Until the band fully embraces their ping-pong guitars and surly one-liners ("I wish I saw myself the way you see me now"), Grouplove will likely remain a singles band rather than the new-R.E.M. their ambition hints at.

Sometimes his hydrant flow of ideas reveals a lack of good ones (see the proggy slog "Monolithic Egress"). But when Barnes figures out how to focus his brain dumps, dude gets more with less.

Gutter Rainbows is unabashed conscious-rap classicism, with a luscious, string-swamped soul sound and rhymes that tout the MC's left-of-center cred.

Every song is rooted in some long-gone Seventies AM-radio hit... doing for disco what the New Pornographers do for rock & roll.

There's nothing quite as sharp here as, well, "Here."

More color than meaning, but seductive enough to lure you in and keep you there.

This much serotonin in four humans can only mean they'll get carried away all over the place, and Beginning bubbles with the kind of slobbering excess that drives Peas haters bonkers.

The darker moments like 'Contemplate,' where he explores insecurity against an elegiac Rihanna sample, prove he's best as a doubter, not a hater.

It's all catchy enough to keep you listening, slack-jawed.

The songs aren't as urgent or as memorable as the cracked gems he used to write, but his voice is wonderfully ragged. [13 Nov 2003, p.99]

Childlike and catchy. [28 Oct 2004, p.103]

The Lips' spacious attack feels a little tired. [6 Apr 2006, p.64]

Tedium is a problem, but danceability is a given.

The OG American Idol manages to pull off that clock reversal, flooring her DeLorean back to the Eighties on her seventh studio album.

His debut album, Cloud Nine, is naturally very same-y--deep house wasting away in Margaritaville--but unfailingly gorgeous.

On his fourth solo country album, Rucker is warm and easygoing, more buddy than bro, winningly carrying bar-hopping honky-tonk ("Good for a Good Time"), down-home anthems ("Half Full Dixie Cup") and low-sung ballads ("You Can Have Charleston").

A superhero team-up that has produced another album of rock-solid takes on the American songbook.

Lead singer Jaren Johnston is a top Nashville writer, but he’s a bit too enamored of good-ol'-boy clichés. Luckily, he's an excellent singer.

After Missundaztood, her choices were to repeat herself or to try more material outside her realm of expertise. She does a little of both on Try This, with mixed results.

If you're going to be literal and heartfelt, you'd better have something to say, and that's where the twenty-five-year-old rapper often falls short.

When the album works, it's because of Foxx's easy charm and A-list confidence.

It'd be nice if Taylor went easier on the introspection. [8 Mar 2007, p.86]

Weezer's eighth album is an olive branch to the ride-or-die nerd side of his audience: A Weezer record named after Hurley from Lost is like Rick Ross slapping a picture of Scarface-era Pacino on an album cover and calling it Tony.

His serious side is more compelling.

But there's genuine excitement in hearing him leap nimbly between the tart funk of "Rock the Nation" and the loose organic soul of "Speaking of Tongues" as he rails against the inequities of death row, mingling the earthy and the high-minded into something special.

The balance of respectful tributes and reimaginings recalls John Fogerty's similarly structured 2013 collection, Wrote a Song for Everyone.

The 23-year-old diva plays a little nicer, adhering to the Mary J. Blige school of gritty, nuanced hip-hop soul.

Antony Hegarty's tremulous warble is a strange and marvelous instrument--and for many, an acquired taste. The Crying Light, this diva-dude's third album, spotlights his haunting vocals with few distractions, using piano and low-key orchestral arrangements as foils for him to swoop and shiver over.

Their third album deepens the rockist intentions with a track called "Heavy Metal" and a sound that's like Spoon or Fountains of Wayne dipped in distracted keyboard/noise-guitar ooze.

[They] remain masters of stately jangle, and their writing now has a reflective depth that makes for music that's wise as well as crafty.

Here they're a full band, splaying low-protein vocals over delicately crunchy hooks and tensile ballads.

The central concern is present-tense lust and heartache, which this spirited band translates into a fine drunk-clogging soundtrack.

It's an appealingly scruffy sound--an underdog album, a record you want to root for.

This Icelandic six-piece pull off a neat trick: They make whimsical sound tough.

