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.