Spoon's 1998 album, A Series of Sneaks, was a near-perfect blend of elementary rock, sharp lyrics, and hooky melodies. On the band's just-released follow-up album, Girls Can Tell, the group manages to build upon the greatness of its previous effort.

Dolly Parton has at last returned to her musical home and, boy, are the neighbors ever grateful. That "home," of course, is Kentucky bluegrass music and the melancholy acoustic strains of the Appalachian Mountains.

The essential internationalism that characterizes this global showcase of a disc is mind-blowing in both scope and quality.

A 72-minute haul into a cold, stirring, private space where the post-punk isolation of Joy Division is redefined and softened with mesmerizing doses of melody and romantic longing.

After fifteen years of continually blossoming brilliance, the Flaming Lips can count themselves among the most essential American bands in rock history.

Injecting the best aspects of Americana to Bragg's inherently British approach makes this one of the early contenders for folk-rock album of the year.

Mogwai has moved past relying on Slint-like soft/loud dynamics to get attention. Now it garners attention for the detail of its songwriting, the majority of which can now be heard without turning the volume to 11, only to receive a rude awakening at the crescendo.

With Vespertine, Bjork has constructed a whispering wall of wonders, and instead of forcing everyone out, has invited the world to look through the cracks.

Her sharpest offering yet, and one of the better live albums in recent memory.

Although it may appear frantic, Play is an eclectic and coherent work where Moby accesses an array of sounds from his milieu of influences.

The album has no filler, no played-out skits or weak collaborations. Instead, Crown Royal exhibits the energy, grooves, and phatness of a future hip-hop classic.

Both sober and celebratory, The Rising makes a strong case for the transcending power of rock and roll.

Although they were written as early as 1996 and recorded in 1997-98, the songs on Old Ramon (like most Red House Painters material) have a timeless, dreamy quality to them that prevent them from sounding stale. An album this beautiful can never come too late.

An album that's as complex and mature as De La Soul has ever done, but also smooth, polished, and downright soulful enough to capture a whole new audience for these enduring hip-hop legends.

Boy George's Essential Mix certainly is unsettling, but only because of its sheer, unexpected brilliance -- which perhaps should not be so surprising, considering George is now a veteran performer on the decks.

Formula or not, with Invincible, Jackson reclaims his pop crown and wears it well.

The merely wonderful arrangements pale next to the songs themselves.

Rarely does a relative unknown come across with an album as fiercely confident and fully formed as this.

The group's most gorgeously crafted album ever.

Throughout, the music (produced almost exclusively by the group and its DJ) shines with the glint of successful experimentation. However, it never outshines the words, which is where the group has as much to offer, if not more so.

Dirty might not have been worth the nine-year wait, but it's one of the finest and most colorful dance-oriented discs of the year.

O Brother, Where Art Thou?, features some of the finest bluegrass and old-school twang to be assembled in one place in recent memory. Put together by a team that includes production maestro T-Bone Burnett and singer Gillian Welch, O Brother is carefully -- almost encyclopedically -- compiled, with an emphasis on the sort of gospel-like, acoustic-and-harmony-reliant country once popularized by the Carter Family and other such groups.

Thievery Corporation sets a new standard in the downbeat discography.

Throughout Standards, Tortoise takes the listener on mini-journeys into sound that alternately shimmer, contort, seduce, and confound...

Certainly his most personal record, arguably his best.

Low has crafted a recording that exceeds its own high standards of creativity, harmony, and subtlety.

The aptly titled Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea plays like an almanac of her adventures of the past few years, and reflects a newfound sense of self. Her songs once again reek of sexuality -- sometimes frustrated, sometimes satisfied -- resulting in alternating episodes of blistering, trashy, gutter guitar rock, and keyboard ballads of sheer melodic grace. She also reveals a greater command of her vocal abilities (with all the shrieks now in just the right places), and inspired new lyrical dashes.

As a pop record, Stripped is practically flawless.

Might already have an inside shot to be the best record of 2002 here in the states.

A truly superb and definitive record...

The group studiously avoids the hackneyed synth-slabs that propelled their ascent up the hip-hop production ranks. In doing so they reveal an unforeseen musical sophistication, healthily cleansing themselves of all familiar bling-bling excesses, and reinventing themselves by delving into the realm of live instrumentation.

