Though it's no "Bloodletting," it does make for a satisfying reminder of that masterpiece.

The band, while heavy on charm, is light in its ability to demonstrate any diversity in its songs.

Unfortunately, the record is burdened by a pretentious, overarching narrative about "the Wise One" and his struggle with "the Banished Ones."

Track after solid track, "Motherland" is a collection of pure, soulful offerings.

She keeps shifting gears in an ill-advised attempt to please too broad an audience.

As always, Kravitz infuses his rock with enough funk to get you moving, and his catchy choruses will echo in your head long after the album ends.

Halfway through the album, Michael ruins the good mood with a seemingly endless run of soggy, would-be anthems and self-pitying celebrity complaints.

The album may not break much new ground, but the band's performance is more dynamic than on previous releases.

"Cuttin' Heads" isn't covering much new ground.

Demonstrates a virility missing from [1993's "Republic"].

Hype for the Strokes is well deserved--it's hard to imagine a more vital American rock band.

The admittedly catchy, three-chord pop structure isn't as effective as in previous DCFC releases--as a basic approach, it seems more thoughtless than deliberately anaesthetizing this time.

This time around, the Garbage tradition of borrowing from all over the map has produced unfocused and derivative results.

"Gold" proves that Ryan Adams is capable of blending a myriad of styles and influences.

Pierce enhances his trademark electro-scapes with rich gospel choruses and grand orchestral flourishes for operatic effect.

A platter of hot-buttered R&B popcorn, liberally sprinkled with salty social critique, "The Id" finds Gray getting disco-freaky while instigating her "Sexual Revolution," and playfully rapping about her kids with Slick Rick on the funky burner "Hey Young World II."

"Strange Little Girls" is not a pretty album, but that's the point: the ugliness of male-female relations, which she exposes bit by bit with each cover, is a fact that is--in both pop music and pop culture--all too often ignored.

It doesn't really break any new ground, but that's not the point. This record is about Dylan cutting loose and celebrating the richness of American music.

Slayer remains an elemental metal band, continuing to surge on something high-grade and uncut.

Ultimately, the record is kept from wonderfulness by too much drowsy material--it lacks [Neil] Young's screwball conviction or the hallucinogenic intensity of the VU.

Pulling it all together is her beautifully rough voice, which has grown more precise without losing any of its raw, bluesy power.

The most introspective and slow-tempo collection in Björk's catalog, "Vespertine" proves to be a rousing showcase of her captivating vocal talent.

But, to get right down to it, "Celebrity" is fun, like its predecessors.

Just as little has changed on the radio front, so has Cake stuck with its market-proven formula on "Comfort Eagle."

The disappointing result is mostly a collection of thin-sounding electronic drum beats and trippy effects that, were it not for Farrell's vocal accompaniment, would be altogether forgettable.

When it clicks, "Aaliyah" transforms the confusion of young adulthood into exhilarating freedom

The quartet has cooled its eclectic babbling, and "Hot Shots II" whirrs and purrs like a gleeming silver sports car.

Songwriter Doug Martsch again succeeds in striking an impressive balance between guitar-saturated bombast and impeccable melodic taste.

Anyone hoping Etheridge has channeled her recent ups and downs into anything resembling vital rock and roll will be disappointed. Instead, she's sticking closer to the middle of the road than ever before.

X.O. Experience is more commercial and polished than the group's previous three efforts.

By delivering pert '60s-esue pop numbers with a twangy drawl, and by playing rockabilly riffs on torchy blues odes, Jack and Meg balance their divergent influences well.

Sisqo proves he's more than a flash in the pan.

There's nothing on this album quite like the guilty pleasure of "Candy," her textbook pop number from "So Real."

Neither Brit-pop nor hip-hop, "Gorillaz" contains a motley, dub-influenced collection of songs that are, like Hewlett's drawings, an exercise in sophisticated immaturity

High on boyish charm and low on moral fiber, Blink's songs have all the lyrical depth of a whoopee cushion.

Its touchy-feely lyrics maintain the brooding undercurrent that runs beneath the bulk of the band's catalogue.

Part torch song, part Broadway, part cabaret, "Poses" is as theatrical as its animated creator is in performance.

