It's mostly a psychedelic, smarty-pants dance party; no gym machines necessary.

They’re trapped in the dusk on most of the album, and it’s the few beacons of light here, when they sound like they’re all having fun, that cut through the darkness and make for great Pixies songs.

Winter's final album, Step Back, doesn't always match his early grit--The Johnny Winter Story box set, released earlier this year, is much richer.

The cumulative effect feels a little dreary. [1 Dec 2005, p.128]

Landing somewhere between a posthumous tribute and a completed album, Exodus feels like a view of DMX as a product instead of DMX as an artist.

When they nail the postmodern smash-up thing, it's explosive, inventive rock.... The flip side is tracks like the limp Tears for Fears rewrite "Camera."

Miranda has a bright, dexterous voice and writes smart songs about romantic strife and rapture. But too often here, she disappears under pretty keyboard textures and brass.

Sounding like Alice In Chains covering early Heart, AAF have the grunge crunch thing in spades, but with the edges smoothed by dramatic melodies and soulful screaming.

A promising first effort that suffers from retro fever.

Another baffling, winning, neopsychedelic recording.

The group's second LP is a showcase for gritty traditionalism.

By the end of the album, all the candy-coated excess might leave you feeling a little like Courtney Love after a heavy night.

Set in the more commercial contexts of Kelly Rowland features and the-Dream's fluorescent R&B, he can sound like a fish out of some pretty expensive water.

Bitchin' offers little you haven't heard before--even if you haven't heard a Donnas record--but it should go well with a beer or six.

Beckett vividly renders what it's like to be a kid facing real-world issues, dealing with adult relationships ("Beware! Cougar!") and leaving home.

Not every guest spot works--Lauper's idiosyncrasies don't quite mesh with Alison Krauss's pristine bluegrass harmonies on Dolly Parton's "Hard Candy Christmas." But Lauper and Willie Nelson are simpatico originals on "Night Life," and "You're the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly," with Vince Gill playing Conway to her Loretta, is Cyndi's kind of shtick.

The band's members pitched in writing for nearly every track on their debut, which starts with "She Looks So Perfect" and proceeds through 11 more übertame pop-punk songs about love and heartbreak that wish they were as great (power ballad "Beside You" comes closest). Still, their self-deprecating tunes have their charms.

Keeping grooves minimal but sonic detailing maximal, Modeselektor smear snarky flows by avant-rapper Busdriver and, on two tracks, colorize fragments of fan Thom Yorke's voice, whose falsetto conjures Billie Holiday as a disco diva on "Shipwreck."

For a dude who gets big laughs on NBC's Community, Donald Glover sure fiends for approval on his debut.

She aims directly at the torn-and-frayed guitar groove of her Nineties records, but with flourishes of her recent detours into Memphis soul and Nashville country.

The Big Day contains about as much tonal variation as a leather-bound wedding photo album. Chance is more interested in celebrating the miracle of love than examining love’s warts, or the labor required to build and sustain a lasting marriage.

Third Eye Blind frontman Stephan Jenkins still rocks the same springy sing-rap, and he's still got a knack for spinning sunshine out of moody tunes.

It's hit-or-miss.

Piles on near-emo levels of deep feelings over a plush bed of New Order synth beats and echoey atmospherics. [6 Apr 2006, p.69]

Don't expect emotion for the ages, and you'll have fun with this.

The end result isn't quite as lovable as they'd like.

The [lineup] changes bolster the will to power in Lazzara's Cure-like croon.

Dangerous is most affecting when Wallen’s husky, emotive voice does the heavy lifting. ... The flaws of Dangerous, apart from being 17 songs too long, is that Wallen does not always seem up to the heavy task of pumping fresh life into well-worn topics.

On this second volume of Boardwalk songs, a variety of crooners and warblers are paired with the redoubtable revivalists Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks.

When Timeless succeeds, it's beautiful, boundary-breaking music.

Not everything is so distinctive, and there's some generic Modest Mouse/Arcade Fire indie histrionics. But the Tapes are finding their voice.

There's a faint mustiness to some of the more upbeat arrangements, but on slow jams like the title track (a falsetto-streaked 1961 gem by the Jive Five) and Curtis Mayfield's "Gypsy Woman," Neville suspends time in vocal amber, a true soul master at work.

