and you'll hear that this former downtown New York spice girl has at least a few things on her dirty mind.

The disc is an affirmation that life, and hip-hop, can indeed get better.

It's an exhilarating album. Seriously, after finally hearing these 14 tracks in their finished form I was so energized I wanted to climb a mountain.

She's 18--wide-eyed, naive, hopeful--and that's how she sounds on Fearless, her superb new album.

What has marked Tracy Chapman's work over the course of her two-decade career is her emotional intensity and clarity of vision, and both are in evidence on this fine new disc, her first in three years.

It's taken nine years and two tries, but Dido has finally given her debut the follow-up it deserves.

This collection of live radio performances from the band's early years is like a letter from an old friend long delayed in the post.

Along with his bandmates and producer Stuart Price, Flowers makes sure that Day & Age rarely veers from the not insignificant mission of making a record that simply sounds good.

Even Spike Lee appears to show he got game. All this would be distracting if the 14 tracks weren't so darn good. Luda's lyrics are so sharp and supremely witty throughout.

This tuneful, seemingly effortless set of sun-kissed pop reminds you why he's in so much demand.

It's simply another sturdy album that plays up what Fall Out Boy does best: rocking the arena with barely a second to catch your breath.

The former "Moesha" star has never made a bad album, and she's not starting now with the appropriately rich and varied Human.

If sonic similitude is any indicator of future successes, When the World Comes Down will only cement the band's top-of-the-heap status.

One thing we do know after listening to Leucocyte--the Esbjorn Svensson Trio's grandest achievement--is that its leader had much more to say, much more to explore.

His singing throughout is flawless and expressive.

Some of the phrasing on "MPP" sticks; some of it soars; most of it slips and slides through puddles of rich sonic texture. Only at a distance does the magic of the whole major-key mess become clear.

Bringing in an unknown vocalist, Minneapolis alt-rocker Wendy Lewis, may sound like a risk, but it works exceedingly well.

On his third and finest CD in 16 short months, the Florida-based MC has emerged as one of hip-hop's best by dropping unvarnished, aggressive songs with unsparing detail.

This deeply introspective album is vast in scope while retaining the intimacy of a concert-hall recital.

This album is his best yet with his own band, a potent dose of rock and R&B instead of the lighter jazz and world music of past efforts.

The man's wordsmithing is even headier than his beautiful songs.

Ray Guns Are Not Just the Future is not an enormous departure from their self-titled debut; after all, why mess with a good thing?

For all its immediately recognizable debts, "Dance Mother" is something fresh.

The three raw but riveting demos that conclude the album illustrate how close to fully formed Biggie's style was even as a teen.

It's refreshing how single-minded some of the new songs are, especially when coupled with Allen's lyrical zingers.

On his fourth album, the Arizona-born artist continues to impress on one well-written song after another.

Zapotec has a regal, brassy sort of sweep--check the martial melody 'The Akara'--and the best songs on Holland twist and turn over a warm, buttery backbeat.

The indie troubadour spins out his trademark blend of vintage country-folk that begs to be played on an old turntable and heard through the screen door. Fortunately, great music transcends its medium.

Years of Refusal is Morrissey's third album this decade, and it is easily his most vital and engaging and maybe even heartbreaking since 1992's "Your Arsenal."

After releasing two albums that bored even its most ardent fans, . . . And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead is back to blowing minds with The Century of Self.

Troubadour, the Somali-born artist's follow-up to his great debut, is a smart fusion of influences.

Grimy and disheveled, clever and infectious, it's a sloppy heap of classic pop, psychedelic haze, spastic rock, and teenage disaffection mixed to lo-fi imperfection in some kid's filthy garage.

All of these songs could stand alone on separate albums; it just so happens that this good music supports a good cause.

Wrath furthers Lamb of God's reputation for craft and innovation and argues to a broader audience that metal is a style rife with fresh ideas.

Roll On finds Cale back in vintage form.

Middle Cyclone is by far Case's most quixotic album, and that's saying a lot considering the abstract ideas behind her last studio album, 2006's "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood." Yet it's also the most revealing and rewarding work in a 12-year recording career that has seen Case evolve from an alt-country siren to a singular songwriter as capricious as a weather vane.

This is a more basic, stripped-down affair, yet Copeland's vocals are no less powerful. Boy, has she got a set of lungs.