The result is a no less charming of a record, but one shadowed by maturity.

It would have been great to hear Hayward and Coxon bring more of their distinct voices to the table, but with songs as charmingly off-kilter and sweetly understated as this, it's hard to complain.

As is often the case with that genre [Too Pure acts like Seefeel], certain songs feel aimless and in dire need of an editor. But when they coalesce (as on the tender lament "Recent Bedroom" or the gentle Jesus And Mary Chain pop of "Ativan") it creates a beautiful, truly immersive world tailor-made for hiding and healing.

Allen could’ve easily just rehashed the party-girl anthems of "Alright, Still," but while It’s Not Me, It’s You is as full of toe-tappers as Allen’s debut, the new album also has a big chip on its shoulder. Allen clearly has no intention of being mistaken for anybody else.

Estelle's thang may not be the most ear-catching or eyebrow-raising out there, but it's as likable as it is listenable.

The Fall is a concept album with a punchline, with most of the songs detailing the push and pull of a faltering relationship.

If Sick Scenes doesn’t necessarily cohere as a whole, the individual songs are strong enough that it also doesn’t really matter.

This is the sound of a band working hard to evolve, and if the strain of incorporating such a large swath of musical experimentation occasionally shows, well, maybe that’s the cost of attempting new tricks at an advanced age. Never let it be said that the band embraced different sounds at the expense of its tried-and-true formulas, however. Part of what makes Gigaton fascinating is the way these sonic departures actually fuse in unexpected ways with some of the band’s traditional four-on-the-floor stompers.

All of this isn’t to say that the album is bad--Albarn’s dialed in, and the guests are meticulously curated--but rather that it seems dwarfed by its role as part of a larger concept, the music mostly valuable for its possible real-world applications in videos, on tours, as action figures and video games, and all of the other manufactured, disposable pop culture ephemera for which Gorillaz was designed.

The latter song [“Meet Me In The Street”] sets the tone for the record, as it rails against the ugliness of privilege (“Silver spoon suckers headed for a fall / And justice for all”) and encourages an uprising against authority. Equally galvanizing is “Suffer Me,” a song about the Stonewall Riots, and “Expect The Bayonet,” which is about marginalized groups banding together to fight oppression: “If you don’t give us the ballot / Expect the bayonet.”

While Home Acres reverts every now and then to formless mush, the album ends beautifully with the pounding, organ-washed “Ruins,” which summarizes the record’s whole approach: rising from a murmur to call to the heavens.

There's more to Tour De France Soundtracks than a simple remake of the past.

Yes, the rumors are true: Oasis has--for the first time in a decade--made an album worth hearing.

Another appealing throwback to the best in '70s hard rock.

A Mark... dramatically improves on its predecessors, thanks to a much broader array of subject matter and a newfound emphasis on full-band arrangements that strip away--or at least drown out--his penchant for whiny navel-gazing.

Von Bohlen's thin vocals and a generally mushy sound keeps Glass Floor from catching hold at first, but Maritime's gently buzzing guitars give the songs a backbone that helps them stand up to multiple exposures.

There probably won't be another piece of music like it this year. But then, maybe there shouldn't be.

As with Whip It On, Chain Gang's greatest virtue is that it's short enough not to wear out its welcome.

Like Ivy and other suave postmodern light-rockers, Stars sounds better in small bites than big gulps.

The material plays to Linda Thompson's strengths, with her quiet, primarily acoustic, doggedly traditionalist ballads showcasing her thick, eloquent voice.

Though on the whole, Gods And Monsters is a lesser record than I Am Kloot, what it lacks in great songs, it gains in stylistic advancement.

Works nearly as well on its own as it did when accompanying the film.

In a way, the tinny sound and half-finished feel makes it seem more touching and direct than the final result might otherwise have been.

The production is disappointingly uneven... The lack of song structure is also problematic, but Canibus invests his rhymes with such dark humor, vivid imagery, and controlled passion that his lack of thematic ambition is forgivable.

On the whole, the record sounds more like the blueprint for a stunning live show than like a viable document of a top-flight hard rock band.

Bell's subtle, inventive knob-twiddling pairs perfectly with Martin Gore's new batch of somber, subdued songs.

At its worst (on the title track, for example), Have You Fed The Fish? sounds uncomfortably bloated; the superfluous instruments and noises obscure the inherent lightness of Gough's cabaret-influenced songwriting.... But even the worst of Have You Fed The Fish? isn't all that bad.

Achilles Heel may not cohere as well as its predecessors, but its best moments still chill the blood in wise and winning ways.

The disc resonates as much as a relaxant as it does as an agitator, and pleasant subliminal melodies and patterns eventually emerge from the static, skips, and not-so-random noise.