The 12th Bon Jovi album extends the Springsteen liberalism in JBJ's stadium­rattling Jersey cheese into full-on "social commentary" (his term).

The album's flat production values eventually dull the rhythm section's choppy bite.

The cash influx hasn't reformed these B-boys. [4 May 2006, p.57]

Only a few cuts really stick. [22 Feb 2007, p.80]

Replace the sleepy stuff with more songs like "My Moon," and The Reminder would have been killer. [3 May 2007, p.147]

A collection of brassy manifestoes about independence and, naturally, outer space.

T.I. is still a bit too keen to remake his signature hit 'What You Know,' but songs like the clever 'I'm Illy' and the Just Blaze-produced stomper 'Live Your Life' find T.I. reconciling himself to his lot in life: he's a well-oiled hit machine who's more fun than deep.

Their fourth full-length begins with what sounds like a Japanese-style folk melody beamed down by synth-wielding aliens ('Bebey'). But soon, vocalist LZA is barking out gibberish verses and enthusiastic sex noises amid heavy club rhythms, and the party's on.

On their careening second album, the Rifles prove that they're a band to watch, especially on the title track.

Bryan's fifth studio album is well-turned Nashville radio bait, trite yet undeniable, sure to drive up bar tabs in 50 states and beyond.

If the songs go down too easy, that's part of the deal -- monster hooks or guitar freakouts would only upset the balance Pernice has taken a decade to perfect.

He speaks some incisive truths about class, race ("Fire Squad") and relationships ("Wet Dreamz"), but those insights are too often undercut by crass humor. The production falls short, too, with dull beats to match his languid flow.

Maynard doesn't quite put a personal stamp on catchy, generic tracks like "Animal" or "Can't Say No," or convince as a lothario. Still, the songs are good, and he can sing.

Grimes isn't spooky enough to be "ghostly," and not substantial enough to hold your attention.

These songs are powerfully felt, even if they probably won't end up getting within sniffing distance of Young's towering canon.

Few bands are better equipped to release an odds-and-sods record such as Steal This Album!, because SOAD songs already seem like bits and pieces of different songs welded and held together through sheer force of will.

It's insular stuff, but because they think like hipster Stockhausens and always keep things moving, Out Hud's indie disco is exciting where Tortoise's indie jazz was merely annoying. [24 Mar 2005, p.79]

For better and for worse, Artpop meets the mandate (of cranking up the cray). It's a bizarre album of squelchy disco (plus a handful of forays into R&B) that aspires to link gallery culture and radio heaven, preferring concepts to choruses.

One Way Ticket to Hell . . . and Back is a classic case of a hot band with a hit debut -- 2003's Permission to Land -- running headlong into the sophomore jinx.

At one disc, this would have been nothing short of masterful. [24 Aug 2006, p.96]

Their strummy singalongs make them kin to the Mumfords, their choral singing to neighbors Fleet Foxes.

Isn't quite as transportingly charming as their past couple. [Jun 2022, p.74]

Their second album isn't as radically unusual as its well-regarded predecessor, but the template remains the same.

tween Daft Punk's astronaut gear and Air's analog synth-driven Moon Safari, French electronic musicians have historically shown great nostalgia towards the old space age. Continuing the trend is this soundtrack.

She stops trying to keep up with the Halseys and happily defaults to the fizzy bombast that is her stadium-size safety zone. [Aug 2020, p.72]

As with most cool New York Bands, the lyrics matter way less than the vibe. [24 Jun 2004, p.175]

The downside to The Tipping Point's chameleonic variety is that the Roots too rarely sound like themselves, or even like a collective. [5 Aug 2004, p.108]

Dragged down by too much unremarkably brawny fare. [27 Jan 2005, p.60]

The B.Coming starts strong... [and] eventually flattens out into dark, brooding territory.

Amerie is all grown up on her second effort. And in this case, growth is good.

Proof that you can take the boy out of the emo band, but you can't take the emo out of the boy.

It's not all bad when we don't understand what's beyond us, Cosmic Logic seems to suggest. Just being moved can be enough.

Weepers and waltzes prevail, but standouts push beyond that: Shelby Lynne's Western swing, Alison Krauss' dark Latin tinge, Wynonna Judd's husky honky-tonk blues, Mavis Staples' Bill Withers soul cover.

