The tempos are more uniform, and the huge arcs of all those ballads, hoisted high by fiddle, abstract guitar fragments and Glen Hansard's scratchy tenor, feel surprisingly safe.

A bold, essential chapter in this young man's inspired body of work.

This album finds Wilson clearly invigorated by material he feels an affinity with; thankfully, he's not so precious that he can't flood it with sea salt, sunshine and all the qualities that make his music individual.

Here they sag under the weight of too many wind-swept piano ballads and booming productions seemingly modeled on Katy Perry's "Roar."

Deadmau5’s double-album leviathan While(1<2), however, makes room for many new moods while playing with his genre’s formulas.

A sad and touching meditation on death and distance, handled with a light melodic touch. [28 Aug 2005]

Can the dedicated Muslim now known as Yusuf Islam, for that matter, recapture the welcoming seeker's voice he plied so well in nonsectarian hymns such as "Morning Has Broken"? The answer gently conveyed here is yes, despite a few zealous missteps.

The 12-song compilation is slight on new insights....But as vault-emptying collections go, Lioness helps rebut the tabloid qualities of her life and death, and return some of the focus back to what won her such allegiance--her voice.

The music is rarely rote, nor does it jump, settling for a fussy yet placid amiability, whether the Vermont quartet is in boogie mode ("Kill Devil Falls") or unwinding a 13-minute progressive-rock suite ("Time Turns Elastic").

The problems in this 72-minute package come chiefly when the exquisite singer-songwriter moves to what you'd think would be the creative heart of the album: material that isn't on her earlier CDs. [9 Oct 2005]

His notoriously screwball wordplay takes a back seat to a more sedate menace, but Gucci's inimitable rasp is where it should be--as prominent as, well, a frozen snack tattoo on your cheekbone.

It may not be fair to rag on the group for picking the wrong decade to rip off, but right now Kasabian's allegiance to the '90s sounds especially uninspired.

A bluesy, psychedelic witches' brew that feels like one long, complex incantation to keep us safe, to make us see there is indeed some kinda way out of here.

All that star power can leave little room in these futuristic R&B songs for Hilson, whose sturdy but unremarkable voice rarely transcends its role as a melody-delivery device.

On Made in the A.M. the group takes advantage of its nothing-to-lose position with a handful of cuts that feel even loosey-goosier than usual.

With its sleek club-pop synths, flowery R&B singing and ultra-earnest lyrics about economic hardship and hometown pride, Soul Punk fulfills no known stereotype; it never allows you to tune out, confident in your assumption of where the music is headed.

She's been de-emphasizing hysterics for a while now, and here she mostly sings prettily, but still powerfully. [6 Mar 2005]

Whatever it might lack in inventiveness, MEN makes up for with a smart, detailed comprehension of dance floor dynamics: the tension of the build and the satisfaction of the release.

Every touch of lyrical bitterness is followed by enough sugar to mask the taste, which might be good in the short term but isn't a recipe for long-term health.

At times his path is too consciously down the middle — "I'm an American, and I respect your point of view," "freedom's road must be under construction" — but his intentions are good.

One just wishes the band did it with a bit more grace and inventiveness than on Appeal to Reason, where straight-outta-the Nation song titles like 'Collapse (Post-Amerika)' and 'Re-education (Through Labor)' disguise some pretty conservative ideas about how modern mainstream punk should sound.

This is unapologetically breezy stuff, long on strummed acoustic guitars and shuffling rhythms.

The songs and the sentiments ring of honest emotion, but not consistently of inspired lyric writing, and for all the well-considered inner reflection, you wish these Hounds had channeled a bit more of Maines' bark and bite.

She's sounding as genre-bound in her way as the synthetic singers she was supposed to be a relief from.

When she breaks from her "Sex and the City" act for Mouse-loving millennials, the 16-year-old shows refreshing versatility.

Venus in Overdrive rarely strays from Springfield's down-the-middle pop-rock blueprint.

At 16 tracks, though, Fifty Shades of Grey is a bit of a slog, with too many dreary midtempo numbers--by Sia, Laura Welsh and Skylar Grey--that only feel more glazed (and less enticing) the longer you listen.

Bridges' frayed charisma fits these songs perfectly. Nostalgic yet out of time, welcoming but secretly brooding, the combination creates an audio correlative to the beloved characters he's played on-screen.

Hemmings and his bandmates match these frank admissions with music that’s equally straightforward.

Eric Clapton calls his new album of J.J. Cale songs an appreciation rather than a tribute, and that word choice gets at the appealingly modest vibe of this record.

Some tunes are catchier than others.

If King maintains a tight focus for much of Flogging Molly's fifth studio album, his bandmates (on guitar and drums, as well as tin whistle and Uilleann pipes) employ broader strokes, pushing the music toward arena-rousing Bruce Springsteen territory.

If only the others brought aboard were extended as much freedom to do something other than trace outlines over the contours of this familiar canon.

