Far be it for the imaginative contrarian to retrace Dylan's steps, and sure enough--despite an omnipresent harmonica--Ferry does just the opposite.

Everywhere on Icky giant riffs leap and shout, with Flamenco horns and those eerie bagpipes and rhythmic shifts and Jack's impatient vocal kinetics, marking new territories even as the White Stripes again populate them with vintage ideas.

Songs cascade along in loping forward motion, as prone to lushly orchestrated decomposition ("Apnea Obstructiva," "Te Amo...Por Que Me Odias") and succulent adagio ("Faltamos Palabras," "Olhas") as they are to the simple, charismatic sense of melody that propelled S&S.

A travel kaleidoscope of a neverending road passing by the window.

Lost Highway isn't "Bon Jovi goes country" so much as a meaningful tribute to the Nashville ethos done on their own terms.

Amiina enchant like a peek inside an elven gathering under the roots of Yggdrasil.

No less than a half-dozen songs have hit potential.

Characteristically classy tunes that will thrill Thompson's fans, who have been waiting for just such a set of literate and challenging music from a musician who never delivers less.

There's an undeniable, infectious energy at work here which is put to great use with the self-deprecating humor and immense pop chops.

The nine tracks run a tad samey-same, but that's at least part of their charm. They and assert Boeckner anew as a prescient, skeptical voice, coarsely toned and draped in machine-sounding music even as he inveighs against the post-modern world--technology and urban living and traffic and so on.

Most of Light at the End of the World works within the familiar confines of the vintage Erasure formula, drunk on everyman synthesizers, listing through painfully vague and obvious rhymes.

It's certainly the group's most cohesive album in ages.

Now this is more like it.

A tight disc that skitters from track to shiny track with imagination and a renewed sense of rap's widened boundaries.

It's not likely this music will age spectacularly well, but so what?

These 50 minutes of music are as cohesive as they are conquering.

A knockout punch.

A return to their former glory days, Snakes and Arrows shows this seminal prog rock band reclaiming some of the sonic territory that they'd lost over the past few years.

They have the mannerisms, the loose raucousness, and the intense focus on melody that marks the combined work of Pete Doherty and Carl Barat--except Mando roughs it up without antagonism, under control but with a blast of hefty motion.

The real discovery is that he's capable of making the same old racket at just a fraction of the volume.

If her album is musically uneven at times, her artistry and strength continue to shine as undimmed beacons.

For elder listeners Fear probably won't serve as the powerful statement it wants to be--its themes have been explored to more exacting impact before and, musically, it's fairly standard progressive fare--but it is a strong and intelligent album and for a generation that's grown numb from three-minute ditties about life at the end of the country club cul-de-sac that embrace rather than rage against the dying of the light, it may serve as a wake up call and provide hope for a brighter and more color-infused tomorrow.

There are moments of light and hope on At the End of Paths Taken, but overall it is a deliriously dark and brooding album.

As usual, the band never takes itself too seriously, crafting melodies around a lively, vigorous cast of characters that practically come to life.

Duff edges ever closer to adult sensibilities; her goofball Lizzie McGuire days seem far behind.

Ozomatli serve up a rhythmically seething musical mélange that serves as virtual mirror to the dizzying cultural contradictions at the heart of their Los Angeles hometown.

Shock Value is a far-reaching and ambitious disc; a masterpiece, even, in its own way.

Their multiple piercings, shaved heads, and abundant tattoos have them labeled a punk band, but on [Revival], Good Charlotte... fall much more under the umbrella of 1970s arena rock and mainstream ballads.

Little here finds McGraw in a feel-good mode.

True, LCD's music is not for everyone, which may have something to do with why their fans love them as they do. If you fall into the latter category, however, Silver is gold.

We Were Dead... is denser than its predecessor with tunes that seem willfully harder to penetrate.

Making no palpable effort to crack the conventional with overflowing melodies and love songs, Bird instead latches up the intellect to create tiny packages of literature that make always leave you thinking--and snapping your fingers at the same time.

He's an expert at creating mesmerizing, sophisticated pop.

Her strongest [album] by far.

Pocket Symphony won't yield any pop hits, but it could be the soundtrack to endless rainy afternoons.

While it may be impossible for this Son Volt to ever reach the pinnacle of their 1995 debut, no one can accuse Jay Farrar of going through the motions.

If the new album goes farther in advocating a political conscience--"On with the Song" takes jabs at the jingoistic rubes who dissed the Dixie Chicks, while "Why Shouldn't We" insists we'll have worthy heroes in office again one day--it largely invokes the same quiet, warm, and conversational tone as its predecessor.

Easily their best album since 2000's Red Line.

Imagine the Long Winters if they were far more in love with the synth and guitar textures of the '80s than the precious pop sounds of the '70s and you'd have this, a hard to pigeonhole album which greatly rewards multiple listens.

West may well be her best album. It is easily her most musically adventurous, and often her most lyrically inspired.

Jesse Sykes is hard to pin down--and that's a good thing indeed.

Her most musically diverse and accessible album yet.

Some of this music is oddly affecting; much of it is merely odd.

An album that is as fiercely imaginative as any the Sacramento-based group has released before.

