A much more spiritually fulfilling listening experience.

Following 2002's experimental Phrenology, which featured all manner of drum 'n' bass and techno influences, the real-instrument-playing Philadelphia hip-hop collective ditches the frills on Tipping Point.

There's enough melody and structure to keep one engaged.

She's the perfect '70s soul-funk mama, and lucky for us, she's stuck in 2004.

It's hard to imagine a set of songs that better reflects every phase the group has navigated through its turbulent career.

Seventy Two & Sunny breezes by with the worst kinds of countrified clichés... sung by a guy who was never meant to carry a harmony.

The one thing Banks lacks is Fiddy's natural charisma--he's also about eight bulletholes short in the "life-experience department."

Afrodisiac teases more than tantalizes.

If the album weren't so agreeably off-kilter--short, whispery tunes alternate with long, rambling epics--its mix of guitars and piano would almost seem like the stuff you'd hear on rockers like Layla or Abbey Road.

[A] balanced mix of streetwise, club-ready and bedroom-bumping cuts.

His voice is rough, the melodies fall flat, and there's even a guitar solo by Eric Clapton.

Fun, but hardly fresh.

As studio swan songs go, this sounds pretty darn good.

The Killers sound like a delicious puree of Blur, Pulp and the Cure, loading Hot Fuss with stylish synth-pop effects and big blazing choruses.

This ain't another Daydream Nation, but Nurse is a good cure for what ails the airwaves.

Happenstance is lush and brooding, the kind of record that makes most sense coming through the headphones late at night.

Rather than coming across as an unfriendly piece of self-indulgence--which may or may not have been the intention--her latest CD is quietly captivating.

Mostly made up of charming-but-harmless ballads and little bursts of fiddly Celtic pop.

Velvet Revolver sounds like a hungover bar band playing catch-up, wading through tired blues licks and meaningless grunge imagery.

Sounds like a funky offshoot of the Stone Roses, mining blissed-out acid grooves, hypnotic rhythms and the kind of distant, detached vocals that don't sound like vocals at all.

Her thin voice is no match for the thick guitars that dominate this metallic pop marathon, but there is a strange, earthy quality that makes songs like "Overpower Thee" and "Skin Receiver" compelling.

Under My Skin gets generic at times, but that's why it works.

He can still work a guitar and woo the pants right off of you, but after listening to another round of patchouli-soaked ballads like "Baptized" and "What Did I Do With My Life?" you really begin to consider running the other way.

It's nice to hear a garage band that actually sounds like it was recorded in a garage.

Yes, she still has an interesting voice that's beautiful and quirky at the same time, but there's so much here to sift through and nothing much that immediately grabs you.

The opening song, "First Wave Intact," is nine minutes of churning Led Zeppelin-size rock. And it gets stranger from there.

Think of it as more of a mix tape because the British quintet's jam-band explorations dip into everything from Beatles-esque pop and Delta-blues-influenced ballads.

Okay, so it's not the most revolutionary concept album, but the raw energy and mad buzz make it one that's easy to get hooked on.

The music doesn't impress much, serving as more a backdrop for Morrissey's lovely chops.

DOLL may lack style, but it makes it up with substance.

Amazing collaborations that emphasize the veteran band's rich Latin and blues roots.

While the trippy Scottish foursome's third disc may make a few nods to reality when it incorporates boring things like, you know, choruses and verses, songs like "Assessment" and "Liquid Bird"--all electronic gurgles and off-the-wall vocals--still wave the freak flag.

Holland gracefully achieves the spookiness and timelessness artists like Tori Amos and Cat Power have been chasing for years.

This is mainly just D12's other five anonymous members moaning on about the lack of credit they get by dropping the most underwhelming rhymes this side of the last Dogg Pound album.

The pretty ballads meditating on the vast wilderness and lonely highways of the great white north provide the perfect showcase for Krall's sultry voice and Costello's classic melodies.

The duo's collaboration on Van Lear Rose is unexpectedly gripping, a raucous slice of vintage Nashville fuelled by Lynn's down-home wisdom, twangy gee-tars and White's inspired hand at production.

With Musicology, the doctor of sexual funk puts the self-indulgence on hold and digs back into the enticing grooves and towering melodies of his glory years.

There's little to dig here as the guys sound like a three-headed John Mayer or a trio of little Joe Jacksons.

This is pleasant, bouncy pop, perfect for the carefree days of summer.

If there's a touchstone band for this album, it's Little Creatures-era Talking Heads cranking out songs that are joyously eccentric, celebratory and catchy.

Sexsmith's best album yet.

They've updated fuzzy '90s-era alternative rock while tinkering with becoming Northern Ireland's answer to Coldplay.

This isn't necessarily the best place to hear the definitive versions of Bo Diddley's "Road Runner" or Big Joe Williams' "Baby, Please Don't Go," but it's definitely the place to hear Aerosmith having the time of its life.

The originals are still the best, but this is pretty fly for a white guy.

Strong and sensual.

