Godfather doesn't sound dated; it sounds dateless, in a bad sense--boilerplate raps and beats that could have been recorded whenever and wherever. [16 Sep 2004, p.78]

He takes advantage of the do-over, lacing expensive-sounding beats from the likes of Diplo and Lex Luger with dialed-in flows. He's too quick to reach for sexist cliches; cheap shots at groupies and gold diggers undercut moments of real emotion.

Mildly adventurous.

Supergrass' lack of commitment can get wearisome, and Life suffers without a guiding sense of personality, a point of view.

None of these low points will dampen the thrill that this box set will provide for even the most casual Cure fans. [19 Feb 2004, p.72]

It lacks the focused grace of his country experiments, but this much is true: It's Plant's hardest-rocking set in a decade.

Because these swirls of desperation are as much about aura as fully formed tunes, their payoff is negligible. [23 Mar 2006, p.65]

Despite callow lyrics and what sounds like an unfortunate Nineties rock-rap influence--'In One Ear' sports G. Love and Special Sauce-style rhyming--Cage the Elephant make a fine mess on their debut.

A few songs have the old leather-jacket kick, but things get weirder as he explores alienation from a Lower East Side he once ruled.

On Shaman, too many visitors sound as if they're climbing on a gravy train, handing over standard-issue love songs for Santana overdubs. It makes you wonder whether Santana ever met some of his collaborators.

Peaches seems to intentionally drop the ball throughout Fatherfucker.

An endearingly scattershot take on spaced-out R&B, complete with drug fetishism and a load of moves apparently copped from the Neptunes.

On the second full-length album from this comedy duo, electro beats and white-soul croons bump against jokes about cannibalism and girl troubles--in other words, nothing terribly new for these smart Kiwi guys.

Through it all, their creative partnership sounds stronger than ever.

The New Wave rush of her band's second album rarely lets up.

On their fourth album, All Time Low get stranded between bratty snot-rock and witty power pop.

His gently sparkling persona can get overwhelmed by all the sonic gear-switching, technological tomfoolery and sweaty come-ons; it can all feel a bit rushed.

At times, the four seem to move parallel to each other rather than as one.

The tortured melancholy bit -- part of it, anyway -- takes a back seat on the follow-up to this Irish bard's well-loved 2003 debut.

My Turn succeeds as a showcase of Lil Baby’s talent, but it still feels flat on due to its excessive length, the fact that every song is almost exactly three minutes, and the way it recycles 808 patterns and harmonic structures.

This EP by the costumed doom-metal Swedes (they are Ghost B.C. here for legal reasons) is a weird, appealing detour from their regular godless crunch.

Maybe the good girl gone bad is getting better?

It's a balanced album by a spirit who seems anything but.

It's not exactly an exciting record, but it is comforting: a modest sound for chastened times.

It can be tempting to hear Shelton's new breakup songs--the bitterly comic "She's Got a Way with Words," the coolly regretful "Bet You Still Think About Me"--as targeted toward Lambert, or to imagine Stefani as the someone new he flirts with tipsily on the first single, "Came Here to Forget." Shelton's warmly confident delivery makes those romantic twists and turns sound both lived in but universal.

To Record lacks the flashes of experimental brilliance found on Frusciante's earlier albums, but it quietly reaffirms the promise of a songwriter who can be simultaneously impenetrable, strange and oddly magnificent.

On The Double Cross--the title is a sly reference to their 20 year career--they play to their strengths with a succinct set of tunes that seamlessly blend the sensibilities of the band's four distinct songwriters.

Her high notes are sweet and pillowy, her growl is bone-shaking and sexy, and her midrange is amazingly confident for a pop posy whose career is tied for eternity to the whims of her American Idol overlords.