Uncompromising and wildly unpredictable, but only intermittently entertaining.

Flowers features the familiar psychedelic-tinged pop songwriting, chiming guitars, and unmistakable voice that have always been the group's trademark, but 20 years down the road, experience, nostalgia, and longing have tempered the band's sound.

For all the back story that precedes her, and even with an already overplayed first single, Everybody is a terrific debut.

Eitzel's songs, at their best, could serve as fodder for the next Sinatra, should such a crooner emerge from a dingy bar on the far side of town. As performed by Eitzel himself, his compositions resonate with a mix of existential melodrama and black humor that cuts deep to the bone.

Overall, God Bless the Go-Go's is a spirited, entertaining album that was worth the wait.

Miss E is a Top 40 radio breakthrough waiting to happen, while staying solid and true to its hip-hop roots.

It's just, well, it's just another Depeche Mode album -- a solid near-hour's worth of moody, darkly insidious tunes about such time-honored topics as love, death, and pain... and love and death.

There's a lot of great music here to enjoy. The political tone on the album is more problematic, though.

Cuomo tones down his angst and replaces it with a sunny but dirty '70s rock core.

On Reveal, the sounds vary, but the songs cohere well. For a band into its third decade, making a record with no apparent weak link is an accomplishment.

A 79-minute sonic sojourn of hard rock delivered with an arty, fusion-conscious sensibility rooted most obviously from the likes of Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and Jane's Addiction.

The songs, however, are principally concerned with creating atmosphere, as has always been the band's strength. Only this time the atmosphere is centered on Michae [Timmins's] contemplations of his own mortality, and it seeks musical complexity, not simplicity.

The members of Blues Traveler, new and old, still play better than they write songs, but there's no denying that the group's indefatigable spirit remains engaging.

This is an album about textures, grooves, and sounds, but it's not really about songs. Once one is done decoding its structure, Look Into the Eyeball is an elegant but empty building.

Though his voice and attitude crosses Pet Shop Boy Neil Tennant's nasally histrionics with Gary Numan's clinical whelp, [Brian] Molko generally keeps his guitar playing tight and tough with Gothic overtones.

With the exception of 1999's By Your Side, which showed flashes of the band's original brilliance, in recent years the songwriting of brothers Chris and Rich Robinson has deteriorated into a muddled mess of hard rock cliches. Lions is the low point of that decline.

The only significant problem with Kidman and McGregor's numbers, which constitute half of this 15-track set, is that they don't work as well without the accompanying visuals.

Destiny's Child vamps, stamps, and oozes its way through a set of sparely arranged showcases for its layered vocal weave...

Nicks' sixth solo album is her strongest since 1983's The Wild Heart.

Underlying The Optimist's base -- two complementary voices highlighted by beautifully executed acoustic guitar -- is Turin Brakes' bent existentialism, an expansive vision that adds a feeling of fatalism to many of these songs.

OCS is quite simply straight-up and ultra-refreshing, expert in crafting great pop songs and equally adept at letting the music do its talking.

The Electric Mile more than meets expectations because this fifth effort is the group's most fully realized.

But for all its emotional directness and prodigious length, there's a point on All for You where it all starts wear thin and Jackson's moments of celebration and vindictiveness seem played out rather than genuine...

It's one of the best rock and roll records in years... the disc is a layered, beautiful thing that touches on every influence the band has revealed through its years with a refined production style that sounds at once edgy and glitteringly smooth.

Despite the initial futuristic impression, Cole proves himself to be guilty of the same superficial high concepts that taint far too many dance music albums. Still, there's much to recommend here, especially when Cole sticks to the grooves.

Peppy but relaxing chill-out tracks as sweet, shiny, and peculiar as its memorable moniker.

Supposedly split into two themes, it turns out that the music throughout is interchangeable; any track could have appeared on either CD.

It would have been a shame if this album went unheard, as it is the most fully realized Painters album to date and finds the band, as well as Kozelek's songwriting, in peak form.

The biggest surprise here is Cave's singing. Forsaking the bluesy moans and wails of older works like The First Born Is Dead and Kicking Against the Pricks, he pushes his voice in new directions...

Singing in an airily accented voice that brings to mind fellow Brit popsters Robyn Hitchcock and John Wesley Harding, Cole evokes aural images of indie radio circa 1985.

These songs don't require repeated listening to foster appreciation; they affect immediately -- and relentlessly.

Another surprisingly coherent and substantial power pop record with solid hooks and memorable songs, another dazzling combination of Anglo-pop melody, arena rock chord changes, and DIY aesthetic.

Unlike the then-career-spanning three-CD set Live 1975-1985, which was notorious for its sanitizing overdubs, Live in New York City for the most part captures the feel of a live Springsteen show.

Time Bomb packs an incendiary wallop that's as noisy as nighttime on the Fourth of July.

Not only do many of the tunes have a similar feel, but Monahan, whose dusty vocals put the band on the map with the hit single "Meet Virginia" in 1999, is regularly drowned out by the soaring guitars and effects.

