Everything is worth hearing, but frenetic waltz-meets-hora dance track Comrade Z is a definite standout. This isn’t quite as fun as Gogol’s music, but it’s more thoughtful than DeVotchKa’s Gypsy punk brethren.

His subjects are the standard sex/money/hustler/romance/gangster fantasies, and all the new-millennium fast life references you expect.

If this weren’t such a disingenuous, cynical and generally creepy record, it would be something I could really get behind.

Boring grooves that last a couple of minutes before ending abruptly just don’t cut it. What a letdown.

She writes old-fashioned love songs enhanced by Ward’s expert arrangements and reverberated girl-group harmonies.

His bored delivery and ridiculous lyrics about peanut butter sandwiches and rich kids make his two-minute tunes on this 20-song binge stretch out painfully into what feels like forever.

The album is chock full of solid songs.

Sometimes abruptly but always skilfully, these rhythms drag and push the record to its limit on the existential moaning of the album’s closer, God?

Somewhere along the way he must have forgotten about that--there are a handful of collaborators--but the overall theme of gleeful self-indulgence remains.

Dark, cathartic and hardcore, Del stays true to himself.

Meh. Patti Smith does it better.

Sadly, this is a posthumous offering that sounds half-finished and, considering they must have known this would be their final statement, like a missed opportunity.

Real is a beefy record that plods and dances precariously close to the jam band divider.

When you have to think this hard about music, it becomes a somewhat joyless ride, especially since Booth and Brown deny the listener a single danceable beat until track 10.

Over the course of an 11-track album like Red, Yellow And Blue, all the unison way-hoo-hay-oohing gets very annoying, especially when it comes bracketed by earnest yelping and long strummy passages that go nowhere in particular.

The boring beats and throwback rhyme flow (circa 92)--which is weak even by Edmontonian standards--put Afterparty Babies somewhere beneath Don Cash’s home demos and the outtakes from Organized Rhyme’s Huh? Stiffenin’ Against The Wall.

Her fourth album comes as a pleasant surprise, arguably tough country at its finest. Her clear, pristine vocals convey longing, heartbreak and the sexiness of the working class with honesty and grace.

A must for anyone still heavily rotating Moon Safari.

Jackson wouldn’t want us to call it a comeback, but it sure sounds like one.

Working with a forward-looking crew of producers, musicians and writers, including Madlib, the Roots, Sa-Ra Creative Partners and Karriem Riggins, was a wise move; they do a decent job on the funky New Amerykah, a throwback to the black power sound and consciousness-raising themes of the 70s.

With its flawless song structures and instrumentation, the album flows seamlessly.

It’s a limited palette to be sure, but they do it well. However, cutting out a few songs would have made a stronger statement if they’re going to follow such a tight formula and narrow range of influences.

Musically, it’s quiet and reserved, making for a subtle but satisfying listen.

The music often verges on innocuous, but it serves its purpose as a backdrop for Darnielle’s steadily churning imagination.

Hopefully, Canadian audiences won’t be fooled by the British hype, because Bell X1 don’t have what it takes to win over the Great White North.

As good as it is, it’s clear that Vernon still has room to grow. A few songs could have used a little extra instrumental kick, and while his songs are great, you can tell he has more to offer. Keep an eye on this one.

Despite the somewhat pessimistic prognosis, Davies is a sharp enough tunesmith to keep his darkly droll song cycle upbeat and rockin’ throughout.

The latest release from former Soul Coughing frontman Mike Doughty isn’t quite as annoying as Matthews’s catalogue, but it comes close.