Playing exactly like past Thievery Corporation albums that sounded preordained from the start, The Richest Man In Babylon adopts various degrees of swagger and repose, but the cumulative effect is striking mostly for its vacancy.

The Get Up Kids relies on classic pop arrangements (piano accents, acoustic bridges, moody electronic/orchestral interludes, and climactic choruses) to bring a touch of class to what might otherwise be standard half-hook emo, faintly catchy but fundamentally unmemorable.

By the time On reaches its finale, it's stored up enough goodwill that it's more than possible to believe that there's an art to all this artlessness.

The chasm between his musical and lyrical ambitions is as amusing as it is frustrating.

Like Neil Young's Silver And Gold, it feels like a thematically empty, knockabout place-holder. American Recordings, one of Cash's towering classics, was all devotion and doubt, a brilliant, raw-boned meditation on redemption and death. A loose, flat set of odds and ends, Solitary Man is merely a minor but endearing record from a man who seems to know he's given more than enough.

Her varied approach yields varied results: Sometimes the disc sounds like a mature summing up of previous work; at other times, it sounds like a closet-cleaning.

Lots of great rappers draw inspiration from hip-hop classics, but The Game seems to be equally influenced by an almost obsessive-compulsive need to rattle off classic album titles.

Tasty bait for those who like their pop glitzy and expensive, Alphabetical is the kind of album that proves perfect when it's playing and hard to recall when it's not.

For all My Ride's Here's inconsistency, it's blessed by Zevon, who retains one of the most distinctive and appealing vocal/lyrical cadences in rock 'n' roll.

A tight, straightforward set of serviceable Nine Inch Nails songs, with brief moments of inspiration and lots of fan- and radio-friendly hooks.

As always, the marriage of hooks and psychological horror works well, but for the first time it also starts to wear a little thin. The album's second half is dominated by weaker songs and lyrics that really need a fuller range of human emotion.

Automator has described Monkey as an opportunity for listeners to journey inside his mind, but given his past discography, that trip should be a lot wilder and weirder than this relatively straightforward record.

Fall[s] somewhere between briskly entertaining and simply inconsequential.

Sounds too slight for the non-devout.

That title is an overstatement, but the album does offer a few more memorable tracks than its predecessor.

Musicology is never bad, and though it does get bogged down in indistinguishable ballads, it usually finds a way to recover. [28 Apr 2004]

There's little to object to on Silence Is Easy, but just as little to distinguish Starsailor's second effort from the many sound-alike albums sure to follow this year.

TP.3 Reloaded initially seems like a rote exercise in self-parody, then a delightful romp in self-parody, then finally something in between.

The largely pleasant new Sing When You're Winning offers up more of the same, material for an alternate-universe Top 40 aimed at twentysomethings rather than the orthodontia crowd.

Strays masterfully re-creates the surface of Jane's Addiction's sound, but in the process neglects to capture the band's vulnerability, its many idiosyncrasies, or even the all-important sense that Farrell has much left to say.

Modulate finds him bounding around various points on the spectrum to varying degrees of creative success.

Premier does a solid job throughout The Ownerz, but nothing here approaches his past classics.

In fleeting moments, Gray's remarkable charisma dominates The Trouble With Being Myself, but the missing ingredient is too often a simple lack of hooks.

The standouts almost redeem the dull stretches.

As a strategy, Untilted's severe deconstruction plays like a non-starter; as a working method settled on by an act from whom fans would expect nothing less, it sounds like Autechre reshuffling terms that are very much its own.

It doesn't always work, and even when it does, there's no getting around the unshakable sense that Clinton is a side project above all else, with none of the transcendent moments found on Cornershop's albums.

Mercury Rev's ongoing foray into a strange sort of beauty overload remains a noble endeavor, but it inspires more admiration than emotional attachment.

When he inches toward the current, Moby tips too close to listless trance. And when it sticks with the kind of choppy, anthemic techno he knows best, Baby Monkey sounds more like a nimble one-off than a meaningful return.

Too much of Oh No comes out thin and flavorless, but bandleader Damian Kulash clearly has an artist's sensibility lagging just behind his commercial savvy.

A tendency to devolve into Coldplay-esque atmospherics makes it a less than wholly successful effort.

White People has something for everyone, as well as something guaranteed to irritate or turn off everyone, whether it's undistinguished rap-metal or tiresome comedy skits that'll have less indulgent listeners reaching repeatedly for the track-skip button.

Only when Morrissey's wickedly funny side emerges does Quarry find moments worthy of sharing shelf space with his finest.