Still walking that tightrope between seductive soul and fearsome BPM counts, Size and crew grab you by the earlobe and drag you along, whether you like it or not. This time, though, they've polished their sound to a liquid smoothness and brought some friends along, namely Method Man and Rage Against the Machine's Zack de la Rocha.... At a time when drum-and-bass has lost its momentum and focus, In the Mode glimmers with brilliance simply because it's everything that drum-and-bass isn't.

It's sort of beautiful in its ugliness, a metal record lovingly buffeted by details and white noise.

One of the most stunning and gorgeous records of this young decade.

This is the stuff of pure comic genius.

The Good the Bad and the Funky is the first new album from the Tom Tom Club in eight years, and it's absolutely remarkable. Not only does it stand up to any of their previous releases, it may just be their best, most focused work ever -- and that's a lot to live up to, given the band's history.

The tunes here are full of immediately memorable, if not obvious, hooks, and the vocals capture a tenderness and vulnerability he's never before revealed.

The effect of the combination of all these elements is stunning and profound, and ranks among Waits' finest albums, albeit his most depressing by a long shot.

Wicked Grin is a rousingly successful experiment. The album's best moments equal -- and often surpass -- anything in both artists' consistently creative careers.

All the big Wu dogs are here -- Ghostface Killah, Method Man, Raekwon, Genius, etc. -- and it sounds like they've been sharpening their skills like knives. They toss rhymes back and forth with the precision of a machine -- they're so good it's almost scary.

His most ambitious collection of songs to date.

A reaffirming celebration of small details.

An optimistic-feeling, playful record that recalls the jazzy-edged sunshine and beat pop of the '60s.

Cuttin' Heads whizzes by in just under 40 minutes, with ridiculously charming acoustic pop, Latin-flavored sizzlers, and menacing love songs.

Fans might finally have a proper companion to the arena-in-my-closet-rock of '95's Alien Lanes.

As with any classic live album worth its audio sweetening (Get Yer Ya-Yas Out, Kiss Alive), the imperfections are part of the deal. A raw-throated Liam sounds like he's clawing to hit each note, but he's still got enough in the tank to spout off between songs. Much of the charm lies in the dysfunctional Gallaghers' homage to rock's majesty, be it Noel's Lennon-worship in "Don't Look Back in Anger," or the nod to Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" at the end of "Cigarettes & Alcohol."

It's the "experimental" tracks like the humorous "Hey Sexy Lady," laced with mariachi trumpet, flamenco guitar, and castanets, and the bubbly old school reggae-country hybrid "We Are the One" that elevate Lucky Day to higher ground.

Beautifully constructed pop songs, reminiscent at times of the Go Betweens, the Red House Painters, and even Brian Wilson in his more ambient mode. Broken by Whispers is a quiet album, then, but its intelligence, taste, and daring vulnerability hit hard -- whispers with all the impact of screams.

Love and Theft is a strange trip through Dylan's personal relationship with the blues, whether it's the silly story-song "Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum," the mandolin lament "Mississippi," or the solid blues-rock of "Lonesome Days Blues" and "Summer Days."

13 tracks of the kind of confident, effortless wordplay that made him a household name in the first place.

A record that's certain to be name-checked by pop savants 20 years from now.

Of her three post-"comeback" albums, it is the closest in spirit to her '70s work. And not coincidentally, it may be her best.

The Covers Record is for the daring music fan; Marshall's quiet journey and its rich, emotional rewards are not for the faint of heart.

Let It Come Down, might well contain the most potent feel-good music he's yet crafted.

Time -- and a bigger production budget -- has lost Creeper Lagoon's fuzzy, scatty edge to a fuller, more cohesive sound.

The words are now injected with a new industrial strength venom that make the last album seem like Hanson's Christmas disc.

A good chunk of soulful melody tinged with delightful, lackadaisical vocals and reggae vibrations.

As someone previously known to wallow in her torment on occasion, Etheridge has found with her seventh studio release a newfound maturity that bodes well for both her emotional and musical future.

There's still lots of the nasty, freaky humor and grimy lyrics that make Ludacris so much fun.

Sean-Nós Nua takes a few songs to find its footing, but then it towers with her best.

Blink-182 sticks to the winning formula of past efforts Dude Ranch and Enema of the State on Jacket, an extremely well-produced, hard-hitting exercise in pre-pubescent punk rock that will no doubt sell millions to throngs of misguided juveniles who relate to the band's piss takes on life's everyday miseries.