It comes off softer than its predecessor, and not nearly as affecting.

Multitracked to death, Until the End of Time lacks the intensity that made the original Makaveli's Don Killuminati: The Seven Day Theory so brash and exciting.

God Says No maintains the attributes of its predecessor but also delves deeper into the groove-y psychedelia that's also part of the band's makeup.

As a full album, Interlude falls just short of cohesion. But in the place of unity is a confectioner's pastiche of underground pop from a band that still has plenty of music to make.

Renaissance is about as substantive, lyric-wise, as a Hallmark card.

Overall, this is a compelling mix of underground and moderately mainstream fare, and a top-notch -- if long overdue -- American introduction to this seasoned U.K. vet.

Haines' secret weapon lies in the hands of vocalist Sarah Nixey -- a cross between Olivia Newton-John and St. Etienne's Sarah Cracknell. Her singing style supports Haines' music with a deceptive beauty, as she wraps her voice around lyrics that belie that sweetness.

As expressive as Hammond's guitar work is on signature songs like "Heartattack and Vine," it still has a sweet sound, and that, too, is mostly a new context for Waits' songs. The horror and the hardness is less immediate, slightly more mannered.

A smooth and engaging affair, with consistently strong singing and playing from Clapton.

Too much of Discovery is relatively run-of-the-mill, lacking the pinpoint punchiness of the pair's debut.

The results are not bad -- nor are they dynamic. It's shiny and it shimmers, but there's no fizz, no explosion.

Ultimately, 999 Levels of Undo is a fascinating study of a visionary musician -- unfortunately, it's not an especially compelling listen.

Ray offers up a wonderfully realized survey of underground rock.... Stag is the strongest solo debut in recent memory.

Scorpion, her second solo album in three years, stands a good chance of blowing up the airwaves and charts, though it still battles with the hardcore elements that made her first album such a disappointment.

Lyrically, they've got a ways to go.... That said, Alien Ant Farm shows some real potential.

One of the group's most adventurous outings...

As with all her solo work, Sunny Border Blue practically bleeds with catharsis and introspection, but foraging through its dark interiors yields moments of strange, exquisite beauty.

Neither a chip off the ol' Bizkit nor the kind of indulgent instrumental workout many ax aces opt for on their solo turns, Big Dumb Face is a work of clever humor, spirited silliness, and, in more than a few places, some pretty good songwriting.

Yet for all its adrenaline-rush thrills, the RFTC sound is also surprisingly complex. Like Phil Spector's '60s pop masterpieces for The Ronettes and Righteous Brothers, the sonic density of Group Sounds is actually composed of virtuoso performances and subtle nuances...

The disc evokes both the heartbreak and the buoyancy of bands like Big Star and Teenage Fanclub.

Saratoga, however, reaches a whole other level. A truly excellent show, it features a wonderful extended version of "Daughter," an absolutely kick-ass rendition of "Even Flow," and Vedder's most consistently strong singing throughout.

When all the elements of Phantom Moon align -- as they do on a handful of songs ("Mr. Chess," "Requiescat") -- the results are mesmerizing.

Like a rainy day, the music is cinematic and pulses with understated energy. The prominent drums, like dance beats on codeine, tick by metronomically -- and their interplay with Moffat's mumbled, half-spoken, too-human voice is already remarkable.

[Glen] Ballard's production, arrangements, and co-writing duties have massaged the 12 songs into a searing rock album.

The main problem on At Last is that despite her best intentions, many of the tunes are so sappy that they just don't live up to the high standards a veteran singer can and should aim for.

The album is merely another entry into an increasingly anonymous realm where the formulas are starting to run as thin as the bass lines on any of the A*Teens' songs.

From the start, Because We Hate You presents itself as a rawer, more blustery affair.

While Run-D.M.C.'s chest-thumping reclamations of its prominence grow tiresome through the course of the disc -- they need to do more showing than telling -- the good news is that the tracks helmed by the group ("Crown Royal," "Aye Papi," "Ash," and "Simmons Incorporated") show that its own creative touch is still intact.

Like so many of Master P's own productions, the music here stems almost completely from synthesizers, a fact that diminishes the potency of the grooves on My World, My Way. With so many of the right elements in place on tracks like "Beef" and "Uh Ha," it's a shame to hear cheesy synth lines where a shattering bass should have been.

Production is a dance record, but Mirwais is no mere slave to the rhythm. While other artists keep the BPM pumped up, the songs here drift and simmer. "V.I. (The Last Words She Said Before Leaving," for example, creeps along at a funereal pace for more than six minutes and doesn't catch much of a beat until four minutes in.

Without the thundering drums and over-amped testosterone of the originals, the songs are revealed as the beautiful blues-based writings they in fact are.

In a genre that is often as repetitive as it is flighty, the witty and musically well-informed Essential Mix, though unrevelatory, works beyond the club floor, too.

The new disc has a feeling of renewal, a sense of freedom, and perhaps even fun.