In Your Honor's acoustic half reveals Dave Grohl's songwriting shortcomings.

The cleaner, more direct approach both helps and hurts. Without at least some sonic kink, Pinback drifts toward the pleasant but undistinguished; its core sound is too rarefied to snag the common rock fan.

Coral Fang's lack of memorable hooks makes it hard to admire for long.

Bejar's shifting style seems like a work in progress, and a lot of these songs are too much of nothing. [17 Mar 2004]

Unlike its predecessor, Day I Forgot falters noticeably in spots.

With so much apparent calculation involved, it makes sense that the group's self-titled debut is neither as good nor as bad as it might have been.

Become You tends to err on the side of blandness, lacking a knockout single or any newsworthy experimentation. But it's also Indigo Girls' first album in ages to pass by without a head-slapping clunker or didactic, finger-wagging screed to weigh it down.

On the whole, Human sounds guided by instructions as much as inspiration.

Unfortunately, that adventurousness also gets Chasez in trouble, as he tries on a few styles that simply don't suit him.

Those who are already fond of the band, and who go into Chemistry with a proper sense of lowered expectations, should leave entertained.

Nothing here pushes power-ballad buttons quite as overtly as past smashes "Name" and "Iris," but that shouldn't stop Gutterflower's songs from turning up in a Meg Ryan movie or two soon enough.

Tomorrow's Sounds Today returns to a more conventional approach, with 14 full-band songs replete with strings, slides, and electric guitars. As is frequently the case, however, more is less, with Yoakam settling for modestly ambling charmers in lieu of transcendent moments.

Parts of Plat Du Jour sound hokey and fussily arranged in ways that lack the intimacy and luminosity of Herbert's past highpoints. As experimental compositions with a point to make, however, the better tracks bounce around questions that linger after the liner notes are filed away.

Though it's generally enjoyable throughout, Descended Like Vultures feels more stunted than it should, as though Rogue were afraid to open up these songs too much.

Catching Looks shows promise, but Washington Social Club needs to minimize the structural repetitiveness on future releases, and maybe pony up for a production style with more physical oomph.

One By One is mostly middling, sticking to slick, pounding, functional rock that doesn't dig much deeper than the usual spleen-venting and loud-quiet brooding-to-bluster formula.

Alkaline Trio's shtick isn't as cartoonish as that of goth-punk outfit AFI, but it can be a bit silly.

It's grating and electrifying in equal measure.

The band doesn't seem to have recombined The Coral's sources in a personal way; instead, it's made a crisp copy, with no spirit of its own.

Perhaps hip-hop's hottest production duo, The Neptunes can claim credit for many of the best moments on Let's Get Ready, from the Spaghetti Western guitar of "Danger" to the nervous sonic aggression of "Jump." Mystikal's whirling-dervish flow has seldom sounded better, but like Snoop Dogg's otherwise-excellent No Limit Top Dogg, Let's Get Ready is undermined by monotonous production from the producers formerly known as Beats By The Pound. Though off No Limit, Mystikal has brought his old team (now renamed Medicine Men) with him, and their six tracks pale in comparison to those from the album's other producers (OutKast, PA, Bink, The Neptunes).

Too much of The Like's personality is borrowed, but it is, nonetheless, a personality.

Unfortunately, most of the album's beautiful moments are cordoned off from the unbeautiful ones in ways that leave both wanting.

Return Of Saturn is turning out to be nowhere near the DOA dud many had long anticipated. But it's also a dispiriting collection of some of the least empowering music ever recorded...

The record shows too many signs of superstar pretension, from the thick liner notes to the grueling 76-minute length.

It's trying so hard to impress that it comes off as pushy.

The duo's self-proclaimed "remedy" is nowhere near as revolutionary as the hype would insinuate, but it does offer its distinct pleasures

But while its flaws are formidable, so are its strengths, beginning with Cent's dark charisma, belligerent sneer of a voice, fluid delivery, and mastery of hip-hop style

About half of the album plods through bland, wispy material that gasps for hooks to latch onto and gives Orton too much room to show off her limited vocal range.

Works better as an adjunct for those already predisposed.

Given a choice between listenable power-pop by nobodies and the same product by cult movie stars, who's going to say no to a little glitter?

Soundtrack sounds astonishingly good one song at a time, and surprisingly dull over the course of a full record.

Even the highlights are bogged down by ambitious aims that translate blindness as blandness.

At moments lush and beautiful, at others overly busy, but never less than daring.

The second half largely sounds like a lesser reprise of the first, as The Thrills' appropriation of older styles starts to feel less like inventive borrowing than a lack of imagination.

