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

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

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

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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.

Sexsmith's gorgeous vocals and refined songwriting shine through.

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

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.

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

Here, the sinfully motivating stew results in a record that goes on and on in its repetitive jive, sucking the listener into the blissfully happy world of Hindi-rock.

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

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.

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.

An unadulterated fey morsel.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

"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.

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.

An accessible, if far from revolutionary, work.

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.

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."

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

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.

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.

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

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

Suggests Kraftwerk crashing a party at the Playboy Mansion.

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

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

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

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

"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.

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

A maniacal slab of DIY punk rock ?

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.

An infectious record.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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."

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

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.