The biting but insider-ish humor sometimes limits the potential audience, as Paul ironically marginalizes himself before the business and its politics can.

Newcomers will be shocked by his natural ability and old-time fans will just nod the same knowing appreciation and file the album next to the ever-growing mass of excellent if unspectacular releases.

Thankful is everything an American Idol viewer would expect from a debut album: the musical drama of Meat Loaf, Celine Dion, and the crew from Titanic, the R&B pyrotechnics of Whitney Houston, the (sub)urban melodrama of Mariah Carey and lots and lots of vocal gymnastics. That it all sounds like it came from a can is beside the point.

Beautiful, sparkling folk-pop reminiscent of Velvet Underground's Loaded era, but with distinctive swooning melodies.

Even without Timbaland, who filled G's first two outings with some of his finest future funk, Ginuwine has a game plan as solid as his abs.

World Without Tears... is the singer-songwriter's rawest album to date -- it's often closer to all-out rock than it is to either alt-country or the singer-songwriter tradition -- and it's also her best release so far.

Not terribly exciting for a long-awaited comeback, but a sensitive collection of songs for people traveling down life's lonely highway hand in hand with themselves, for sure.

An elegant masterpiece of unabashed Anglophilia, all slow-motion shoegazer guitars chiming like beautiful bells of doom and icy, disaffected vocals that sound like the Psych Furs' Richard Butler minus the three-packs-a-day larynx damage.

Full of juicy hip-pop hooks in the grand P. Diddy tradition.

The group's innate intelligence and almost shocking ability to forge something new and thrilling out of typical garage-rock influences always shines brightly through the thick Guinness fog.

The older, wiser BLACKstreet rides a sweet suite of slow jams to a level no teen quartet has seen yet.

Occasionally, things are dumbed down by the naive politics you’d expect from any teenager.

An extremely organic sounding album that can stretch throughout genres (reggae, blues, hippie rock) without letting the bong smoke escape.

On Slow Motion Daydream Everclear proves that it's still quite capable of delivering solid, rocking songs with memorable hooks, and frontman Art Alexakis still has plenty to say.

Street Dreams reveals itself as a hollow gem when Fabolous tries to have it all, unveiling a gangsta sneer so unconvincing it makes Nelly seem dangerous.

Impossible to pin down to a single genre or slavish style, Echoboy references everyone from David Bowie to Thomas Dolby to Roxy Music to nu electro, yet its sound, at times basking in cathedral drones, other times rent with oddball choirboy humming, is its own.

Further indulges his penchant for meticulously-crafted songs, exquisite production, and (sometimes painstaking) personal and spiritual introspection.

Corporate radio won't touch this kind of overheated pop, but American Hi-Fi's slamming musicianship and party ready anthems should wow any college DJ worth his university-issue condoms.

This is a carefully nuanced collaboration, with stepping stones of surprising convention leading listeners slowly into deeper waters.

Nothing terribly original here, but they do manage to kick out the jams with fervor and the kind of enthusiasm that only wavers when carpel-tunnel or rheumatism sets in.

She's probably an EP artist at heart. Or someone for whom the 20-minute sides of vinyl would discipline everything perfectly. So slice the CD in half and enjoy.

Channeling greats from Gaye to Wonder, his stripped-down bangers bang harder, his ballads have more gospel bluster, and he sings with the desperation of a loveman who knows the cops are waiting at his bedroom door.

From the sound of Hammond’s latest it seems the swampy spunk of Wicked Grin has kept him fired up.

His latest rocks, boogies, swings and croons with a comfortable feel that's low on BS and high on integrity.

Is this Mezzanine lite? In a way, yes. There is nothing here as gripping as "Angel," "Risingson," or "Inertia Creeps." Womblike and seductive, this is make-out music for hibernating astronauts.

Taking a large step in expanding its lexicon, the group, singer Gaz Coombes in particular, has tightened up its songwriting and come up with tunes that rival the band’s first hit "Caught By The Fuzz."

At first listen a morose rumination on the many shapes of love, the album slowly unfurls as a grand, almost gothic epic of vast proportion and luxurious significance.

