The songs don't vary a great deal dynamically. Harris' lyrics set Red Dirt Girl apart.

Guitar-heads will automatically buy this, but it also deserves to reach any audiences excited by imaginative music working outside commercial boundaries.

This one finds him getting almost downright sappy. But it suits him well.

In spite of the sudden changes of mood and style, the album coheres nicely around Jackson's strong personality.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

Many artists try their hand at varying stylistically within the same album, but often fail miserably. With Movement in Still Life, BT has turned out one of those rare albums that actually pulls it off.

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.

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.

Shangri-La Dee Da sounds like two completely different bands -- DeLeo's hard rock and Weiland's soft balladry. Happily (for Atlantic Records), the album has something for both slumming Papa Roach fans and growing Jessica Simpson fans. STP has enough talent to hold both together.

Pink continues to work her groove thang on much of Missundaztood, but equal time is given over to some genuine stylistic risk-taking.

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.

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.

Parachutes is full of devotional songs that whisper their honorable intentions in our ears like a repentant sinner's promises, while moody sonics mostly call to mind Radiohead, though at times you can hear the grandiose bellow of U2 and the vocal poignancy of Jeff Buckley.

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."

Although the album lags somewhat in parts and is bogged down a bit by an overarching sameness, this is a promising start.

Previously merely noisy screechers with no sense of how to play their instruments, Marilyn Manson is now an accomplished and complex industrial-strength hard rock band... It's a point driven home by the group's new album, Holy Wood (In the Shadow of the Valley of Death). Though not as strong or consistent as the glammy Mechanical Animals, Holy Wood instead bridges the gap between that album and its dirtier, raspier predecessor, Antichrist Superstar, with songs that are catchy on the inside, but noisy on the outside.

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."

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

A funny and engaging spoken-word collection from a man who's done enough of them to know what works.

With Bedlam Ballroom, the Squirrel Nut Zippers sound rejuvenated. The musty '20s and '30s influences that made their previous endeavors sound occasionally laughable now crackle with ornery energy.

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.

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.