Although not quite as towering an achievement as 2002's Grammy-nominated Walking with Thee, Visitations keeps Clinic at the tip of modern popular music's shrinking creative vanguard.

It's not Blur, the Clash, Fela, the Verve, or Gorillaz. It's more than just names on albums.

Wincing is neither the clever genre recombinant exercise of their second album nor is it the perfect little self-contained universe of their debut. This is not the Shins' best album; it's their growing pains third record.

As always, the directness of Doiron's writing and performing is subtly compelling.

The 11 songs on their second album have their own separate identity, with a diversity of colors and influences putting the Earlies in the company of such contemporaries as Mercury Rev, the Polyphonic Spree, and even, occasionally, Beck.

Hersh has made great personal strides since branching off on her own.

He sounds rushed, like he doesn't have time for too much tinkering. This is a good thing.

This is his State of the Union address, with guitars that chime like the Byrds heralding sentiments that recall the socially-conscious 1960s, yet sound all the more pertinent today.

The freshness of the arrangements appeals throughout.

As intoxicating as a Brazilian breeze and ironic as a David Lynch night in L.A., the Los Angeles duo the Bird and the Bee make a soothingly hip, deliriously cool blend of pop.

Stirrat and Sansone revisit the immaculate production of their previous work, but with greater cohesion and broader instrumentation.

Fans and casual enthusiasts will no doubt be bewildered by the extra experimental outings of an already daunting band--but for completists, this is the last word.

Few modern songstresses work a beat better.

Hell Hath No Fury isn't as well-assembled as Lord Willin' or as spontaneous as Clipse's lauded mix-CDs from 2005 but it is coldly efficient in knocking out 12 songs backed with superbly dark and sparse tracks by the Neptunes.

This set stands alongside Waits's finest work.

A perfect gift for the Christmas-inclined indie rockster.

Make up for lost time and embrace these wonderful smartypants-es today.

An album that sounds unlike anything else.

Not quite as endearing as his raw and seductive 2002 debut.

It plays like a hilarious concept album more than anything.

Songs like "Baby Come On" and the spooky "Little Death" show the musicians finally delivering the substance that was promised on Blink 182's self-titled 2003 release.

Campbell's second extraordinary release of 2006.

As a player, his bold, midrange-heavy tone complements his most nuanced vocal performances.

Features the kind of envelope-pushing fans have come to expect.

It has been said that Nelson can sing just about anything--which doesn't necessarily mean that he should.

No, it does not rank with the band's best work. But yes, as long as Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey walk the earth in tandem, the Who live on.

More a pop orchestral mishmash than a well-defined rock opus, Bat III is dark, seemingly hopeless at times, and über dramatic. Oddly enough, that's also its saving grace.

Don't expect a derivative mash of smudgy, nostalgia-filching sounds, though, because despite its retro leanings, what's in store somehow crackles with currency.

Noise Floor presents a mixed bag that will enthrall hardcore Conorites but leave others frequently reaching for the skip button.

Her sing-songy tunes are honest and earthy, her diction intense and mannered but never pretentious.

His talents and the heart he puts into his writing, singing, and picking remain at their peak. This stellar collection proves it--four times over.

As before, he continues to flawlessly integrate straight-ahead, unforced vocals into a riproaring sound.

Imagine the Mars Volta undergoing electroshock treatment or Blonde Redhead at war with an army of feral cats.

Unable to pen and record a clunker amidst his handsome ballads and cascading rockers, McCaughan coalesces sugar-coated melodies with personal, often uproarious lyrics that can make his 40-something voice sound half its age.

With her expressively breathy vocals and uplifting melodies, Mindy Smith expresses both the romantic and spiritual dimensions of rapture.

While the trio hasn't managed to outshine their spectacular debut, Hello Love is a CD filled with cross-generational charm and musical riches.

Hitchcock has made a return to garage rock not heard since 1989's Queen Elvis.

Strange, alluring, and disarming.

Pernice's unblemished voice is the key instrument.

Rather than getting bogged down in concert-album fashion, Okonokos plays spanking new, almost re-studio recorded.

If there's a downside to this brilliant, if unlikely pairing, it's that Krauss's somber program could benefit from something a tad more libidinous or uptempo.

This is the kind of album that clicks right off but continues to grow on you.

When standards are done like this, there's just nothing like 'em.

Almost wholly brilliant.

No modern-day male artist beats him when it comes to single-minded self assurance or suavity.

[It] has more powerful and propulsive arrangements than is often the case with the artist.

Brazilian Girls maintain the same kinetic thrust and hook-laden melodies as before, but they've turned up the rhythmic aggression and electronic squelch to 11.

Fans of Norah Jones should gobble up this album, but Peyroux is no mere imitator: She's her own, very real thing.

She's found herself artistically.

It's easily Franti's best album yet.

His unsentimental, voluptuously masculine, spirit-guided magic is captured at its best, for all time, in this magnificent farewell.

Sport[s] a trace more big league sparkle, but with the frayed cleverness and rock-solid musicianship that their fans know best.

The songs have a measured, elegiac intensity, the sound of musicians choosing their notes carefully and making just the right choices.

All of it works, and works wondrously.