Most of these rhymes are too shallow to warrant the hopeful comparisons to Biggie and Tupac. But if you want the best disposable gangsta tunes on the market, 50 Cent offers a definite bargain.

Highly recommended.

The album makes clear that these men really like music. They like singing it; they like playing it. And there’s enough fun being had here to convince you that you might like hearing it as well.

Zwan is Billy Corgan's triumph, an unrepentant glam-rock/prog-pop bacchanalia, an album of stadium happy singles and up-with-people wonder anthems.

This experiment in rock 'n' roll Poe is a great success even if you occasionally forget that this is rock 'n' roll after all.

Illumination is heartfelt, lost-in-the-'60s songcraft, so perfect in style and sound you might think you’re in the cavernous halls of London’s BBC studios, home to a zillion performances of the Beatles, the Stones, the Faces, and yes, the Jam. When the past sounds this good, why not revel in it?

After years of puzzling releases, Nas has finally delivered a collection worthy of his landmark 1994 debut.

If Prince had ever successfully come to grips with hip hop, this is what the result might have sounded like.

She can still sing--the stories about her losing her range, or her voice itself, are demonstrably false--but that's about the only positive to take away from the mess that is Just Whitney, even though the fault isn't just Whitney's.

A step ahead of the J-Los of the world; a step behind what may prove to be a career pinnacle.

All the experimenting produces inevitable indulgences (take Amiri Baraka--please!), but even throughout them, each backbeat from drummer ?uestlove hammers an exciting new sound into place.

Sum 41's second album careens with the impassioned joy of young men less interested in taking the system down than in entertaining their fellow mallrats.

Brainwashed is rich in warm Harrison vocals, couple with his distinctive slide guitar style. Unfortunately, it's also rife with often too-glossy production.

All this anger's not just therapeutic--it also makes her transition to hard hip-hop diva seem sensible, instead of just a marketing move, by grounding it in something real.

If you can forget that Mitchell once used to swing, the settings offer warmth and bring out melodies that weren't apparent her first time around.

A scrappy little album that at times has a frustrating same-y-ness to it, but with each of the disc's tunes lasting no longer than three minutes, the Raveonettes' proto-punk formula never outstays its welcome.

Slicker Than Your Average too often slides that slippery slope to mainstream blandness.

A relatively brief and resolutely pop-oriented affair, with more gruff singing than rhymes and less violent, existential dilemmas.

He manages a harder edge without completely sacrificing credibility.

Audioslave is the best of both bands.

As a vocalist, she remains somewhat faceless.

Testify is a perfect album for anyone who still treasures Face Value, Hello, I Must Be Going and No Jacket Required.

As good overall as the tracks here are, that bit about familiarity breeding contempt rings true.

Releasing two strong outings in the past year drained him of the juice necessary to make a compelling two-fer.

Dozens of like-minded female acts have followed the trio into the R&B arena, yet 3D demonstrates how wide a gulf there is between the originals and their imitators.

Touching Down is thrilling for its purity of thought, and equally chilling for its singular modes and moods.

It's a strong effort, probably the kid's best thus far, and Dad should be proud.

Lucky Day proves Shaggy's optimism and charisma don't require market-tested hooks.

Some of it sounds remarkably sedate and conventional ("Televised Executions," "American Mean") while other tracks ("Beggin' For Miracles") ramble psychotically into the good night of avant-garde minimalism.

Wisely, Slim Shady has focused on quality over quantity and delivers a trio of his best-ever tunes.

Musically, the tunes are more cohesive this time around, with more of a "band" feel then simply people accompanying Amos and her Bosendorfer.

Overall, the album is a little more rock, a little more sophisticated and includes actual artistic input from the artist herself. A wonder in these modern times.

Some may find the Aluminum Group's love-on-ice songs too slick, too lacking in visceral emotion. But like a cool breeze in summer, the Navins make melancholy a delicious treat.

Nu electro, crunchy big beat, oddball Irish jigs, Royksopp covers a lot of territory but always with its signature, blissful blend.