Not surprisingly, Revolverlution is all over the place, but for much of its first half, the album sounds vital, impassioned, and kinetic, if not overly cohesive.

Just another average album by a band that has proved it can make great ones.

But for all The Donnas' ongoing charms, Spend The Night tempers them with a faint whiff of predictability.

The Orb's latter-day incarnation lands closer to the dance floor than the chill-out room. It also sounds rootless and unfocused, in ways good and bad.

Distinguished, eclectic, and difficult to love.... Mostly the songs beg for a rawer treatment, instead of the polite album-rock for which Jagger generally settles.

As usual in Manson's world, the goal of maximum discomfort supercedes the music, which sticks to familiar and reliably doom-laden but catchy pop-metal on "Disposable Teens" and "The Love Song."... Here, he seems entranced by his own power, which may be why his dark worldview sounds baseless even as he offers sharp hooks others would kill for.

The Delivery Man only sparks to life when it slows down.

Only three songs really, truly deliver.

Pollard does boost the voltage like before, but the album's apparent air of consideration is rare for GBV... This doesn't really improve the slipping hit-to-miss ratio GBV has produced for the past few albums, but it does set Half Smiles apart.

Suffers from both a lack of ambition and a built-in obsolescence.

Scattershot.

For all its impressive competency, Anxiety Always remains a bit too oppressively literal in its electro resurrection.

Little on Halfway is as immediately gratifying, or even as immediate, as its predecessor's hits, but that's not to say that any of these 11 new songs might not meet the same fate.... The Fatboy Slim assembly-line music machine is in full effect, and anyone looking for substance needn't bother. But to call this collection of sweet nothings half-assed would imply that there was much going on to begin with: The disc is business as usual, a big load of disposable fun and funk that's fluffier than cotton candy and just as weighty.

Even in its migration from the groovy '70s to the technocratic '80s, though, Röyksopp has become a lot cooler than it has to be.

The biggest problem with Baby I'm Bored is that getting to the good stuff requires slogging through the initial four tracks.

The fact that Burnside doesn't play guitar provides the first bad omen, and the busy, style-jumping production does the rest.... There's a decent Burnside album buried here, with spare songs like the title track providing the strongest moments.

Establishing a languorous mood right away, the album is all meandering, low-key moods and textures, with precious few focused songs on which to hang them.

Occasionally catchy and exciting. [17 Mar 2004]

As a whole, Throwing Muses still contains too much formless slop, but at least it's energetic.

None of the samples really evoke the years in question, and Lemon Jelly doesn't put the years in any kind of relevant order, so the overall point of '64-'95 seems a little vague.

Without other strong personalities in the band to rein him in, Homme's occasional excesses undercuts what makes QOTSA so great.

Personal project or not, the pretty Pieces In A Modern Style isn't much more than a Hooked On... collection for a digital age.

Analbum that flirts with the mundane just enough to tease out moments of brilliance.

Way too much of Rock N Roll falls into the same trap that catches The Strokes: No matter how good a rock 'n' roll song sounds, it usually needs a certain amount of heart or heft.

Metric has a hard time balancing its pop side and its experimental side, and not enough of the new record is as memorable as its simmering regret ballad "Too Little Too Late" or the frenzied retro-dance cut "Monster Hospital."

The Girl In The Other Room represents an experiment for Krall, and not an entirely successful one, but at the end of the record, having demonstrated the confidence to explain herself, she comes out with some of her most persuasive music yet.

Fischerspooner still underdevelops its melodies and overcooks its mixes, but Odyssey contains a fair number of songs like the opener, "Just Let Go," a lean dance track with a memorable chorus, buzzing guitars, and some deft keywork.

If Camera Obscura weren't roughly the thousandth band to recombine the pastoral sounds and adolescent exploitation of the '60s, it would be easier to work up some enthusiasm for Underachievers, especially since the group's melodies are catchy enough that they don't need the cutesy trappings.

For the most part, Are You Passionate? feels like an after-hours session, its songs weary and a little lost, but at times, Young makes those qualities work for him.

More interesting than essential, Iron Flag may not win over those who gave up on Wu-Tang Clan around the time of Wu-Tang Forever, but the group's dedication to its own idiosyncratic path remains impressive.

Lacking some of its predecessor's musical inventiveness, Feminist Sweepstakes revisits similar terrain, but Hanna's increasing bitterness makes it hard to tell whether even she believes what she's saying.

Folds remains tasteful to a fault, and while Songs For Silverman is arguably his most mature work to date it's almost indisputably his most middle-aged album, which isn't an entirely positive development.