A sound as sharp and renewable as anyone's in pop history.

They're growing up not by going wild but--get this--by relaxing. And the result is their best work yet.

It’s a disappointingly ordinary effort that for the most part merely does what modern Nashville product is supposed to do.

When it comes to carrying the torch for an earlier generation's idea of rock 'n' roll perfection, no one means as much business as Liam Gallagher.

The Blueprint 3 splits the difference between its two predecessors, with Jay-Z sounding hungrier than he has in years on about half the tracks, while sharing time with guest stars or grappling with undercooked production on the rest.

Freshly single, Usher does everything but buy a waterbed, an Italian sports car and announce, "Mothers, lock up your daughters."

This album might actually be a devotional record of sorts--to downtown New York's musical DNA, and to the idea that dancefloor hedonism can be its own kind of grace.

At 78, Nelson reminds us that his deceptively effortless vocal style can still touch the heart.

For an act founded in anonymity and reserve, it turns out the Weeknd's most convincing work of art is Tesfaye's own rollout as a star and storyteller.

There's no "Babies" here, which is really too bad--as awkward as the song is, it fleshes out Bedingfield's vision better than Jerkins' Mary J. Bligean "Angel" or Rotem's Fergilicious "Piece of Your Heart." ("Tricky Angel," the most adventurous club track on "N.B.," is also absent.) Of the new material, the self-empowerment anthems "Freckles" and "Happy" show Bedingfield's best side.

L.A.X. might not hit the heights of its two predecessors, but it is one of the more complete and satisfying major label rap releases of the year.

The album would be much better without its excess of undistinguished ballads, but that aside, it's a more accomplished version of "Confessions," the hooks more effortless, the singing even better, the songwriting more consistent.

Jenkins instead comes on like he never left the scene. In fact, with its pulsating rhythms and crisp guitar fuzz, the new record actually does a better job of extending the band's early work than did its lukewarm previous effort, "Out of the Vein."

Love 2 is not a make-out album in the traditional sense. It's about the love of silence, stillness, of being a conscious human being and watching the world float by.

That fixation on headphone-trip arcana doesn't mean the new songs lack hooks: "A Stitch in Time," for example, opens with a folky acoustic figure that openly echoes "Disarm," one of Smashing Pumpkins' biggest hits. But "Songs for a Sailor" seems indifferent to what's happening on the radio right now. It's a blast of arty alt-rock escapism, short and not so sweet.

Faithfull delves into what she seems to know best: decay of all varietals, including the decay of passion, of relationships, even of civilizations in Tennessee songwriter-playwright-actor R. B. Morris' benedictory "That's How Every Empire Falls."

"Light Grenades" refines the band's attack modes: melodic and muscular, gentle and intense.

It’s an unpredictable mix of sharp, artful commentary, wildly creative song making and, despite the album’s title, plenty of aimless, indulgent meandering.

There are not as many revelations as on Rice's acclaimed 2002 debut, "O," but it still can be sonically thrilling.

For fans who will miss his less-than-entirely-jovial exit from his day job on "Community," Because the Internet carves a place for him in today's Web-addled indie-rap world, even if some offline fresh air might do him some good as well.

It works equally as a setting for his quieter moments (the tropical "Caipirinha") and for the melodic vocal rages that defined Faith No More's hits. [4 Jun 2006]

The Rejects are best at small ideas with a long shelf life. "World" forgets that at points.

Whether history declares it a tragedy or a farce, this is one album that's more than a pop exercise. And for that, Axl Rose can finally take a bow.

She does herself no favors by choosing consistently bland material, and her third album does nothing to dispel the sense that Rowland should be more selective.

Though uneven, the group's 29th studio work (including 2011's "The Smile Sessions") contains a number of elegant, shockingly beautiful moments that not only do justice to and expand on the sound of Southern California in the 1960s but serve as a bittersweet and at times heartbreakingly brilliant coda to five decades in music.

Don't expect a record as breathtaking as U2 at its best. Rather, this is average-grade stuff with a couple essential songs.

It's the band's most fully realized record, and that should keep them at the front of a dwindling pack.

But extracting a narrative from these delicate sounds can feel like more trouble than they're worth--even if you haven't half as much happening as Albarn does.

Richards often errs on the side of wispy and ephemeral on her new album, Light of X, but albums can do worse things than wash over you like a hillside sunset.

On his collaboration with Fatboy Slim (a.k.a. Norman Cook) on the story of Imelda Marcos, Here Lies Love: A Song Cycle About Imelda Marcos & Estrella Cumpas, Byrne gets bogged down in the fertile ground of his boundless imagination.

E=MC2 is a little better--the songwriting is more consistent, the feel a bit more natural--but it too lacks a ruling temperament or artistic vision.

With its redemptive sins, Come Around Sundown ends up being a portrait of light and dark worthy of the rock and roll bible.

