When he gets it right, the rich grooves and soulful voices can be sublime, like early '70s Curtis Mayfield or Sly and the Family Stone.

The Old 97's are a good band, but Drag It Up simply isn't them at their best.

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

The rootsy folk and ethereal harmonies drift lazily, setting a lonesome, winsome mood, without being somber.

A few Sabbath-y moments aside, a majority of the disc finds frontman Daniel Johns singing more than screaming, much to the delight of those who may have worried these guys would give up on new things.

This is undoubtedly the best excuse for a solo outing since Justin Timberlake's Justified.

It works brilliantly.

The audio equivalent of a warm bubble bath.

Yeah, Issak's tunes are the equivalent of rock comfort food, but they always go down so easy.

John sounds as old and crusty as his recent tirades.

While it's not as immediately user-friendly as the group's early jazz-rap infusions, this album still bubbles with head-nodding boombox pleasures.

It's mostly funny, but it also gets kind of same-y as these average Joes embrace their marching-band backgrounds and revel in self-deprecating humor.

Though not terrible, Trey Anastasio's latest is miles below what he's done before.

The lyrics are clumsy, the synth-pop melodies bland and the genius long gone.

Some of the livelier tunes don't suit her as well, and neither does overproduction. Luckily, Rosey's vocals shine through where it counts.

A few more tangible melodies would have gone down well, but the overall mood is magnificent.

A much more spiritually fulfilling listening experience.

The rest of the disc glides along on that same smooth, if lightweight style, with Tyrese serving as little more than a hot conduit for top-notch producers and writers like Babyface, Jermaine Dupree and Diane Warren. Luckily, Tyrese can sing.

Gold Medal's tempos are sluggish and the lyrics are emotionally vacant.

It's a downer, sure, but if you've got the patience, this disc's subtle meditations have a way of working themselves into your heart.

A majority of By the Way features astoundingly wise steps in new, mature directions.

The result? An album that could just as easily bear the name of any other pop singer working the charts today.

The odd combination of Coomes' rinky-dink keyboards and Weiss' booming beat is scrappy, stripped-down and still charmingly unlike anything else out there.

A winning combo of thick club cuts, hands-in-the-air call-outs, pop ingenuity and a perfect balance of entertainment and realism in his rhymes.

Edgier and more experimental than its predecessors, The Garden also ramps up the chill factor.

With dashes of Nick Cave darkness, surf-guitar twang, ugly '60s pop and Velvet Underground-y noise, the Raveonettes offer more variations on the dense tuned-down sound that's overtaking America.

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

The only sign of life is that filthy mouth and cherry-vanilla hair.