Here on Death Cab for Cutie's seventh record there's little guitar to speak of, resulting in a more docile affair, even by the band's already mellow standards.

Overall, a nice effort by these never-say-die Scots.

For the most part the album is a galloping goof, with vocalist and keyboard player Matt Johnson hamming his way through a series of rousing blog-pop gems.

Perhaps it's because the Kentucky rockers went home to record, or because they recorded live as a band; but whatever the reason, the result is eminently listenable.

He doesn't escape middle-aged insularity; he just makes it fun.

By working with producers like 1500 or Nuthin, Cool & Dre, Boi 1da, and even New York's DJ Premier, The Game shows a willingness to reinvent himself with some beats that are as penetrating and resourceful as his engaging rhymes filled with sports and pop-culture references.

Occasionally, the production overwhelms Rowe with bombast ("Horses"); all the drama he needs is in that resonant voice.

The lulling confusion of NYC uncannily enacts the unstable identity of the city itself. Ferraro paints it as aggressive, oppressive, and unknowable; then offers an audio tour of its darker depths, rats and all.

Director's Cut is a fine addition to her gorgeously ethereal repertoire, but it's mainly for Bush completists.

He has numerous potential chart-toppers here thanks to a well-tested formula.

Parton victoriously retrains the focus back on the part of her chest that is truly meaningful: her heart. She also succeeds in producing a record that, after years of fine niche efforts in bluegrass and gospel, could actually make a bid for mainstream country radio airplay.

[A] solid, surprising set.

There are some songs with giddy-up, especially the big bounce of 'Get Involved,' featuring Timbaland and Missy Elliott. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the disc, but who cares when it’s this great a ride with a cool Timba groove and Elliott’s sly, quick verse?

The exhumed-vaudevillian theatrics are still here, but by now they're starting to sound almost natural.

These guys, backed by R.E.M. guitarist Peter Buck, don't flash too much leather; they make the routine plays and put good wood on the ball.

Brass Knuckles is 14 songs long. All of them could be singles. None of them could be hits.

There are a couple of clunkers, including the finger-wagger "Celebrity," directed at those who seek fame as its own reward, and the droning "Win Win." But for the most part Morissette and producers Guy Sigsworth and Joe Chiccarelli keep the proceedings crisp, tuneful, warm, and sincere.

While satisfying, the record could have used a bit more of that invention and risk.

Streisand, who produced it herself, has a soft spot for orchestrations that are just a little too sweet, languid piano balladry, and lilting, midtempo cocktail-hour ambience that would be more fun if it had some swing.

Even when the proceedings threaten to get turgid, the intimacy of Mayer’s expression never wavers, and in many ways that’s the album’s greatest victory.

Baltimore's Dan Deacon has piled all facets of his musical persona together here.

He sometimes sounds like the poet who spent too much time scribbling verses at the end of the bar (“the sleep motes gathered in the dust bowls of her eye”), but when he channels his inner Beat (the grand “Long Strange Golden Road”), he finds transcendence.

Hip-hop's bountiful fall continues with this taut, often terrific, major label bow from the Philly native.

The sound and the playing are crisp and lean, with sharp lines drawn between the guitar, bass, keyboard, and drums in a way that keeps them distinct. It also sometimes keeps them frustratingly distanced from one another, as the otherwise pleasantly groovy “Red Light Kisses” and “Baby Don’t Leave Me Alone With My Thoughts” echo the coolly dispassionate jazz-funk lite of the ’70s and ’80s.

The resulting record is at once deliciously fragmented and oddly together - each track thriving on Deerhoof's unnerving balancing act of composure and recklessness.

If you dig Johnson, you will like this record. If you've heard a few songs and never been interested, little on this album is likely to change that.

A few tracks (the fuzzy 'Fistful of Tears') miss the mark, but this is the necessary R&B return from one of our great--and seemingly lost--soulmen.

Whether it’s literally providing oxygen like some kind of romantic scuba mask on “Breathe” or helping get the party started on Euro-disco throbbers like “Permanent Stain,” it is taking care of business.