It stands out from the pack thanks to lead vocalist Greg Gilbert.

It's difficult to get a handle on what the group is, but tough to deny that it's always doing its own thing.

The disc flirts with dozens of styles, with so much diversity from track to track that the album never quite builds up artistic momentum. But several moments are more than worthy of the band's legacy.

What the new Make Do With What You Got lacks in surprise, it makes up for in other areas.

The album is heavy on texture and short on shape.

In the end, this suite of suites sounds too inherently disorienting, however thrilling its fragments, and however entertaining it is to hear the Friedbergers' wordy, fantastical non sequiturs.

Pink's delivery says more than her often wince-inducing lyrics, but it means enough to make Try This an engagingly revealing album.

By definition, it's not essential: Many of the originals (Minor Threat's "In My Eyes," MC5's "Kick Out The Jams," Dylan's "Maggie's Farm," and so on) were for all intents and purposes perfect, making Rage-style covers seem like little more than curiosities. It's at its best during its more radical reworkings, from hip-hop songs (Eric B & Rakim's "Microphone Fiend," Cypress Hill's "How I Could Just Kill A Man") to an uncharacteristically soft-spoken Devo cover ("Beautiful World").

Logic Will Break Your Heart serves up likable songs in the mode of mid-'80s Britpop, alongside atmospheric ballads in the mode of just about every post-Coldplay European rock band.

Mathers is frequently brilliant and unique, if extremely flawed.

The two utilitarian voices mesh nicely, resulting in songs that are folk-like in their simplicity and directness, but never in their sound.

As with just about every Fall release ever, the compressed sound and abandonment of melody makes it hard to distinguish one song from the next. As a result, the tauter material is the best.

Closer's metallic tracks couldn't be more stripped-down, but they make good on minimalism's aim to command space without necessarily occupying it.

It wouldn't be difficult to pass off as a mildly disappointing unreleased Soft Boys album from 1981.

Too often, Costello strains to squeeze more musical and lyrical notions into his simple pop songs than they can hold, leaving listeners with a scattershot collection instead of a fleshed-out statement, and a merely good album instead of a great one.

An album that covers a lot of ground without ever tilling it.

Broadcast's strange mix of electric keyboards, sampled strings, soundtrack chic, and Trish Keenan's coolly regulated vocals offering hypnotic chill-out music for the new century.

Slow Motion Daydream isn't the knockout return to form it might have been, but it's significantly better than might be expected from the first impression its miserable single creates.

Some of the soundscapes on Fall Back Open sound featureless and flat, but most are amazingly accomplished given Now It's Overhead's youth and modest means. [17 Mar 2004]

The soft touch sometimes leaves no mark, but when Weller dominates the mix with his acoustic picking and rich, raspy voice on "Bag Man" and the spiritually searching title track, the results are simply glowing.

Like many Merritt projects, Eternal Youth contains its share of filler, and might have worked better as an EP than as a proper album. Still, its transcendent moments should win it a place in the hearts of those who once viewed their Cure or Bauhaus shirts as shorthand for a world of pain and alienation.

Elvrum gets bogged down in telling the story, to the detriment of the songs themselves.

Rouse's primary gift remains his easy-flowing melodies, which are coaxed along by his cherubic rasp.

At about an hour, Bewilderbeast is uneven, but at its best it exudes a sense of mystery, ingenuity, and wonder that portends even better material to come.

Bad Attitude is aided immeasurably by its oil-slick choruses and Alexakis' suitably bombastic production. It may lack the vivid, slice-of-life evocativeness of 1995's outstanding Sparkle And Fade, but the album's catchiness is a decent consolation prize.

Power announces a change from the get-go, fast-forwarding through punk's often-tired gambits and--sometimes tentatively, sometimes with impressive assurance--shimmying around the dance floor with only occasional furtive glances at the exit.

The band's grace and curse is that it's more song-oriented than sound-oriented.

Another Day is nowhere near as invested with ideas as Eno's name-making work, but its easy pleasures still rub and float away.

While not an overwhelming album, God Bless The Blake Babies certainly suggests that the group is better off together than apart.

Snatches of certain songs owe a debt to weird-period Brian Wilson, but Sung Tongs sounds too hermetic and comfortable in its singularity to cast such a literal gaze.

The most notable feature of Selmasongs is how much it sounds like her most recent musical adventures, regardless of the album's intended cinematiccontext.

By The Way inevitably suffers for its familiarity: Had it followed 1995's so-so One Hot Minute instead of Californication, it would qualify as a revelation instead of a worthy retread.

