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

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

His gruff voice may have earned him comparisons to Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart in the past, but let's face it: Everlast is treading awfully close to Neil Diamond territory here. Salvation, as always, comes in the grooves. Eat at Whitey's is instrumentally opulent, adding cushioned layers of percussion and vintage keyboards to the familiar blues-hop template that launched "What It's Like."

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.

God Bless the Blake Babies is a return to the simpler sounds of honey-infused indie rock.

Only time will tell whether it's a cheeky classic or a momentary novelty.

While Moore has retained her attractively demure vocals, which have a Diana Ross classic pop-soul quality, Exposed subtly updates the sound she's honed since her 1992 debut, Precious.

As a slice of rootsy blues, it works nicely.

While a little too dense in spots, NYC Ghosts & Flowers is 42 minutes of the most neatly executed pop noir you'll hear.

The record does go on a bit long, flagging at the end. But there are enough wonderful songs on this disc to knock at least a couple of boy bands off the radio.

A sweet-sounding album that's both melodious and multilayered.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

Purists may find Jones' stuffy-nosed tone and tics of phrasing objectionable, yet she reaches directly into the heart of each classic in intimate readings.

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

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

An expert balance of vintage Aerosmith and more contemporary stylings.

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.

The album provides hard evidence that the dynamite punch of 1998's Devil Without a Cause album was no fluke.

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.

Less Casio-centric and nicely encompassing more of the Nottingham native's pop side, Volume 2 is decked out with piano, horns, and a plethora of guitars.

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

On Faith and Courage, she returns with the blend of Celtic mysticism, commercial pop, and mature themes that moved so many listeners (and units) on 1990's I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got, while pulling out a few trip-hop stops to keep things current.

Underneath it all, they're not much different than the fans who buy their records, and it's that adoration of sound that makes Back to Mine shine.

On third album Survivor, the DC coming-out party, the song kind of remains the same: When the girls are on, this is the kind of surreally and subversively brilliant Top-40 music even the most jaded roll their windows up and blast; when they're not, it's a pretty bad day at the girl-band factory.