That old black magic often sounds forced, but he makes up for it with a few more melancholy tracks.

Her seventh LP brings the mama drama.

By teaming up with his old bandmates, Gordon’s tunes sound just like any other Phish song – and turning out studio records was never the band’s strength.

Yes, there are duds among these 36 tracks. But they pass the time.

Even when it's aggressively quirky, Duo De Twang are the most original and fun sound he's slapped out in years.

The band sounds as dense and murky as ever, although it has added a few free-jazz strokes on some tracks.

It's predictable stuff--sassy songs, lovelorn songs, a couple of pop-psych pep talks--but Lovato is good company, and her voice has gustiness and character.

Godhead's stash of smart musical touches proves they're more than Manson's Mini-Me.

The music isn't exactly groundbreaking, and none of the remixes improve on the Hybrid Theory originals, but the boyish energy of Reanimation has its own appeal, and it's not too far emotionally from the tried-so-hard spirit of "In the End."

Let Love In burns with the same slightly cheesy Springsteenian passion as the Dolls' multiplatinum records. [4 May 2006, p.59]

Yours Truly, Angry Mob is one of the catchier guitar records you'll hear all year... But the Kaiser Chiefs can also be a little shallow.

The music isn't always as dynamic as his thoughts, opting for a mostly mellow mood that matches the LP's carefree samples of surfing documentaries, but doesn't always capture their freewheeling individuality.

An infectious love for their hometown and a sound that brings in soul, pop ballads, polka, Jamaica and Steely Dan makes this Wikipedia workout actually feel inclusive.

At 67 minutes, this record could have probably used a bit more editing, but Rest in Chaos is definitive proof that Hard Working Americans is no half-baked side project. Instead, the group continues to be a fascinating roots-rock collaboration.

He's 65 inches of pure love panther, with sensitive-man bangs and a voice like Joey McIntyre getting savagely beaten by the AutoTune police.

In his heated drawl, his lovely singing, his producing and guitar- and piano-playing, B.o.B shows off a vast talent. But when the record ends, you just want to hear the Dr. Luke beats again.

What Sparta gain in subtlety they lose in sheer force.

Like Get Rich or Die Tryin', only not as good, D12 World works as a polished dramatization of a lifestyle nobody really lives.

In their past lives, the members of this band were enraged. Now, fierce as they might sound, Audioslave just seem sorta engorged.

A quartet that lives, dies and drinks to Exile on Main Street.

With a set list running up to 20 songs, it borders on Fetty overkill, but there are plenty of fine moments you haven't heard yet.

Some of Grohl's lyrical shortcomings become exposed: The sameness and vagueness of his love lyrics blunt their impact.

On his most affecting cuts, such as the lilting, elegiac title track, Gray works up the kind of gentle melancholia that goes down smooth, but reappears later, in your head.

There are plenty of moments where Oxnard clicks, like the chugging, bum-rush rhythm “Who R U?” ... Still, there are missed opportunities.

Further manages to be both pretty and hard-grooving.

On an album where she's surrounded by dudes (including her pal Spank Rock), she makes being ladylike sound hardcore.

It delivers the ramshackle, ritualistic, druids-at-Stonehenge mood that campfire crusties at U.K. festivals like Glastonbury aspire to. Convinced Armageddon is upon us, the Mekons are determined to get in some mournful Earth worship first, and for fans who feel the spirit, songs will emerge.

His third and best record isn't that moment yet, but he's one step closer.

Yelawolf's populist ambitions haven't gone away--check the wave-your-lighter anthem "American You"--but Love Story avoids sanding away all of his edges.

Makes you long for more Willie, less Willie and Friends.

Deja Entendu has more than its share of irresistible singalongs, but Brand New are more poetic and musically adventurous than their emo peers.

One could easily mistake Nightbird for something the duo made in the Eighties -- and if you love Erasure, you won't care.

Things work better when they balance the impulse to hulk things up with their natural traditionalist intimacy.

At times their idea-heavy songs can feel weighed down by cleverness (the Primus-y "Deadcrush"). But Alt-J can create a dark beauty that's like moonlight on an English moor.

Songs like "Hearts All Gone" are pitched between Black Flag and Six Flags ("I'm a little bit shy, a little bit strange and a little bit manic!" DeLonge journals). But just as often there's sophistication and introspection (check those pianos ton "Kaleidoscope"), and darkness lingers at the edge of suburbia.

This album takes a different, more meandering approach compared to Brief Inquiry, and that may be its greatest weakness: Notes on a Conditional Form is simply too long. ... Still, where Notes works, the 1975 prove themselves to be surprisingly efficient craftsmen, even as they sound ridiculous.

Unfortunately, Become You lacks both the strummy, folk bombast of vintage Indigo Girls (1987's Strange Fire) and the engaging musicality that has made their last few albums worth spinning.

Mellow, shambling rock.

They take Pink Floyd psychedelia, Led Zeppelin stomp and Who-inspired choruses and charge them full of big-rock beats, atmospheric keyboards and all kinds of electronic whooshes.