St. Ace is as quotable as it is catchy, with production that stays just on the safe side of lush and a sound that's eager to win the audience Harding has never quite found.

Mostly in the quieter mode of his past few efforts, Nocturama presents songs of faith and devotion in the face of doubt, again demonstrating his newfound gift for understatement and the smoky croon.

Let It Be includes some of The Beatles' best songs, but in any form, it will never sound like the band's best album.

Apologies To The Queen Mary can be a little messy and unwieldy, but Wolf Parade's willingness to overreach charges songs like "We Built Another World" with real meaning, and palpable hope.

More varied and satisfying than its predecessor.

While the results aren't classic, they're at least presented in a classic style.

Slayer doesn't add any window dressing to its bile-filled Satanic metal. Instead, it just relies on its three core ingredients (speed, power, and precision), and as a result, its music is not only blisteringly potent, but also sort of fun.

Welch and Rawlings' contributions are subtle but vital, making Spooked sound richer than last year's disappointing Luxor.

Insignificance's ingeniously subtle songwriting project is one of O'Rourke's most affecting yet.

Bypasses the wiry, anxious suggestiveness of his medium in favor of thought-clearing contemplation.

Like Kid A, Amnesiac will be dismissed by some as an inconsequential indulgence, a mere sequel, or even a collection of lesser, leftover material. But the truth is, the band shows no intention of turning back. Nothing beats a good surprise, and Radiohead is full of them.

The band remains committed to making its political pill go down as easy as possible.

The Weight Is A Gift isn't as lyrically sharp [as Let Go].

There's a lot to be said for the more refined Rainer Maria.

Throughout The New Romance, the group crafts exciting, layered, tempo-shifting tracks where jolts replace hooks, but Zollo plays ringmaster, whispering and bellowing and enacting the stressed-out characters that populate her stark stage.

In its deceptive simplicity, Less Than Human plays like the most focused and consistent DFA-affiliated album yet.

Purists might object to Built To Scratch's overt commercialism, but the four-man crew succeeds in making turntablism accessible to a mainstream audience without sacrificing the kinetic demolition at the heart of its music.

Sparta has made a smartly produced, superficially exciting record full of deafening electric hum, full-throated shouts, and quiet, intricately picked guitar breaks.

A curious idea from its inception, pairing Soundgarden's singer with Rage's musicians promises a unique alchemy it can't entirely deliver, obscuring the latter's politics and distinct sound.

Lilting instrumentation strengthens even the weakest lines.

It's some of the most depressing music ever made, and unlike The Cure you can't even dance to it, but that appears to be the point.

The album's clever turns don't take away from The Blood Brothers as a ravaging hardcore band; instead, they enlist chops in service of a manic vision all the more insinuating for its brutality.

For the most part, Encore's strained, vaguely sad, regressive wackiness makes a lucid and compelling argument that Eminem should retire Slim Shady and let the real, serious Marshall Mathers stand up and be heard.

The new album sounds great, but it has its share of filler, and Rubin's narrow vision means he lets some songs lie motionless when they might be improved by old-fashioned sweetening.

Gratifying both in spite of and because of its slickness.

Fly Or Die has its rough patches, but the liberating, anything-goes looseness that inevitably results in stretches of self-indulgence is precisely what makes the album, like its predecessor, so messy, vital, and fun. [31 Mar 2004]

If there's a follow-up (and there should be), perhaps Droge, Mullins, and Sweet will give more thought to what makes a Thorns song, besides the gleaming surfaces.

Promise Of Love has a leftover-ish feel, especially coming on the heels of the accessible, eclectic Know By Heart, but the Texas lounge-rock group remains pleasantly listenable.

The album produces more pleasant moments than memorable ones.

It's hard to shake the empty feeling at the end of each these songs; The Best Little Secrets Are Kept has an inescapable, intentional tawdriness.

And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out, while not unremarkable, is still a little disappointing, too light on memorable hooks and melodies, too long on leisurely arrangements, and not too great to obliterate feelings that Yo La Tengo usually does better.

The Hives' brand of neo-garage leans heavy on punk and lacks nuance, but the unification of speed, volume, and shake generates a scalding steam.

Key drifts into blandness over the course of its leisurely 55 minutes, but the record holds together by sketching America's heartland as a place where the outlaw edge of culture winds up after it's chased out of the city.

It's sometimes hard to separate intentional mood-setting atmosphere from indistinct songwriting, but the album establishes enough momentum that the general cacophony becomes as epic as it's meant to be.

It's hard to get excited about it, but just as difficult to dislike it.

Even the best parts lack anything new or novel to add to a sound already perfected.

Williams sounds withdrawn and mysterious, awash in feelings that may be too personal to share this time out.