On a Wire quivers with the anxieties that must have arisen as the Get Up Kids left behind what originally made them.

Hip-hop for the modern fabulous woman.

This sequel takes a similar approach [of 2007 LP Yes I'm a Witch], to mixed effect.

What leader Nick Urata does on his big indie debut is pretty straightforward: make dance music and ballads with drama and kitsch.

The viscera isn't surprising. What may be is the empathy, wit and beauty on this focused LP.

It takes gall to put a song called 'No Surprise' on your second disc, but gall is something Daughtry does not lack, and that's what made him one of the only bona fide rock stars to come out of American Idol.

Albert Hammond Jr. packs his third solo disc with the band's signature crisp melodies, curt guitar churn and New Wave synth ripple. As a singer and lyricist, though, Hammond has an openhearted, somewhat quizzical mien that's a far cry from the Strokes' poker-faced chic.

A horny, disco-infused party starter for those who like their funk with a side of irony.

Scabdates is as exhilarating as it is confounding.

The drawback is that when he isn’t playing guitar, the music on this disc is oddly muted.

Her newest solo project, La Sera, replaces distortion with light, beatific girl-group harmonies and clean, sweet production of jangling surf guitars and soft brushes of snare drum.

The real pity is that Kelly, one of the most talented players on the current R&B scene, repeatedly squanders his gifts. His voice simmers with an existential pain that is clearly rooted in the same secular vs. spiritual battle that defines the music of artists like Marvin Gaye and Prince. But he keeps the struggle one-sided in his lyrics -- staying largely on the bump-and-grind course -- and that wears thin quickly.

Depressed guitar poetry that's both elegantly wasted and kinda murky.

Hebden's lovingly arranged pet sounds cohere nicely when he jacks up his trip-hop-y beats.

On his full-length debut, Starlite turns his faith in catchy tunes into a series of studies on the persuasive power of pop itself.

The band mainly shows growth through the music.

Aphrodite is her finest work since 1997's underrated Impossible Princess, teaming her with Madonna producer Stuart Price.

Davies’ tune sense is still relatively intact, and he turns out loose melodies amid nimble bar-band grooves. Unfortunately, Davies’ feistiness fades at times, and he lapses into blandness.

The midtempo grunge-metal and reggae jams, more sustainable channels for grown-ass anger, feel most like home.

There's a little heartbreak here and there, but drinking--a constant theme, naturally--helps wash it away.

Their decision to fuse the songs with a series of spaced-out instrumental passages is indulgent, to be sure, but the album's breathless, genre-spanning ambition makes it easy to forgive.

Though new vocalist William DuVall doesn't have his predecessor's talent for shaping Seattle sludge into molten-dread anthems, founder Jerry Cantrell's expressively torpid guitar steps up to become its own kind of lead voice.

Singer Ian Watkins has Mike Patton's croon/scream down cold, and his group deftly applies FNM's anything-goes approach: equal parts thrash riffs, symphonic keyboards and moody jazz intervals.

This is a missed opportunity--there aren’t many artists out there right now hurling out James Brown-like screams over dissonant, programmed beats--and it’s indicative of the overall timidity at work on Young Sick Camellia.

Any faults just add to Swimmin' Time instead of diminishing the sincerity of this full, flavorful record.

There are few surprises here, but The Best Damn Thing is totally fearless about targeting pop radio and rather expert in its execution.

Its mildly art-damaged sound is just right for indie kids who like their beauty a little messy.

Other tracks--from the joyful 'The Prettiest Girl in the Whole Wide World' to the anxiety ode 'My Brain Is Working Overtime'--feel slightly undercooked. But they offer an intimate look at Cuomo's songwriting process --and proof that he truly needs his bandmates.

The storm of guitars here is proof enough that he's still alive and kicking.

It's Wye Oak's arrangements--feedback blasts, tape-loop-like effects, violin and pedal steel sighs--that turn standard indie-rock ballads into unusually evocative mood music.

A mellow concoction of atmospheric textures, electronic samples and funk-lite beats.

Miller's grown-ass beats clash with his juvenile boasts, so he often ends up sounding like a well-meaning kid who can't stop putting his kicks up on the fancy furniture.