Modern electric blues as Prince and George Clinton would have it. [Aug 2020, p.73]

On his third LP (and first minus additional songwriters), 22-year-old U.K. roots revivalist Jake Bugg mixes Americana and British folk as skillfully as ever. ... He's less successful updating his sound.

Nearly every song is bawdy, and some... are almost comically lewd. [14 Oct 2004, p.98]

He still commands attention, but his booming voice and confidence now deliver warmer, fuzzier messages.

Besides the distortion-laced "Gucci Time," the biggest change-ups here are drab gangsta ballads: "Haterade" features Pharrell at his most insufferably croon-y, and "O'Dog" makes you actually wish guest singer Wyclef would stick to politics.

Holy Fire is a collection of well-manicured tracks zoning out to a dazzling middle distance.

While the covers of Nilsson's originals ("Don't Forget Me," "Black Sails") are still mostly sad-eyed, plodding downers, the covers of the covers take off.

Lundgren has ample melodic gifts, and most cuts... are pretty damn charming.

Here's the solid, understated third album that digs in without trying to break new ground.

Young was right to close with 'The Way,' a gloriously simplistic salvation song backed by a children's chorus that deserves to become his 'Give Peace a Chance.' But beyond that it's miss-or-hit.

Reed has once again stretched the boundaries of popular music and, in doing so, has honored Edgar Allan Poe's illustrious legacy, along with his own.

If Singh's genial, lounge-y tunes don't always hit groove nirvana, his wandering heart is at least in the right place.

She kisses off her twenties with fuzz-pop guitars and breathy sighs in the Nineties mode of Juliana Hatfield or the Muffs.

Glowing tunes about romance and childhood memories abound on You and I, a hopped-up album of caffeinated power pop that is spiked with a lot of youthful kvetching.

Grande may not have settled on a sound, but she's still an outsized, dangerous talent.

The brilliantly titled Sheezus has loads of great punch lines. But Allen also rocks a sisterly warmth.

Goodbye Lullaby is lovelorn and introspective, full of gusty tunes with a surprising message: Avril cares.

Producer Ross Robinson (Korn, Slipknot) adds some arena sheen, true. But it's not enough to smooth the edges off "Arc Arsenal," a primal tantrum against rebels "robbed . . . of their cause," or to homogenize the ragged beats and mind-bending guitar flurries of "Enfilade."

Usually, the music--some of which is quite lovely--veers closer to the New Age neoclassicism of Vangelis or Kitaro, a warm fit for Francis' tender, elegant speaking voice.

Ciara's still prone to diva blandness and silly little pop songs.

The music is pro forma radio pop; the lyrics lean towards insipid inspiration.

The pair work a middle ground between the elder's G-funk and the younger man's woozy pop rap.

The results are intricately plotted, if not as instantly bewitching.

His fifth album balances bumptious party fare (the Pharrell-produced "Tease," the Eighties R&B glide "Baby's in Love") with dark-tinted slow jams.

Some tunes, like the swaying, gentle "Silence Is Golden," are merely pleasant. But "Caipirinha," a spare cut built primarily on booming percussion, is just fierce.

[Future] offers a notably strong chorus on “Running Out of Time,” and bounces energetically on “Fried (She a Vibe).” But his performances on tracks like “GTA” and “Ain’t No Love” sound dreary. We Don’t Trust You feels longer than its hour runtime, despite several decent cuts. The album isn’t bad: Metro remains a fascinating producer, and Future manages to hold his own despite his well-worn tics. But it only takes a single Lamar verse to show what the game’s been missing.

Nobody's Daughter isn't a true success - but it's a noble effort.

A narrative-driven, graceful debut album.

Suggests a cross between Bloc Party and the band's tourmates Hot Hot Heat.

A rising Nashville star who's mastered the art of appealing to all his fans without alienating anyone. Everybody wins on songs like I Don't Dance's title track.

Revelation and humor are in as short supply as hip-hop; instead, you get a good catchall for a great cause, with head-scratchers and surprises side by side.

With his latest band, the 400 Unit, the former Drive-By Truckers guitarist brings new textures to tracks like the percussion-heavy swamp rock of 'Seven-Mile Island' and vintage-sounding Southern soul of 'No Choice in the Matter.'

It's loose and rough – just how Jerry Jeff would want it.