The cartoonish sound compensates for Spears' lack of range and lung power by allowing her to ham it up.

The album offers evidence that the singer has fallen behind, that she is no longer setting the conversation in a genre she essentially invented - blending Top 40 pop with club music.

It surrounds a handful of his sharpest, most insightful songs with far less effective material--tracks that either vague out into club-rap utility or sag hopelessly under the weight of cornball sentiment.

What leaves an impression is Grande herself, deeply cheerful yet with guns blazing, an innocent newcomer no more.

While some recent Korn records sometimes got lost in the sludge, "Twisted Transistor" and other new tracks reach back to find harsh, and intimate, hard-rock hooks. [6 Dec 2005]

Like the verbal tricks he loves to employ, the appeal of Robbie Williams might still be too tricky to be truly universal. But this album proves that he is a great brain teaser.

Shallow, deeply unimaginative renditions [of standards out of the Great American Songbook].

Though it tails off toward the end, the second Weezer-Rubin collaboration (and the band's third self-titled album, out June 3) is a rush, starting with a sustained, four-song soliloquy on pop music's allure.

They've gathered a dazzling roster of guest stars, including David Byrne, Chuck D, RZA, Karen O, Tom Waits, M.I.A., Kanye West and Lykke Li, but the way they've used them isn't inventive enough.

Ozomatli’s fifth studio release, “Fire Away,” delivers a characteristic 75 mph, 20-car pileup of thunderous brass and irrepressible percussion from the opening track, which demands to know, “Are You Ready?” Yes, we are and so is the band.

There's a fine line between evolution and de-evolution, and which process Fitz and the Tantrums is experiencing on its sophomore effort, More Than Just a Dream, depends on what you liked about the L.A. band's breakout debut.

The album has a familiar shortcoming: Once again, Eminem is guilty of not knowing when to stop in the studio. [8 Nov 2004]

If Swoon isn't quite this year's "Tusk," the Silversun Pickups are exploring fresh territory of their own and keeping it easy to follow.

Much like Black's sagging teacher in "School of Rock," this album lives its joke about redemption and returns to past glory.

For all the innuendo and introspection, Talk That Talk contains little sweat, slobber or fluids and a lot of plasticized, inflatable insinuation.

With its easy rhymes and hummable choruses, the album doesn't ask the listener to work any harder than Shelton himself is prepared to work.

Her sadly depleted voice is again propped up by multi-tracking, and the occasional dog-deafening shriek hardly proves she's recaptured her early acrobatic power. [10 Apr 2005]

Peel away the accessibility of his fluffy debut and there's nothing but major-label album fodder.

The EP has a daffy energy that reminds you why it was fun to pay attention to Cyrus in the first place.

That deficit [of passion] leaves many of the songs strangely uninvolving, despite the beauty of his melodies and empathetic production he and drummer Steve Jordan have given them.

While the depressive stuff is unsurprisingly disturbing--“I Thought About Killing You,” which opens Ye, evokes a school shooter’s nightmarish manifesto--West’s moments of euphoria prove no less vexing. ... This hymn-like ballad ["Violent Crimes"] built on churchy keyboards is so exquisitely rendered that, like much of Ye, it threatens to bring you over to his point of view.

The album is inconsistent -- sometimes impenetrable, sometimes enlightening -- but always engaged.

Singalong-ready and set to tempos determined not to leave anyone behind, the record marks an explicit return to the spirit of U2’s ultra-earnest mid-’80s work, and also to that era’s eager commercial ambition.

Flaws aside, "Some Loud Thunder" is a highly original and weirdly accomplished work worth hearing.

What the album leaves you with is the image of a little lion man, rattling his ever-expanding cage.

What most demonstrates the Weeknd's growth on My Dear Melancholy, is the precision of his songwriting, even in material that downplays the flair for structure he developed while working with Martin.

The album's sound is raw, but "raw," even in the Americana circles that Son Volt travels in, doesn't always equate with primal power. Sometimes it's just undercooked.

Whether Lauper will replicate the commercial success of “Tuskegee” is doubtful, but this is Cyndi Lauper we’re talking about, so only a fool would bet against it.

These songs are accented by the X-ecutioners' deft scratching and energetic beats, resulting in a regularly exciting and inventive album.

Frenetic, wondrous and all over the map, the album sometimes demonstrates an excessive fondness for vocal distortion. But as a whole, "The Printz" is aural collage at its finest.

Jepsen's strong new album, "Kiss," feels like a successful attempt to invest pheromone-rush dance pop with a bit of old-soul wisdom.

What’s interesting about Honky Tonk Time Machine, though, is that, as eager as Strait seems to reclaim his commercial clout, the album doesn’t downplay his perspective as an aging grandfather at a moment when country music is dominated by youngsters.

Hands All Over reveals less about who frontman Adam Levine is than did Maroon 5's previous records; too often the songs cleave to opaque generalities.