Although The Mysterious Production of Eggs lacks the gleeful variety of Swimming Hour, it is obvious that Bird has created his most cohesive statement to date.

Fulton’s beat-making is stellar, but devoting attention to it also necessitates suffering the consistently insufferable Kanamori, and stylistic schizophrenia that’s as jarring as it is unique.

For what it lacks in consistency, I Am A Bird Now gains in being, even at its most tedious of moments, an interesting and thematically compelling listen.

She etches out a style that is as feeble as it is vicious. And she owns it, her voice only an assurance of just how cool she really is.

One of the most cluttered, awkward, and unfocused albums in recent memory.

Urn is a chore.

Easily the most cohesive and consistent album of his career, and one of the first great albums of 2005.

The lion’s share of these tracks throb with a purpose that was mostly absent from their last effort.

The thing that lifts The Great Destroyer just above an album like Trust is that it is more spirited: there’s a hint of revival here.

M83’s latest, given careful attention, is a rather impressive and blissful experience.

Wilderness is nothing if not consistent, and even its dullest points are palatable given the right mood.

So it essentially comes down to the fact that “Come Down on Me” and “Go” are likely going to be two of the best tracks of the year, but that a great deal of ’64-’95 is less likely to stick to memory.

The new versions aren’t bad, but the Vertex-era fan might quickly become the unwitting recipient of a $20 coaster.

Superwolf is Bonnie-era Oldham trying to channel Palace-era Oldham.

Sweet Jesus, these guys sound like Syd Barrett.

While not a live album at all, PB & J does indeed live with its own throbbing, messy scariness that demands that the volume be turned all the way up to 11, threatening to eat your brain if you dare leave it lower.

If Stamey had chosen to go one way or the other — straight covers or an all-out album full of originals--- A Question of Temperature would be a much more interesting album. As is it stands, nothing here really captures the imagination.

A gorgeous little nightmare.

Black Mountain is as mundane, bleak, and hollow as the cover art would suggest.

So, Ludacris is still a distance from a definitive, unmatched hip hop statement, but I’m content with his glaciered pace and middling “a-a-a-a-b-b-b-b-etc” frame. It’s just too much damn fun to pass up.

There’s no getting around it: this sentimental, electronically-hackneyed glitch-pop shit can be remarkably effective.

If reduced to a single disc, Street's Disciple could well be one of the more exciting albums of the year. As is it's a solid, if not brilliant album from an artist we've come to not expect too much from.

Compared to All That You Can’t Leave Behind, it’s immensely sincere, well-thought out, and meaningful... [It] also happens to be loaded with hooks.

The three audio discs... are a mixed bag at best.

Half of the fun with Dumile has always been the unexpected, ridiculous sampling and the storyline he develops around it. MMâ?¦Food seems unable to capture this element. Doom manages to drop a few great songs, but as an album, MMâ?¦Food falls flat.

Want Two disposes of almost all of the commercial elements that had been blamed for One's downfall without revealing a satisfying work in the process.

While the best of it is good enough to promise a fruitful and substantive future, the worst of it suggests that in a few years time, Mr. Mathers may be little beyond a slightly intimidating class clown.

The schizophrenia on display here is not of the dramatic sort that intrigues or interests; it’s a very real disorder that befuddles and annoys the listener.