The word "cinematic" gets thrown around a lot in describing densely orchestrated music these days, but "Smile" was among the first albums to achieve that distinction in the rock era, conjuring movie-like images in the listener's mind with its vivid blend of instruments and sound effects (the crunch of vegetables, the tapping of nails, the riotous conversation of barnyard animals).

The best of it affirms that Drake is shaping a pop persona with staying power.

Gallagher never turns these slight detours into genuine departures. By not veering far from the Oasis blueprint, he invites unflattering comparisons to his best work.

LuLu is a work that invites derision, an album that wallows in a tarpit of ugliness.

Coldplay has a formula, and formula prevails on Mylo Xyloto despite Eno's presence.

She conveys toughness, tenderness and humor with off-handed conviction.

Forget the punk and the old-school soul, this is a retro-leaning pop album--and a mostly good one.

Only "Virus" connects in the way Bjork's best work can, uniting the fundamental optimism and wonder underlining this project with music that sounds otherworldly yet welcoming.

It's rare for an artist entering her fourth decade to keep releasing music of such high quality, but Phillips sounds like she's rejuvenated--and never better.

Shadow also flirts with more conventional songs, putting vocalists at the forefront of "I've Been Trying" and "Sad and Lonely" with acceptable if hardly transcendent results. But when he focuses on dark, shape-shifting mood pieces ("Tedium," "Circular Logic," "Enemy Lines") he remains unmatched.

Hunt's refusal to be pigeonholed killed his major-label career, but without bean-counters looking over his shoulder, he sounds frisky and playful.

If not quite as mind-blowing as its best work, The Hunter provides a solid summation of Mastodon's musical range.

As a sheer sound experience, The Whole Love is rewarding, a tapestry of tiny details that invites close listening.

Pearl Jam was typecast as the corporate pretenders to Nirvana's punk darlings in the Seattle hierarchy circa 1991, but they've not only endured but grown as a band--a case concisely made by the Pearl Jam 20 soundtrack.

They're deceptively laid-back satirists who deliver their smackdowns amid da-da streams of consciousness, sometimes with such subtlety that by the time the joke finally registers they're off on a fresh, equally strange and frequently hilarious tangent.

Strange Mercy resonates as a strangely moving album about resilience. It's as messy as life often can be, ugly and beautiful all at once.

That sense of teetering on the ledge of chaos, of mayhem fighting melody for control, makes Wild Flag a debut for the ages.

Unencumbered by the commercial and ego demands in Mac, Buckingham affirms his talent for turning eccentricity into twisted pop songs.

At his best, Wayne was positively psychedelic in his wordplay, capable of creating entire alternative worlds out of a few surrealist metaphors. But he sounds slower, more methodical, less unhinged on Tha Carter IV.

[The] Los Angeles' funk jesters sound like they're treading water.

He may mock his lack of motivation and energy, but on Mirror Traffic, Malkmus sounds more focused than he has in years.

The newly minted Drums Between the Bells with poet Rick Holland, don't break ground, but serve as pleasant place-holders for Eno obsessives.

Though Morello's blunt originals don't leave much room for poetry or subtlety, hearing him perform "Union Song" at the Madison rally invokes a certain rabble-rousing spirit that Billy Bragg surely would recognize.

In many ways, West and Jay-Z are saying something similar on their new album. But their approach is not to shine a spotlight on their community. Instead, they urge listeners to "watch the throne," and gaze in awe on their good fortune.

Every album contains a few moments of mastery, and Dirty Jeans is no exception.

The performances range wildly in ambition, from straight-forward readings (Justin Townes Earle's "Maybe Baby") to spooky reinventions (Julian Casablancas' electro-shock "Rave On").

It makes for a solid if unremarkable follow-up, the kind of release that buys a little more time for the Cool Kids to live up to their original promise.

Sons and Daughters add to their canon of murder ballads, then finish the album with the sound of a rain storm on a beach enveloping Bethel's ghostly vocal, a sound that seems to linger long after it fades from earshot.