Though Ecstasy is gruesome, fearsome and rife with realism much in the same way as his heart-stopping shocker, Berlin (1973), Reed has a compelling way with words, and a magic touch with psycho-delic guitar riffs that dare us to follow him down the back alleys to his darkest thoughts.

Brown has mixed the best elements of '60s British flower power rock, a la the Moody Blues, with a new century's technology to create a potent, dream-inducing electronica brew.

Make no mistake, the vibe here is strange and quirky -- the band's affinity for the naïve sometimes makes for an odd listening experience. But once you've settled into it, Peasant reveals itself to be a thing of beauty -- its nakedness comes to seem like the most natural thing in the world.

The album still bounces and skips via the ska signature with which No Doubt have marked the world, as in "Staring Problem" and "Home Now," but their forum is much bigger now, encompassing artful guitars, lurking bass and more interesting drum patterns.

The disc doesn't just contain one or two Top 40 hits, but rather a proliferation of truly excellent songs.

Packed to the brim with all sorts of surprising twists and turns, Jean's Ecleftic plays like a cheeky earful of the multi-culti future of hip-hop.

NYC Ghosts & Flowers yields no easy accessibility, as it becomes darker and more abstract by the minute.

The album is not without its flaws (some of the songs are less than memorable, and as always, the proceedings are dampened somewhat by Corgan's nasal drone of a voice), but it's a welcome return to form for one of music's original alt-rock heroes.

It's Like This finds Jones and her top-notch team of instrumentalists doing justice to the brilliant material she's selected, creating a musical wonderland where timeless songs meet spirited, lovely performances.

This is true hepcat music -- shaken rockabilly, stirred swing, chilled Big Band and it's finger-snappin' upbeat all the way through.

Slim's Halfway only reaches heaven twice (Macy Gray's two star turns), and otherwise trolls, not in a gutter, but in what feels like interminable traffic. Most of Halfway's songs extend past the five minute mark, and like a movie that hasn't felt the firming up of a good editor's hands, they feel way too long. If guest vocalist Macy Gray hadn't shown up for Fatboy's party, Halfway might be the year's biggest letdown.

Kid's rapping is righteous, he's a fine vocalist, and like most musicians, his appalling persona contradicts his renown as a sweetheart of a guy. Nonetheless, as History repeats itself, his constant bragging only serves to undermine his credibility, and as a result, he becomes an idiotic parody of his own sick constructs.

Does the world really need another mediocre pop-rock album rife with trite lyrics, aimless melodies and bloated production?

There's a lot going on sonically with this album, but it feels cohesive -- all its disparate elements are beautifully brought together by O'Connor's overriding openness and passion.

Sun's production is disappointingly safe, walking down a very predictable, somewhat dated road, instead of machete-chopping a path of its own.... [Its] most dazzling moments are its most straightforward -- the ones where Mullins strips away his affectations and flashes naked emotion.

The translations that work best are the more modern pieces... The chief fault with Pieces is that, at times, it veers dangerously close to Muzak.

Black & Blue finds the Boys traveling all-too-familiar prefab-pop terrain (production-wise, it's the sonic twin of teen queen Britney's most recent effort), with overwhelmingly forgettable results.

With Road Rock weighing top-heavy with some of Crazy Horse's finest moments, Young's all-star friends just can't punch with that band's battle-proven viciousness. Not that Neil doesn't compensate -- as always, he's top-shelf, shredding his guitar with a torrent of electric snarl and broken string.

Summer's tunes have the sweetness and light of Burt Bacharach's finest.

Vapor Transmission, the follow-up to Orgy's 1998 debut, Candyass, is as sci-fi, inorganic and over-produced as the title implies. Sometimes the stainless steel robotics work, and sometimes they don't.

It plays like an enjoyable variety show, since, as opposed to star turns, Willie's company puts in guest appearances, creating a strange mixture of not enough or a little too much (save for Willie's solo turns).

Though the album finds Osborne a blues-belting, soul-sizzling, R&B vocalist... most of the songs just don't work in spite of the fact that all of Osborne's ducks (lyrics, music, arrangements and production) are lined up nicely.... Osborne's musical diversity and experimentation are brave actions in the face of the smothering homogeneity that continues to invade the art form, but even the most excellent elements will fall to certain ruination if miscombined.

Unfortunately seems to lack that goofiness that had previously made them one of rock-and-roll's coolest nerd bands.

"Learning How to Smile" has compelling subject matter in its reminiscence of love among the white trash ruins, but its climactic strings and cheery chords feel like a theme song to the latest WB teen-sex drama.

The band's edge has dulled considerably, in spite of guitarists Kyle Cook and Adam Gaynor's best efforts on "Angry" and "Mad Season," but for the most part they're heavily sedated throughout, as are bassist Brian Yale and drummer Paul Doucette, begging the question: Where's the band?

Rule's sandblasted voice is as memorable as ever. But his unmistakable vocal presence is wasted on joints that fall way short of the impact made by his breakthrough hit ["Holla, Holla"].

Sometimes reminiscent of classic English prog-rockers the Moody Blues and the correlating Electric Light Orchestra (as in "Rescue" and "Girl Eyes"), Eve 6 mostly sounds like a safer version of their numeric brethren Third Eye Blind, Blink 182 and even matchbox twenty