It's long and boring and preachy.

Subtract [a few tracks] and Los Lobos could've made this album if they, too, got John Cale to produce. That's a compliment to all involved.

Merges jazz, pop, and the conservatory in a heady and original way, accessible and seriously playful.

Nas doesn't ruin a decent beat, but rarely is he able to improve one.

Tindersticks' trajectory, in fact, does have its affinities with R.E.M.'s: an unfairly maligned Difficult Third Album clears the decks and the lead singer's nasal passages, and what's gone from the later work, however accomplished it may be, is that startling strangeness, the rare, eerie thrill of hearing something that sounds only like itself.

If much of Anniemal isn't vibrant enough to move physically or resonant enough to move emotionally, its peaks suggest a worthy midway state.

For a band about whom most of the talk (pro and con) has focused on their unrelenting giddiness, Los Campesinos! have produced a debut that's surprisingly muddled emotionally.

The pace isn't all breakneck; vocal approaches range from blanket chanting to raucous call-and-response, and some stretches are plain-gasp--pretty.

Wilco's ideas are unremarkable, but are worked out with intelligence and striking conception. And as it happens, the new organic emphasis tables some of Wilco's lamer stylistic obsessions.

Searing white light and scrappy vocals are replaced by the druggy stomping and weighty grooves of '70s cosmic metal, yet the band's alluringly youthful braggadocio remains.

Fauna's first half is cosmic pop turmoil of the highest degree, as only a master songwriter could create.

Like Rubber Soul and Revolver, or Bowie's Low and Heroes, Deserter's Songs and All Is Dream function as bookends rather than as separate works, though the latter, recorded under the cloud of [intended producer Jack] Nitzche's absence, does strike a few too many morose chords.

The affecting style that made them the most imaginative revivalists of their generation has been replaced by half-assed and half-hearted prog rock.

It's... really different. And oblique oblique oblique: short, unsettled, deliberately shorn of easy hooks and clear lyrics and comfortable arrangements. Also incredibly beautiful.

Music breaks down neatly into three discrete sections, on which I'll hang the very technical names the dance part, the good part, and the dirge part. The good part, so named because it's really good, accounts for half of Music's 10 songs, conveniently nestled into tracks four through eight inclusive, so you can play that section over and over again without interruption.

A song or two will keep you warm and contented, but take in the full album and April will smother you worse than a down comforter in July.

The Gaslight Anthem's profound affection for and commitment to their forebears are just as present as they were before, but only here does the band sound as eager to bury as to praise them.

RJ and his sampler wander the record crates of shared memory, and come up with progressive rock and Northern soul songs that have little to do with anybody's idea of revival.

Part of what makes Of Montreal notable is the quantity of things Barnes does impeccably.

These guys were rubbish as careerists, essentially banishing much of their stronger material to the depths. So think of The Power of Negative Thinking as the great unveiling.

Street Horrrsing is, to your dad's ears (unless your dad is Lou Reed), a whole lot of noise. But what virtuosic, complicated noise it is.

Collins's way with a hook has blown up into a stack of tunes that stick, ranging from cranked-up faux-arena rock to spine-shaking rhythm and staccato bounce.

The enjoyable What I Do is similarly assured and clunker-free, but it also returns to the emotional compression that Drive often detoured.

Filled with startling jump cuts and puzzling reverberations, The W is the best-produced Wu-affiliated album since GZA's 1995 Liquid Swords.... Eight years after their first single, it's a thrill to hear Wu-Tang sounding so unhinged. But it's also a pain in the ass. With nine voices, nine styles competing for your ear, even the most carefully crafted Wu-Tang album flirts with chaos, and the listener is left to separate milestones from mistakes. The W bursts with inspiration, but what does it all mean? You can't help wishing there was someone in charge.

It remains to be seen if The Lady Killer will continue his hot streak, but it should-it's one of the best records of the year, and also his most commercial, and that's not an insult.

Wisely, The Golden Age is less mediated, its variety achieved through smartly arranged curveballs like the Calexican waltz 'I Know That's Not Really You.'

The man has an uncanny ability to transliterate the sounds only record collectors can hear--early Thin Lizzy, for instance --into a passionate ache anyone can love.

Sure, the novelty helps, and if it recurs too often, the glee of hearing Nelson and Marsalis mesh will diminish. But hearing once how they play with and against each other is a real treat.