Sexsmith's gorgeous vocals and refined songwriting shine through.

"Amnesiac" deepens the mystery that Radiohead began with its curious, largely electronic 2000 release, "Kid A," and certainly won't satiate those awaiting the lauded band's supposed return to guitar-heavy epics.

Carpenter delivers a batch of reassuring songs -- about confidence in yourself and the world -- making you wish she'd check in a bit more often.

A typically bruised and beautiful collection of lovelorn ballads, Raymond Carveresque character studies and darkly romantic confessionals.

The electronics are intact, but rather than rely on monitors and keyboards to produce familiar sounds, Depeche Mode lifts its chin and puts vocals first for some surprisingly taut techno-balladry.... Still, old habits are hard to break, and "Exciter" carries a couple of ill-advised indulgences.

"Lateralus" is primarily a collection of puzzling time changes, haunting vocals and beyond-intricate percussive patterns that create a theme rooted more in Eastern philosophy than in rock and roll.

Deeply original? No. A rollicking, sing-along good time? Yes.

Clever rhythms, tricky harmonies and diverse musical reference points -- including the opening riff from Stevie Nicks' "Edge of Seventeen" -- frequently distract from the lyrical shortcomings.

The album's meticulous attention to detail never overshadows Jackson's frisky good mood.

But with gems like “Keep From Moving” and the country-tinged "Under the Tracks,” and even the vaguely disturbing, second-hand Bowie of “Lover’s Leap," the Creepers rein in their messier instincts, paring the proceedings down to smart, singalong and ultimately giddy jangle-pop.

It’s way too often here that everything new and interesting about two-step gets brushed aside for suspiciously lite jazz and limp mixes of dancefloor hits.

Much of the Painters’ power stems from Kozelek’s arresting voice, which meets its deep, moody match in the band’s exquisite renderings of rootsy gothic grace.

The music is rarely up to the task set by the lyrics. Truly successful union of melody and words occurs only twice—on the sparsely arranged stream of consciousness titled "Bonefields" and on the album's most original piece, "Another Plane Went Down," which teeters beautifully on the edge of dream and reality.

A sweet and sometimes bitter pack of world-weary bubblegum pop.

While nothing else on "Play" quite matches the slinky intimacy of its Top 10 single, "Jaded," every song has something to root for, whether it's the title track's inventive genre-shuffle, Tyler's spontaneous yodeling or the way "Under My Skin" continues the band's love of gender-bending.

Teetering between darkness and light, Hersh's somersaults have never been more compelling.

Sadly, what should have been a spirited old-school revival feels more like half-baked nostalgia.

Something of a mixed bag, "Production" teeters between grating aimlessness and uniquely dark, claustrophobically compressed runs through the Vocoder-happy lands of French house music.

Spoon is the best British band to come out of Austin, Texas.

An accessible, if far from revolutionary, work.

As unhurried and sonically majestic a slab as Low has ever produced.

Having traded in affected spooky vocals and idiosyncratic song structures for straight-ahead rock, however, Black seems to suffer a crisis of confidence on "Dog in the Sand."

Like the group's previous records, "Turn 21" sticks to a formula based in familiarity—so familiar that one questions the value of this recording.

It's that menacing air surrounding "Familiar" that makes it worth a listen, and Oasis is, quite simply, loads of rock and roll fun.

Lee has produced a competent, contemplative record that should tide fans over until the power trio's long-awaited return to local arenas.

Manson still has the most bloodcurdling scream in rock. But the flat-footed musical backing on "Holy Wood" leaves his delivery sounding strained, like an overburdened star left naked on an empty stage.

Following a path forged by fellow U.K. exports Badly Drawn Boy and Travis, still-wet-behind-the-ears quartet Coldplay prefers a folksy, familiar approach to guitar pop.

"Forever" is about as glossy as it gets. It's also understandably predictable.

He's ditched dusty folk LPs for guest appearances by stars such as Bootsy Collins and Macy Gray. Gentrification suits him. For all her classic-soul flare, Gray is fond of abrasive nuance. Her singing is the perfect analog counterpart to his techno-philia; those saliva-laden glitches turn her catch phrases into perfect little samples.