The highlight is "NYC: 73-78," Beck's own 20-minute mastermix-cum-suite, which moves from piano meditation to synth-pop to Beach Boys-style chorale and back.

Pleasantly ornate pop with classical flourishes. [Jun 2021, p.77]

There's a charmingly tossed-off quality to the entire set, whose 10 songs frequently deal with women and their troubled men.

The noise is welcome, but Harper can be a graceless vocalist, and his songs about crumbling relationships strain for significance amid pronouncements like "I'm serenaded by a chorus of a thousand burning cigarettes."

Some of the sweeping moments blunt the band's fresh-faced immediacy--as if the cute kids from the sticks have had a hard ime turning pro.

The songs here don't quite hit the same level of high-gloss overdrive they managed last time out, a problem for a band that prizes songwriting over the kind of vocal gymnastics that can turn a so-so synth-pop tune into an uncorked geyser of catharsis (elsewhere the wan piano ballad "100x" shows their limitations as confessional quiet stormers).

Like his labelmate Norah Jones, Lee is a great foil, and the standouts on his chart-topping fourth album--cut with cowboy-mystic indie rockers Calexico providing moody backup--are the cameo tracks.

It's music as vivid as your last disaster.

Pop-punk trio deliver glittery hooks and raw feminine energy. [Jul 2020, p.87]

The more visceral appeal of Coming Apart--most notably Gordon’s vocals--is lost somewhat in this pivot to patient squall and ugly voids (the 10-minute “Change My Brain” sounds like she’s crooning to an industrial fan), but the duo are still exceptional at manipulating scuzz.

Even if this project probably won’t give us any fresh entrants into the large canon of classic Elton songs, The Lockdown Sessions is still a glowing testament to his enduring pop gravitas.

Beyond the novelty of their fragile arrangements, Psapp write solid, thoroughly accessible songs.

Leo's melodic gifts don't keep up with his lyrics. [22 Mar 2007, p.80]

Production by Dust Brother John King notwithstanding, it impacts just like any other Steve Earle record--lyrics first.

Though her deep voice is mixed down a little, most of Meshell Ndegeocello's seventh album--five of its tracks reprised from last year's "Article 3 EP" recalls 2002's "Cookie."

It's mood music (bad-mood music, to be exact) and, despite coming from a band called the Body, it's largely formless; much of the time the songs just seem to end.

As with Wainwright’s best works, it’s musical theater without the theater (remember, he once interpolated the theme from Phantom of the Opera on Release the Stars’ “Between My Legs”) and it comes with all of the good and bad that comes with stage drama.

Bob Dylan celebrates the Christmas hit parade the old-fashioned way: He plays it straight, as much as his pitted baritone allows, with a band that mixes David Hidalgo with R&B guitarist Phil Upchurch.

But whereas White relives rock history in fever dreams, Greenhornes singer-guitarist Craig Fox envisions the past through heavy eyelids. His rollicking punk tunes are coolly detached, and his psychedelic mudslides often laze in drooged-out repose.

For Jonas, the new sound works well: He's sweetly confident while singing about all the adult lust that he has been suppressing in his music for years.

Brawling tunes steeped in vintage rock & roll, with Daltrey setting his maximum-R&B yowl on full bluster against Johnson's slashing attack.

The nuanced approach of the friends and session men who back him suits the more nuanced lyrics.

They might not be as manic and frantic... But The Spine rocks without any loss of wit or melody.

While she oozes charisma and has a fine voice, Beyonce isn't in a class with the likes of Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey as a singer. [24 Jul 2003, p.86]

Trauma's chilled-out middle sags, but "Revenge," her bad-romance duet with Eminem, is an early shot of energy; Max Martin and Shellback's homage to Dr. Dre's skip-step beats may be too on the nose, but Em's rhymes nicely recall a time when even lunatics rode bright hooks.

An elegant, sometimes sleepy collection.

There's not an "Ohio" in the bunch but Young's grizzled jeremiads can be endearing.

They wield massive choruses, stadium-ready production and the keening vocals of Toby Martin. [22 Feb 2007, p.80]

Funhouse would be more fun if Pink went easier on the bad-love songs.

Wasteland, Baby! has enough encouraging displays of maturation to feel like a transitional moment for Hozier. At its best, the album carves out a space for the singer to work out his creative tensions as he finds new ways to make his straight folk influences more accessible without losing anything along the way.

The most visceral tune may be the agoraphobia slam of "Black Paint," but the most interesting development is album's closer "Disappointed," which sounds like the hocketing of Dirty Projectors interpreted by a hardcore band.

It's frustrating to imagine how much more power Crow could amp up by tattering the edges of her best songs and avoiding the crowd-pleasing delicacy that makes her sound like a Sheryl Crow cover band. Led by Bob Seger.

Yes, it's long on shtick ("Ladies and Gentlemen, emanating from the Secaucus Lounge at the fabulous Fandango hotel, the Bluenotes!" crows an emcee), and the mediocre songs haven't improved.... Most impressive is "Ordinary People," which reappeared in 2007 as the highlight of the latter-day outtake collection Chrome Dreams II; here it's a 12-minute working-class anthem with brass underscoring Young's soaring guitar rock instead of masking it.