Occasionally, it all works, coalescing into something with passion and imagination... In other spots, however, Frusciante's amateur (and sometimes listless) singing proves to be a major letdown, even with souped-up reverbs and megaphonic EQ-ing.

Unlike fellow retro-futurists Chicks on Speed and Sylvester Boy, Ladytron doesn't completely upend new wave conventions to make a jarring artistic statement, nor are its songs as transcendent as those penned by Stephin Merritt (the Magnetic Fields) for his Future Bible Heroes project. Regardless, "604" is a smart, frisky, and invigorating listen...

Osmond could teach today's teen idols a thing or two about singing. His pure, clear tenor voice still shines as bright as his trademark smile. But This Is the Moment is mostly meant for adult easy listening pleasure, and it's not a stretch to say that it mostly succeeds on that level.

For each misstep (like the relentless snare drum on the opening track "Sunflower") there are moments of sublime beauty like "Laser Beam," which feels more like a prayer than a song.

Even when the band rocks, the music is tethered to a hazy, psychedelic vibe. Occupying each end of the CD's narrow stylistic spectrum are "Pup Tent," which sounds like the Cowboy Junkies covering The Doors, and "Sideshow by the Seashore," which conjures up the image of Crazy Horse being fronted by acclaimed Athens singer-songwriter Vic Chesnutt.

You Had It Coming stands as his best work since 1989's Guitar Shop.

Stewart is surely a fine singer, but not quite at that level of being able to make the phone book sound like a masterpiece. He needs the songs, and on Human, he's only as good as the material that others provide.

With its grove of synthesizers, sequencers, and sonically treated vocals, it's music without pulp -- or a great deal of heart.

Strangely enough, it seems the further Black distances himself from his heroic work in The Pixies, the better he gets.

Joined by a bevy of bluegrass talent, including Jerry Douglas, Chris Thile, and Alison Krauss, Little Sparrow is a richly wrought, beautifully performed labor of love for Parton.

She's giving us déjà vu all over and over and over again by basically sticking to the same set of sonic templates throughout the 15-track album, never making much effort to shift up the tempos, melodies, and structures.

The Donnas do what they do just fine, but, four albums into their career, you can't help but want to see a little bit of growth in place of arrested development.

The sort of disc that inevitably prompts skeptics to ask, "You call that music?"

Problem is, Alabama's pop panache, which made it at least a guilty pleasure for much of the '80s, seems to have been replaced by an impulse toward pure schmaltz.

The members of the group craft melodic grooves that mesh with unpolished but tuneful guitars and mellow vocals into a lo-fi ambient sound that grows on the listener.

But other selections feel more like skeletal sketches than finished songs, composed of interesting components but short on fully developed ideas and momentum. Great stuff for background noise at a party, or in a TV commercia, but not necessarily compelling headphone fare.

It gets tiresome, sure, but should this Dogg be put to sleep? Not yet. He's still coming up with funky beats and rhymes (like every single day).

A grab-bag set of videos and live and unreleased recordings that are more of an enhancement for devotees' collections than an introduction for neophytes.

For all his flexibility, Xzibit's Restless is more skewed to the cars and clubs than the basement, due in no small part to Dr. Dre's influence as the album's executive producer. Restless rolls in the same kind of fluid funk that Dre's brought to both his and Eminem's recent albums -- fat electric bass lines and synthesized symphonics.

Pitching in on Road Rock are such longstanding Young cohorts as Spooner Oldham (keyboards), Jim Keltner (drums), and Ben Keith (guitars), but such is the CD's murky sound that the contributions of all are rendered a bit flat. Moreover, although the collection clocks in at 65 minutes, the performance feels truncated and lacks thematic unity.

Somewhat surprisingly, for a band that hasn't toured much in its 12-year career, Live is full of edge-to-edge dynamite performances dating from 1990 to 1996.

Bereft of the spectacle that is Pink Floyd these days, it's hard to work up much enthusiasm for still another round of new versions of old classics.

This ambitious project explores roots music without the scholarly subtext of an Alan Lomax recording, offering instead a simple but powerful reinterpretation of the originals.

An outrageously accomplished and daring album-

P's best effort yet, a 70-minute affair with not quite as much filler as he's weighed in with on past projects.

Bright, punchy, and well crafted, it slathers an extra layer of grinding guitars on top of the Vol. One sound while maintaining the group's melodic trademarks.

Surprisingly and disappointingly tame.

On the group's first live album --a two-CD set recorded during triumphant return shows at London's Wembley Arena this summer -- however, the maturity that has started to pervade their personal lives, and Noel's music, is evident.

Musically, the group goes way beyond Britpop, a movement largely of its own invention, to survey Burt Bacharach-style suavity on "The Universal" and "To the End," hedonistic dance pop on "Girls and Boys," and Lennon-esque soul-baring on "Tender."

Fifth Release is an intoxicating cocktail of beats and colors that swirl and explode like a Roy Lichtenstein collage. When Pizzicato Five gets in this zone, which they do repeatedly here, all the world's a runway, and everyone's a size four and working it on pinpoint stilettos.