The songs are brilliantly Costello-esque, fairly varied, and don't sound at all dated.

Sharper, edgier, and more twisted than its predecessor, Vol. Two is like a throwback to Everclear's early days, before So Much for the Afterglow launched the Portland trio into the arena rock stratosphere.

Bloodflowers is a marvel. It has something to say, and it delivers that message with passion.

Gandhi Khan is full of the dark, dirty production Van Helden has championed recently.

Floats, captivates, and repulses simultaneously.

Transcendental Blues measures up to the tough artistic standards Earle has set for himself since 1986's Guitar Town.

This isn't just pop-inflected electronica: Gerald's compositions evince a depth and artistic integrity rare in albums of this ilk.

It's an impressive debut, and one that justifies the hype she's gotten.

Comes with the same muscular, confrontational power that made The Sickness so infectiously exciting, but twists things just enough to make the second time sounds as fresh as the first.

Miller explores his usual subjects -- getting out of places and into relationships -- with more unusual touches.

Like the best of BF5, it's both plaintive and punky.

A sprawling set of immense diversity that's loaded to the brim with dancefloor anthems.

It's surprising how well the songs on White Pony absorb the band's disparate influences (Slayer, the Cure, Bad Brains) without compromising any of its destructive effect.

Williams weaves beguiling, thought-provoking melodies, and turns each track into an artfully produced scenario.

In anybody else's hands, a blending of techy aesthetics and near-tender melodies would be a musical oxymoron, but in Squarepusher's, it is delicious.

Built around mellotrons, bowed saws, and other odd sonic devices, All Is Dream's arrangements often recall the prog-rock heyday of bands such as Can and Yes, albeit with more somber hues.

Sounds like a tighter, more focused version of past glories.

With Kid A, Radiohead has made the ultimate 3 a.m. stoner-headphone album, one that marks an entirely logical progression from -- if not necessarily an improvement upon -- the techno-but-not-really O.K. Computer.... Occasionally, it feels less like a rock record and more like a museum piece, and as a work of art, it's laudable. As an actual, listener-friendly offering, it leaves something to be desired: It's precisely the sort of record a band makes when it has endless amounts of time and money, and has spent long periods of time being told what geniuses its members are.

Just because the Britney Spears Empire was not built on actual artistic merit doesn't mean the singer can't craft -- or have crafted for her -- a snappy and utterly enjoyable pop record.

Bizarre, surreal, and captivating, this record does nothing expected...

Sonically, this is the most diverse and intriguing work of their careers.... A welcome surprise.

On Scratch, they masterfully explore breakbeat fusion, flowing smoothly from scratch to hip-hop to rock and everything in between.

Okay, call it a comeback, because it ought to raise Burke's profile higher than it's been in decades.

The only misstep is in the pacing.

What's so striking about A Hundred Days Off is that frontman/producer Hyde and producer Smith have reshaped Underworld as a duo without coming off as incomplete, overzealous, or jaded.

As a slice of rootsy blues, it works nicely.

There are few big drum samples or disco beats on Sound of Water; as its title suggests, it's far more fluid and sensuous than any music the group has made before.

The Boys unleash some of their most sublime and accessible material in years.

What holds the whole thing together is still the wicked combination of Mystikal's shotgun bark and the Neptunes' bumpin' production.

GVSB returns with the hallmark components of its early '90s Touch & Go days: piercing guitar riffs, frequent attacks of twin basses, surging percussion, and a heavy dose of vocal sass from Scott McCloud.

Carefully written, elegantly performed, and generously emotional, it's another work by an artist still at his creative peak.

Few bands exceed Alpha in the creation of truly encompassing and sensual chill-out tunes, and while The Impossible Thrill fails to really explore new territory, it's revisiting familiar and hallowed ground.

Call it urban ethereal, grounded in gritty raps and coiled funk rhythms, bolstered by jazz keyboards, soaring vocals, and synthesizers.

An expert balance of vintage Aerosmith and more contemporary stylings.

Mirwais lays down grooves that aren't even sensual; they're rambunctiously horny.

The Hives seem to have approached Vicious with one aim in mind: to rock – hard -- for 27 minutes straight. Even more impressively, they actually pull it off.

Dispensing with the synthesizers and glossy production that marred previous efforts, the group instead delivers no-frills, arena-ready rockers with a dense, almost punkishly raw sound.