Armstrong... gives it a welcome sense of cohesion.

Jean's most satisfying post-Fugees music yet.

Both accessible and fun.

Dead Man Shake is a kick in the pants that shouldn't be missed.

A funky good time from two house music smarty pants with a future.

At the very least, it's the best album of Paul Westerberg's spotty solo career.

His singing is a bit improved and the playing throughout is heartfelt and strong.

Luke Jenner's vocals may drive you insane, but he is to be ignored anyway. Echoes is all about perp-walking bass, funky white-boy cowbell, and enough brain-goring good guitar riffs to make Keith Richards collapse in amazement.

Weighted with tunes that approach middle age with tension and caution.

In austere style and apolitical theme, it's similar to Ndegocello's 1996 outing Bitter, but this is the work of an older, wiser woman who can view that album's romantic failures within a bigger picture.

The album never shifts into angular or faster textures but maintains its overall coasting level with clarity, precision and charm.

The songs are extremely accessible and instantly compelling.

While political manifestos are never something attractively wedded to song, Jones keeps humanity on the record, mostly with supportive grooves and her tantalizing way with twisting a note.

Gibbons is a charismatic presence, her golden howl and misery-inflected tone recalling a cross between Billie Holiday and a demented Edith Piaf.

There is some real grime and songwriting grit in these songs, that while outfitted in lush production, faux-soul effects and banal duets, rock harder than anything Sting has offered in ages.

Rockist textures and lush dreamscapes that could very well be the Cocteau Twins take on heavy metal.

Rufus is self-effacing and clever enough to keep the music from becoming totally insipid.

Grace includes lots of atmospheric touches that are two steps beyond country and miles too ethereal to call pop.

Combining the two discs might have insured an unbeatable follow-up; however, the flawed, fascinating separation reveals what makes this partnership so special.

Stellastarr stand out from 2003's even-newer-new-wave-of-new-wave pack in that they manage to borrow from the suddenly-cool-again decade of Pacman and parachute pants without sounding like they've spent the last six months sequestered in a loft watching VH1's I Love The '80s documentary series in a constant loop.

Offering musical redemption for the New South's old hang-ups, Deliverance delivers.

This time around, she and her collaborators have also figured out how to blow away the incense without losing her mystique.

His big voice and big, good-vs-evil themes now need the gold lame beats of Grand Champ to deliver one last howling high.

Permission To Land is actually good enough to motivate more than a few curious, intrepid listeners to give their dusty old Dokken albums another spin.

Reality is easily one of his most emotionally transparent albums.

By muting Tool's over-the-top attack, Keenan has more time to devote to deepening the textures throughout.

This is still an excellent band composed of three excellent musicians who can produce one hell of a noise.

This is 33 minutes of pure pop bliss; there isn't a bad song or a missed opportunity anywhere here.