Swedish singer-songwriter José González's new album--which is just the third LP from the 36-year-old artist, in a 12-year solo career--sticks to the formula that has served him well in the past.

The sticky beats nearly redeem the flute solos, laser blasts and Jesus jive.

One of the greatest rhythm sections to ever rub-a-dub on planet Earth, Sly and Robbie’s client roster has included Dylan, Madonna, Serge Gainsbourg, and No Doubt. But the team’s best jams are the most deeply rooted in the Jamaican music they helped invent — at the core of Peter Tosh’s band; with the Compass Point All-Stars; and on their own Taxi Records sessions, source of some of the reggae canon’s mightiest sides. Their ur-grooves justify from the get-go Red Gold Green & Blue, a set of blues, r&b and soul covers of the sort that might otherwise land like pro-forma, unessential nostalgia.

Ultimately, what you at times get is a watered-down version of Future Nostalgia, a record that feels adrift — even from Lipa herself. We didn’t expect her to cover Blur’s “Tender,” or drop her own line of lava lamps, but we were hoping for something a little more distinct.

While his funk game is strong and swagger is stronger, Bruno's acclaimed hook-writing (which has garnered four Number Ones for himself and tons of co-writes on other chart-toppers) has seemingly taken a backseat.

This smart if self-conscious album makes it clear who the Lips would like to be, but it's hard to tell who they really are.

Sometimes the former Midtown singer's snark falls flat, as with the title 'Pete Wentz Is the Only Reason We're Famous' or the part where the singer brags about his ass. But Saporta does have some pop gifts, apparent on the disco 'Living in the Sky With Diamonds.'

Pop Psychology opens with the biggest, shiniest songs he's come up with, each taking on a slippery aspect of post-modern romance.

Sheeran’s unobtrusively sweet voice easily slips between genres, but he struggles to connect with many of his A-list guest artists, deepening the album’s isolated mood.

This third full-length album continues to mine past gold, integrate rock and jazz elements, and work Maxwell's beautifully supple vocals around old-school styles.

Love Goes doesn’t quite have overwhelming moments to match the titanic power of signature hits like “Latch,” Smith’s career-making hit with house duo Disclosure, or 2017’s “Him.” In some ways, that’s OK.

His lyrics have always run the risk of feeling overthought, and Pieces of a Man is no exception; for all his talent, Mick sometimes verges into dorm-room thoughts (“cottonmouth get you soon enough/wake up and realize the moon is us”) and cringeworthy high musings (“Fuck is woke if you conscious but still in the bed”). But his heart is in the right place, and his elevated lyrical aspirations steer him right more often than not.

Like much of Tove Lo's work, it's admirably uncensored, but may leave you craving a shower, however close to home it lands.

The cleaving of The Alchemy Index into awkward chunks of opera violates a fundamental rule of prog rock: Go all the way out, or don't go at all.

Yachty is a great ambassador for Michigan rap, but as Michigan Boy Boat illustrates, he’s far from the best practitioner of the style. He is the protagonist of the mixtape, but he isn’t its anchor.

Sexing up the affair are new songs by artists like Sia and Ellie Goulding, a couple of hot Beyoncé remixes and the occasional classic (Rolling Stones, Frank Sinatra).

The stark, minimalist production by TV on the Radio's Dave Sitek is so cool and aloof that these snacks never feel fully cooked.

We're placed squarely in Michael Jacksonland, a bizarre place where every sparkling street is computer-generated, every edifice is larger than life and every song is full of grandiose desperation.

Vapor Trails is Rush's most focused effort in many years, thanks to a renewed emphasis on songwriting.

The lively romp "Lion"--which incidentally sounds great in concert--proves that the Felices translate best on record when they're being their boisterous, rootsy selves.

He rarely strives for the depth of Lamar or the intensity of Q; there's plenty of clever imagery on These Days . . . ("Residue on my debit card/Don't tell my moms," he rhymes on "Ride Slow"), but a fully realized dude never quite comes into focus.

The slower stuff vagues out, and the bonus disc of ambient instrumentals ought to come with a controlled substance, but elegant relationship songs such as the torchy "Forever" suggest this talented softy has found a sensible way to come down from a multiplatinum high.

Some of the music is gripping--the modal-sounding chorus and blippy groove of 'My People' suggests an R&B version of Radiohead--but other tunes feel like absent-minded doodles, and Badu's social consciousness nets middling returns.

On about half the cuts, Eve sits back and allows her featured guests to take over completely. This ploy might make for an interesting mix if either the huge roster of producers or Eve herself had managed to exploit the walk-ons' uniqueness - DMX, Mo'nique, Gwen Stefani, Drag-On and Styles of the Lox all make undistinguished cameos

It's a rare rocktronic mix that actually grooves, even if the ride can be a little jittery.

Marianne Faithfull's singing voice is like an open wound, a raw badge of suffering and self-examination that sounds best when the music gives Faithfull room to bleed. That happens on about half of Kissin Time.