His pipes are in tip-top shape, sure, but hearing this stuff is sometimes more embarrassing than reading your little sister's diary.

It sounds like he wrote his lyrics by taking random words out of a thesaurus.

More realized than 2002's In Search Of..., they hit all of their marks, rubbing guitar licks against '70s funk and sexy R&B that's bound to get any club flying high.

Has a few more production touches than his past crackling work.

The audio equivalent of a warm bubble bath.

This album tends to lean more toward the psychedelic ballads, which slows down the action a little too much.

If it's not his best, it's easier to warm up to than most of his solo releases.

A quiet, meditative effort. [5 Mar 2004, p.68]

Pawn Shoppe Heart is all sensational glam riffs and massive shout-along choruses.

It's the album you wish the Strokes would've made.

Surprisingly bright and confident.

All the spiky edges have been worn away.

This is smart, literate stuff painted on a rich canvas of pedal steel, ukulele, upright bass, strings and soft drums.

Embracing lonesome gothic-folk traditions, slight blues and country, this stark release is all about misery, hardship and stuff you'd rather not think about.

Instead of making any stupid concessions to her sudden celebrity... the Home girl plays it cool, carrying on with the same smooth vibes that made her a star.

Sounding like a Pabst Blue Ribbon-slamming cross between John Cougar Mellencamp and Janis Joplin, Etheridge unleashes pool-hall rockers... as if every night is Friday night.

Not for the weak (or for Foo fans, really), this is some heavy hard-core stuff that's supernaturally superb.

Yes, the melodies are a little sillier this time around, however the electro-funk grooves are doubly irresistible.

The result is a bumpy, self-indulgent ride, sure, but Love's fuming testimony is packed with a scraggily voice screaming to be heard and a bombastic blast of rage, raw power and sarcasm.

Too much of the disc is filtered through clinical and slightly jazzy rock that renders it a tiny noise about nothing.

Looks back to prehistoric U2 and Cure records for inspiration.

[Lostprophets] mine the acts of groups like Faith No More and Incubus to put a more palatable edge on the sluggish nu-metal genre.

A welcome return to the group's down-tempo beginnings.

[An] elegant mix of jazz, electronica and lush gospel choruses.

Twista still manages to steal the limelight on hot booty-busters like "Slow Jamz" and "Pimp On."

[Starsailor] sounds more confident than ever.

If you're not already into it, you're not missing much.

It's just so staccato and nonlinear, a sort of free-jazz version of rock with just too much going on and little worth hearing.

It's as gripping as N.W.A.'s groundbreaking Straight Outta Compton.

A mind-twisting collision of rock, techno and hip-hop.

The change may shock fans, but Phantom Planet wears the shaggy tunes well.

So cool and so good that no one will even notice Meg White has been replaced by a mandolin.

Her most far-out R&B work to date.

Taken seriously or not, Splinter holds together just fine.

Kinky, however, gets tangled up when they attempt to rock out in English, and the odd rhymes and dated '80s vibe taint their musical revolution.

Keys, however, proves to be a better singer than songwriter, as most of the latter half of the album slips into sleepy piano numbers.

If last year's Under Construction was a little weird, then This Is Not a Test! is barking mad--in the greatest way.

Fails to whip up much excitement.

A euphoric mix of wild Latin rhythms, electronic surges, soothing acoustic sounds and just about every instrument imaginable.

You can't deny that these dudes are on to something great. Seriously.

She finally delivers an album that's more fun than filler.

Hearing the bare-bones "Across the Universe" or a de-orchestrated "The Long and Winding Road" is revelatory.

Even though the cast spends an inordinate amount of time treading over the subjects Fiddy already hit with his own Get Rich or Die Tryin'--dope, guns and themselves--tracks like "Poppin' Them Thangs" and "Groupie Love" have just the right mix of humor and heat to make them stand on their own.

A streamlined effort that's stylish, cool and has a sense of finality.

Kid chills out here, embracing southern jams, country music and a whole lot of heart.

Some of it sounds similar, but Pink sticks to her guns on relationship tunes ("Last to Know"), decent dance-floor jams ("Trouble," "God Is a DJ") and tougher rockers ("Try Too Hard").

Her voice is still in fine shape, but tracks like "Fallen" and "Drifting" are so mild-mannered you have to wonder if anyone will even notice she's back.

While he lags a bit in the emotional department, he nails the spirit with songs like "She's Lost Total Control" and "So Alive."

Skull Ring delivers some truly pumping generation-bridging rock moments.

From the amateurish cover art to a succession of clumsy diss tracks aimed at Fiddy, Blood in My Eye merely makes the Tupac disciple look desperate and directionless.

Sure, the lyrics are a bit weak at times, but when a band's having this much fun, you can't help but want to join in.

If he approached these songs with the slightest hint of subtlety, he might get his point across, but he's happy just hammering everyone with his trailer-park politics.

Sounds like it was recorded in a tin can and constructed from leftovers off the group's debut.