[It's] Ween's darkest record, and it is tremendous.

The fusion of rhythm with textural washes of sound is near perfect in its seamless euphoria.

Banhart ceaselessly entrances with his brilliant combination of John Fahey-esque pickings, absurd and sometimes profoundly resonating lyrics and the craft to convey both kinds with equal candor.

Carved into the glittering surface of its obsessively polished pop jewels are the biographies of horny schoolkids, laid-off airline pilots, aspiring salesmen reeling from scotch and soda -- in short, credible characters sculpted with music.

Though there are quite a few slinking, introspective tracks on Transatlanticism, there are also a fistful of songs that have the left-field appeal -- not quite punk, not quite rock, not quite pop -- that brought a song like Jimmy Eat World's "The Middle" to the top of the charts in recent years.

A nuanced, ever-shifting masterwork that reveals its biggest rewards to the listener who's got 53 minutes to experience the whole thing, start to finish, and who's willing to do this several times.

The understated instrumental, tempo and mood variations are what make The Violet Hour so great -- by the time you reach the closing track, you have not once been jarred out of the reverie induced by the opening title track.

It is Finn's particular gift to be able to set the listener smack in the middle of his songs, seeing what he sees, caring about the lives he chronicles. It is the listener's reward to find these stories scored by big, fat monster hooks, and effortless piano-driven melodies.

It's an album's worth of smart, solid pop music that lingers in the memory.

Showcas[es] low-key numbers that draw on many of the influences that made Adams' Whiskeytown and early solo work so strong. [combined review of 1&2]

The discs are dense, musically diverse, sometimes phenomenal, sometimes foolish and long-winded, elegiac and uneven. It's a singularly interesting failure -- a noble miss along the lines of Radiohead's last three albums and Steve Earle's Jerusalem.

A slow-motion slice of rock brilliance.

The album is something of a wash, packing a less potent dose of Makino but an extra kick of Pace.

It's a beautifully produced album, textured and performed with such energy that her least satisfying lyrics (and the lyrics are usually the main problem on a DiFranco album) are muted.

As the songs unfold over multiple listens, though, what becomes clear is that R.E.M. still has plenty to say, and plenty of interesting ways to say it.

AmAnSet's output is predictable, delivering what the Austin, Texas, group does best: floating melodies and whispered vocals in songs about you and me and now, all the things that came between us.

Regardless of whether Cash completes another album, this chapter of the American Recordings can fill the role of masterful final episode or precursor to the stunning conclusion.

Take away the album's conceit, and Stevens' artful songwriting -- and voice -- still remain.

A diverse collection of consistently good songs with little filler.

For a plodding, semi-mopey bit of understated blues, it's hard to beat.

Usually quiet though never passive, these songs lurch by, crowning, crowing, being cowed.

Of course it's political, and of course it continues to merge electronic experimentation with more familiar rock structures; but it employs all those debate-igniting props simply to further the band's more pressing agenda: to tirelessly explore beauty's terrible fragility.

This is good, solid pop music, engaging the head, the gut and that annoying voice you sing along in when you think no one's listening.

An adrenaline rush of an album that firmly cements their status as one of rock's most exciting new acts.

Stripped of arrangements, the songs are mostly brooding ballads, shadowy blends of folk mixed with traditional country that highlight Adams' shaky voice and caustic songwriting. [combined review of 1&2]

The powerful melodies are impossible to shake, and grooves compel you to move, giving the album the authority of a greatest-hits collection.

Listening to Xiu Xiu, we become nosy neighbors with our ears pressed against the wall separating us from lives infinitely more fascinating and tragic than our own.

This album is stunning.

The devotion to setting such teetering to song is the album's strength. No matter the tune, Germano's pipes and strings swoon strong, hovering ominous and knowing like her floating magician's assistant body on the album's cover.

It's in the mournful, captivating, meditative, exasperating, pretentious, masterfully constructed experience of A Ghost Is Born that Tweedy and Wilco become true iconoclasts.

Two or three too many songs dilute the impact of the album, dragging it from the lofty heights of masterwork to a level of mere disturbed brilliance.

The band functions as a unit, informing the songs with a structure and a fully realized design that has sometimes been lacking in past albums.

One of Beck's most admirable traits is that when he tries on a new culture, he makes fun of his effort louder than anyone else can.

On Antics, Interpol is less indebted to its influences, creating a distinct sound from the distinguishing characteristics that drew those comparisons in the first place.

Sunlight doesn't boast great pop songs so much as deliver an unbroken string of good ones.

Weller takes a small step forward artistically, building ever so slightly on his sturdy foundation at a time when he's on a songwriting winning streak.

Any imperfections Miller has on this album were already there in Old 97's and shouldn't deter fans. The chances he takes are slight but bold -- a little more sincerity, a little more musically risky.

How I Learned to Write Backwards isn't the kind of album that's going to turn up new rewards. Its marginal utility tops off after about 10 listens.

The best production values a major-label budget can buy make everything on Crimes as clear as a bell, which helps. This clarity elevates what could have easily been a sonic muddle into an album that bears repeat listenings.

For every robotic quip on Sumday, there's an exposed moment of sincerity that proves it's not all Penzoil oozing from the lilting Lytle.

For even the most ardent Low listeners, this box set (in all its packaging design perfection) will overwhelm.

Reveals Yo La Tengo's understanding of stasis without stagnation.

If approached with a substantial amount of skepticism and wariness, The Cure is not a complete disappointment. In fact, it's often surprisingly good and sometimes even great.