It's refreshing to see a high-profile album like this take a long-form risk and stand on the merits of intuition and musical construction alone.

A fun, contemporary pop record that's uber-cool without ever seeming forced.

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.

Mathers slips only when he tries to play out the movie's rags-to-riches vibe with his friends.

As a pop record, Stripped is practically flawless.

Like Supernatural, the record tends to smack more of market research than the soulful expression of a rock legend at times. But in some instances, the duets pay huge dividends.

A tasteful selection of pre-war era classics in a supper club jazz setting.

Arguably its most cohesive and dynamic effort yet.

A dark, methodical, and ultimately beautiful album.

Unlike most acts who tend to get over-hyped and fall far short of expectations, Norway's Röyksopp does not disappoint.

10 is a return to form for LL, and the album finds him doing what he does best: Making relaxed, radio-friendly jams while giving the ladies a little something extra.

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

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

Certainly his most personal record, arguably his best.

It's not likely that Up will have the same kind of cultural significance as a milestone like So, but there is no way that fans can write Up off as a disappointment, either.

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

Nas has compiled an imaginative State of the Union address to the streets.

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.

While Low turns to touches less subtle than before on Trust, the drape of ambient tension over gently ramping repetitions results in the band's most assertive album to date.

The eclectic, pan-genre disc opens -- as did 2000's Transcendental Blues -- as an unabashed rocker, but this time around Earle uses the heavy artillery to underscore weightier worldly themes.

The rockers here, however, aren't his best work, sounding like the Goo Goo Dolls with steel guitars.

How Sweet It Is shows Osborne's strength as an interpreter far more than her already-established singing talent.

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.

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.

With Night Works, the gung-ho Layo and Bushwacka! have made an intelligent album that doesn't stray too much from it's shadowy overall mood, aided by determined breakbeats and drawn-out orchestral sounds.

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

Sleek and motorized, gusgus has paid close Attention to detail in etching a metallic mural of current interests.

The smoothed-out international pop sound lets Beenie focus on doing what he does best -- making party music for party people.

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

Trinity is a more diverse album than their last, but there are times when the songs feel too disjointed.

It's a richly textured album, often filled with a melancholy that suits Moorer's dark, rich voice just perfectly.

A feast of post-punk and seminal house.

Daybreaker's more conventional nature puts a greater and more intriguing challenge on Orton's vocal cords to be the album's main instrument; that voice, a breathless cry that falls somewhere between Natalie Merchant and Bjork, is more than equal to the task.

The only misstep is in the pacing.

As on Hybrid Theory, there's a definite formula at work in all 19 songs, but it's flawless and effective.

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

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

Its tight-as-a-drum musicianship and the sense of threadbare vulnerability resonating in singer-guitarist Kevin Palmer's songs elevate the band above the ever-expanding pack of like-minded acts.

Spending the last decade releasing mediocre discs with great tracks surrounded by filler, Public Enemy returns with an album reminiscent of Fear of a Black Planet.

As cohesive and potent as Everyday or anything else in the DMB's catalog

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

The album finds footing in jazzy downbeat arrangements, and its hip-hop aftertaste gives Charango (and Morcheeba as an entity) a needed one-two punch.

They're too smart to just be "art punk," so singer Karen O squeals like Kathleen Hanna and Barbara Mandrell because, well, she can.

Fans of both Parton and refreshing acoustic roots music should find the album unambiguously divine.

Few bands can both rock and pine as well as Duritz and company.

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

One of the band's most colorful listens.

Heathen Chemistry finds the quintet back in cracking mid-'90s form.

Largely spare and reflective throughout, Gallo's experimental compositions are intriguing, though the somber beauty of more straightforward pieces such as Buffalo '66's finale, "A Cold and Grey Summer Day," are far more satisfying.

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

Nellyville is quite calculated, right down the tired skits about bootlegging -- it sort of has to be, given what's at stake, though one would wish otherwise.

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

Unemotional throughout, Long Walk Home is without obvious peaks of joy or valleys of sorrow, offering instead a steadfast, unerring journey.

Another solid effort.

One of the crispest and coziest (and, at 21 tracks, one of the most generous) live recordings in recent memory.

It's great for kids and parents, because TMBG, like former Del Fuego Dan Zanes, are among the only children's musicians who recognize that real rock and roll has always been goofy and childlike.

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

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

Unlike any of the pop princesses that have gone before her, however, Lavigne offers a sound far more guitar-heavy, and lyrics packed with unshakable attitude.

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

The Eminem Show lacks the overwhelming, single-minded force that The Marshall Mathers LP had.

Title TK sounds as if nothing happened since Last Splash.

What South demonstrates most effectively is that Nova, who had been awkwardly marketed as an edgy alt-rock chick, is now a performer perfectly poised for adulthood, and the mature listening audience that comes with it.

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.

There's some rehash of the flimsy fun of the Green Album, and the choruses here aren't as memorable as much of the group's '90s material. That said, there's a darkness to Maladroit that will likely satisfy long-suffering Pinkerton fans.

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.

It's only on "Close to Modern," a slinky, soul-infused number, that the French Kicks truly distance themselves from their downtown N.Y.C. contemporaries.

Waits' voice has always been an acquired taste, but those on the bus will appreciate the way he throws himself into every track as if haunting the characters like some sort of lunatic guardian narrator.

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.

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.

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

The most honest-sounding collection of songs Westerberg has penned in years.

Like so many great fuzzy rock albums, from the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street to R.E.M.'s Murmur, it takes a few listens to seep into your bloodstream.

This is blender pop of the finest order, held together by some of the most high-minded funk in this galaxy.

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

And even though Young laces plenty of signature guitar riffs throughout, Are You Passionate? is for those who appreciate his songwriting as much as if not more than the histrionic fireworks he creates with Crazy Horse.

The CD unfurls a ragged blend of infectious melodies, couched in brisk tempos, and shimmering ballads culled from the blueprint of such past hits as "Name" and "Iris."

Provides a refreshing change of pace from the current formulaic R&B chanteuses.

His most impressive sound collage yet.

Maas has done what not many others in his class have managed to successfully pull off: making a truly decent, engaging record that is more than just 72 minutes of electronica generica trading on name recognition.

For the most part, Amy Ray and Emily Saliers have abandoned the experimental plugged-in nonsense that bogged down their last two releases, concentrating on pure songwriting this time out.

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.

Staying true to an Underworld-influenced formula of riff-punctuated house music will inspire new converts to the menagerie, as this record's grooves are simultaneously original and accessible.

An eclectic, enjoyable array of quirky tunes.

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.

Most of these re-workings preserve the essential nature of the songs; the producers know enough to stay out of the way.

Undoubtedly one of the most infectious records you'll hear this year.

May well be Donelly's definitive post-Belly work.

It's the breath-taking songwriting that clinches the deal here.

His eighth album again plays out his lonesome blues as the sincere struggle of a lovesick man -- and, as only Isaak can, he gets away with it.

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

By going back to that almost naive passion for spacious, drawn-out, instrumental dance tracks, the Chemical Brothers have discovered songs again, not just "tracks."

Co-produced by Sparklehorse's Mark Linkous, much of Forever captures that group's penchant for dense atmospherics.

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

One listen to Asleep in the Back's "Newborn" invokes a feeling of unmistakable contemplation and a sense of beauty entirely absent from the repertoires of the Oasis and Verves of Brit rock's last generation.

Similar to the Radiohead-lite maneuvers of fellow Brits Coldplay, the bright spots (of which there are a fair share) are dulled by the facsimile presentation.

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

RZA and company get back to basics with the kind of stripped-down ghetto menace that made the Wu Tang great in the first place.