The band neither succeeds wildly nor fails. There are only a few reminders of the lackluster dance sounds in its recent work... Otherwise, what dominates are the straight-ahead rhythms that drove the early days.

There are moments on this album when you remember Nirvana used to open for J Mascis' old band, Dinosaur Jr. There are many such moments, gloriously ragged snatches of rock.

Burnside's singing is the strongest it's been in years, hitting aching falsettos in "Bad Luck City" and then, on the title track, letting his voice get as dark and gritty as the silt of the Mississippi River.

The results on "Solitary Man" are mixed, leaning at times to inadvertent novelty.

Rarity collections can often times be largely unsatisfying to anyone but die-hard fans, but not so with ASTH. Songs such as "Bring Your Lovin' Back Here," "78 Stone Shuffle" and "Steve McCroski" stand up against the best of anything the band has recorded.

Fans will be happy to find Jakob more upfront, and keyboardist Rami Jaffe utilized, but differently than past straightforward organ parts.

You're going to have to dig through a barrage of radio-ready songs to find the excitement of previous albums.

Their third release has no apparent monster single like "The Way," but the recording as a whole contains a higher number of strong songs. It rocks harder, and the band's previously overpowering influences--most notably Elvis Costello--are now beautifully integrated into a more developed and identifiable sound.

The real standouts here, though, are the ballads. With "I Deserve It" and "Gone," the legacy of the corporeal and spiritual Madonna lays down amid the simplicity of basic percussive beats and acoustic guitar.

The new Tom Tom Club album is a lot like its title: a pop-culture reference whose impact fades upon inspection.

In contrast to the 6ths' blissed-out "Wasps Nests," which included indie credibles Lou Barlow and Georgia Hubley, "Hyacinths" mines cabaret territory.

Unfortunately, Harding misses more than he hits.... musically most of the tracks sound forced and untrue.

There are hints of the stuttered hooks that snared listeners on the band's '95 debut, yet they're so snarled in manic sound, you're unsure whether you're being grabbed or gagged.

A maniacal slab of DIY punk rock ?

His loving treatment of these 16 tunes (counting one hidden track) is testament to both the rich legacy of American music and Alvin's own reverence for things past.

The band nearly succeeds in messing with your head. However, front man Courtney Taylor's hamming like Jagger on "Bohemian Like You" and the country schlock of "Country Leaver" are definite buzzkills.

Despite his always dead-on guitar playing and decent set of pipes, Setzer pens original material that tends toward repetition. Couple that with a rather pedestrian "Mack The Knife"... and "Vavoom!" comes across as listenable, but ultimately forgettable

An unadulterated fey morsel.

The trio, whose sound could be loosely described as arena rock with a heavy nod to the Seattle flannel era, fail to entice the listener with the requisite hooks and melodies that define great songs.

Admittedly, he seems to be missing a sparring partner like McCabe and thus, "Alone" often suffers a lack of tension. Still, Ashcroft's unabashed joy is rather contagious.

An infectious record.

The refrains and horn tracks of "Quality Control" are all the ammo you'll need in your next argument about the rejuvenation of hip-hop.

The trademark woeful brood is firmly intact. This time around, however, the Scottish duo has taken a slightly more playful approach to its music.

Some of the best music he's created since his release from prison on drug charges nearly six years ago.

On its fourth full-length adventure, Glaswegian septet Belle & Sebastian wanders away from their painfully catchy melodies with symphonic '70s-esque feather rock.

The music that Bragg and Wilco have wrapped around the exquisite 15 sets of Guthrie lyrics is much more mature, cohesive and layered than its predecessor.

This is a record that will certainly find its way into the clubs and on to "best of" lists as the year goes on.

A 12-song collection of ear candy so sweet as to give many listeners a toothache.

Smith's talent lays in his ability, like Tom Waits, to create a surreal landscape populated by crafty guitar and piano work and a haunting, layered voice that climbs cheek to cheek with his instruments to create something unheard of today.

Not only does Marshall make each of the album's dozen songs her own, but she leaves you straining to recognize the original in what she's marvelously reconfigured.

The wildly disparate influences and sensibilities mesh to great effect on this stunning album.