LL Cool J's 10th album isn't a greatest hits collection--it just sounds like one.

Hill may get slammed by critics from both sides for delving this far into pop but, not only is her performance more passionate than the majority of pop recordings, it's a direction that seems to fit both musically and emotionally.

With songs full of piss and vinegar, Soft Cell's return is triumphant and toxic.

In reality Bounce is the next chapter in an incredibly successful non-descript novel about love won and lost in times of turmoil, with plenty of songs that even a championship soccer team could sing.

The perfect combination of restrained production and sparkling tunes.

Oozing confidence, clarity and common sense, the group's four MCs tackle their topics like the greats of old, distilling complex thoughts into simple, powerful rhymes.

Musically speaking, "Damn" is the only real memorable tune in the bunch. Which is exactly the expletive many of her old fans may express when hearing this often over-bombastic effort.

About as far removed from Dire Straits as it can be.

Xzibit's rhymes lack bite.

It's unquestionably one of the best rock albums of 2002.

This is beautiful music set in minor keys.

Full of the obscure and deranged moods that made Security alternately delightful and demented, this album revels in craggy vocals, thumping beats, esoteric instrumental sounds and a general feeling of beautiful dread.

Offers 12 diamonds that aren't quite total pop or total rock--but fall in a wonderful zone somewhere in between.

Her acoustic soul is even smoother than before, making its use as a vehicle for Oprahspeak the more deadly.

Underworld's grooves pump with less impact now, but they make them work harder and with more diversity.

Another sterling and fearless entry in the Earle discography.

When Adams sticks to the pop-rock mode, he can be dynamic as well as one of the cleverest pop thieves since Nick Lowe.

Much to alarmist indie-rockers everywhere, Martsch has been making his fondness for classic rock--and Neil Young, in particular--more pronounced with each release. Now, he goes one deeper, following the Young vibe into his own world of introspective weirdness.

How Animals Move, much like its creator, has "side project" written all over it. The songs meander freely, setting up moods, throwing together unusual sounds.

The album forsakes Doe's past rockabilily, country, and punk leanings for a fairly morose, maudlin mood.

Night Works proclaims the victory of brains over booty-call, mind over matter, craft over cash.

Adamson lives in a dream and his music is a delicious trip through time.

Both her songs, mature and articulate, and the quality of her voice, airy and haunting a la Nico (but not as dark), are of uncommon quality.

Haven's one weakness is their failure to ever pick up the pace or well, y'know, really rock; like Coldplay's two agreeable, unhurried albums, there's a sort of same-y-ness throughout Between The Senses' 12 lullabies.

This is one of the most accomplished, powerful, and entertaining hard rock albums ever made.

Most of Eve's third album won't come as much surprise to those who bought the first two--and that's nothing to complain about.

A very tastefully crafted, tuneful, and affecting piece of work with a band that is still just beginning to tap its enormous potential.

With years of added wisdom and maturity, Silverchair has learned how to do much more.

Lost In Space is packed with Mann's seductively droll delivery that spikes up the melody while it goes down hard on love.

Daylight ups the electricity and the songs cleverly find their way into your immediate recall.

Liars got the punk wave thing down, but what makes them more interesting than their peers is their willingness to explore beyond the edges of the new-wave box.

With harmonies that could have been stolen from Pet Sounds altered by Aphex Twin or Squarepusher, Zoomer is the perfect way to introduce pre-school tots to techno-pop pleasures.

Don't discount the reggae portion of the program; with island impresario Tony Kelly involved in much of the album, songs like "Party Hard" and "Pure Pretty Gal" strongly affirm the tropical origins of this storm.

This is simple music, driving music, perfect music for getting a good bath from the asinine perils of nu-metal and modern rock.

There's also a heady melodicism that suggests the theatrical firepower of Roxy Music, a droning tonality where big ambiance sets up.

Nothing matches the artists' very best work--but, excepting a ghastly appearance by Linda Perry, it's still mostly fun.

Trinity drags from track to heavily blunted track like a doped-up Tribe Called Quest, vainly searching for the group's warm and soulful vibe of yesteryear.