Haunting as the results may be, they are distinctly lacking in Bjork's own musical personality and her greatest asset: her inimitable voice. [8 Sep 2005, p.112]

Nothing seems off-limits here.

Getting serious doesn't really suit him, especially with tedious ballads about finding the Lord.

Michael’s pop instincts--not to mention some warm, jumpy beats from up-and-coming producers like Shea Taylor--keep him afloat

'Roverfrenz,' an airy synth fantasia with Animal Collective-ish percussion, gets by on neato textures instead of sharp tunes. In general, Rewild could use a little more of the latter, but who has time for that when you're knee-deep in giant guitars and weird ambient vocalizations?

Hot Shots II does its best to return to the epic soundscapes of The Three E.P.'s; the long grooves and easy melodies are back, and the band's tendency toward the diffuse has been reined in.

His eighth album fuses lordly self-mythologizing with epic self-searching.

Tedeschi has chops, charm, and a workmanlike style that could at times use some pizzazz.

These Detroit rockers emerge with an album that's pop-friendly but raucous enough to park in a Motor City garage.

After missing the mark with his robotic, soulless 2005 debut, Juan comes to life on this follow–up, giving us stretched–out, club–wrecking grooves.

The duo's mean, scrappy eighth album is the first to truly embrace their underdog status, wrapping itself in the low-fi, Walkman-ready vibe that has dominated the best of founding members Prodigy's and Havoc's solo work on indie labels.

[All Fall Down] is a dark journey lyrically: Good folks fail, lovers betray, salvation is an even bet at best. But the music... heals.

Sorry isn't in the same league as those Drought tapes, but it's freewheeling fun--and it makes you look forward to the next Carter.

[YOKOKIMTHURSTON] distills the kind of audio radicalism these three have channeled into pop music for decades.

The like-minded follow-up enlists Flaming Lips producer Dave Fridmann, who highlights the tingly interplay between acoustic and electronic instruments and the processed vocals, which generally sound like T-Pain tripping his balls off.

Johnson is back on sunnier acoustic ground here, exploring interesting open tunings on some of the crispest songs he's ever written.

Indie rock's cult of schlubby singing doesn't always merge with the Chieftains' crystalline professionalism.

Mika's faith in the campy excess of Freddie Mercury/Elton John-style pomp pop is bracing. But over the course of an album, the shtick's charm erodes.

Singh sounds a little more blissed out than before--but every bit as appealing.

The ex-Jam frontman careens from folky piffle to respectable bar-band stomp.

Audio, Video, Disco preserves the ginormo beats and synth bass of Justice's club jams while adding Seventies-style arena rock.

Jet are at their best in the high power-riff gear of "Stand Up" and "Rip It Up"... with singer-guitarist Nic Chester barking and bawling like an improbable trinity of Liam Gallagher, Bon Scott and Axl Rose. When those songs take off, you fly.

With this solo alter ego, he digs into his gloomy-balladeer side.

Not every performance is memorable, and the absence of younger fans is a missed opportunity.

Unlike previous efforts, Hawtin shows a hint of humanity here.

White Pony ends up being more accessible than the group's two previous albums, because it's not a half-formed mess but a classic alternative-rock album, as gentle and catchy as it is dark.

Left on his own, Scott can grow tiresome. "I Can Tell" sounds monochromatic without another voice to push this astute curator. Some rock stars are better leading bands than going solo.

It plays like the latest chapter in his ongoing recent Tom-Petty-meets-the-Smiths re-imagining of the Reagan years.

The sixth album by this neocommunalist, neopsychedelic quartet improves on 2005's "Feels," flashing more shards of tune to lure the coeds with the Coleman PerfectFlow InstaStart Lanterns over to their adamantly unkempt campfire.

While Grobler's music often bursts with light, frivolous energy, this album has an undertone of dissatisfaction that's new.

Half of Free All Angels sinks under sluggish ballad tempos, sour strings and, in "Submission," unnecessary electronica. But the half that doesn't, such as "Walking Barefoot," is solid chain-saw fun, some of the best '77 you'll hear in 2002.

Takes things even further into 7-Eleven parking-lot bliss. [19 Aug 2004, p.120]