If you like the Strokes, you should be spending this week’s CD allowance on Elefant’s first full-length recording.

Electric Six is the most exciting band to come tumbling out of Detroit since Kiss.

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

The sharpest, most assured, and best record of her solo career.

As an album, it probably won't spawn any MTV-hogging video classics--certainly, that was never the intention--but Finn fans in search of a mellow listen should find Everyone Is Here hits all the right buttons.

Red Light District has its share of filler, but, track for track, Ludacris still delivers satisfaction.

Ms. Kelly, though, has some points to prove, foremost among them that this songbird can rock.

Add 3121 to the mounting pile of evidence: Prince is the black Beck.

Their irritating habits remain as intractable as ever: must every romantic spat be framed against saving the whales (okay, the shrinking water supply) and the fight for clean air?

The results range wider musically than Heavy Trash have previously, without compromising the sonic squawl and psychobilly vocals that have long provided the duo's signature sound.

The quintet moves easily from straight ahead, if slightly-fractured rockers, to fine slices of cerebral sonics.

Eleventh Hour, his largely self-produced fifth solo album--and first in eight years--lacks much of both the lyrical and instrumental verve of his best records.

Solid songs all, delivered with a muscular vocal conviction that does considerably more than merely sell them.

She's found herself artistically.

Occasionally evokes the feeling of a '70s Bill Withers classic, while bringing inflections of Zero 7 and Alicia Keys to her grooves as well.

These are heartfelt songs: sometimes cheeky and occasionally heartbreaking.

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

Hope of the States pull off the commendable trick of twisting avant-garde apocalyptica into bona fide pop songs. [Amazon UK]

He continues to take chances and not all of them pay off.

Coheed and Cambria's first three outings were smart, adventurous affairs that didn't eschew accessibility and No World for Tomorrow proves no exception.

New Maps is a terrific sounding record; at least two-thirds of it begs many repeated listens.

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

It may still sound beautiful, but too often Amazing Grace comes off as mere formula.

This album blows the doors off its predecessor. Save a pair of disinfected ballads ("The Last Fight," "Gravedancer"), Libertad is all about hand-grenade chords, drag-racing riffs, and circus-tent choruses.

Amorino sounds like a lost soundtrack to some cool French film from the 1960s.

Shotter's Nation, is surprisingly good and sonically upbeat (if not so much lyrically).

Somewhere Down in Texas could have benefited from the addition of an irresistible rhythm tune or another example of the western swing that Strait embraced so fervently early in his career.

When Tool sounds as good as it does on ["Jambi" and "The Pot"] it's hard to get enough. Which makes it all the more baffling that a surprisingly large chunk of the disc is given over to mood-enhancing soundscapes like "Lost Keys" and "Vigniti Tres."

Complete with its complicated lead and sprinkles of string instruments, it lies in contrast to the simplicity and blithe spirit of the record's remaining half-hour--but joins the other 11 songs directly in the wheelhouse of the Dashboard Confessional fervent.

A stylish tour de force.

[He] attacks these songs with passion, intelligence, and a refreshing lack of blues-rock pretense.

Mellencamp's rawest album to date.

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

The amazing thing is not that there are still so many unreleased tunes in the solo Pollard/ GBV vaults, but how engaging this stuff is despite fidelity that at times is atrocious.

While Dar Williams's artistic trademarks--lyrical introspection, melodic warmth, an occasional tendency toward breathy vocal preciousness--remain much in evidence on this collection, the expanded musical support adds more rhythmic propulsion and layers of harmonies to the mix.

Songs of Mass Destruction is a sterling, rock-solid, expert example.

Now this is more like it.

These bawdy Peter Pans of rock are more appealing when they summon their innate raunchy power, instead of coming off like a 2003 version of the Beach Boys with the sand washed off.

The album sags in spots, and McGraw and his coproducers misstep in adding faux R&B vocal washes here and there. But this is a good, solid effort to make music and not just the radio charts.

Lyrically autobiographical, songs deal with Gahan's trouble with relationships and intoxicants and, though they lack Gore's sense of drama and perversity, they do have a maudlin charm.

In a world gone mad, it's nice to know that some things--like Ministry's ability to tear up the floorboards with crushing efficiency--never change.

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

A few songs are experiments that should have stayed in the studio; "Left-Handed Dub" is dreadful and the remixes by Flowchart and Two Lone Swordsmen are a bit dated--too ‘90s-sounding. But that's still only one tenth of the album, the rest of which is a pleasure.

For every catchy electro-dance, there's a tune that leaves you scratching your head.

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.

Keith occasionally appears to be stretching himself... but often seems to be coasting.

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

Campbell's second extraordinary release of 2006.

Westerberg's not making sensitive statements or trying to write a pop song as good as "Alex Chilton" here. As such, it's the best music he's made in years.

Dust is an atmospheric tour de force that doesn't just come from left field, it breaks through the outfield wall.

Hollywood producers and directors could learn a lot from this deceptively modest score.

Her strongest [album] by far.

Their songs are infectious, silly and often weirdly beautiful.

By and large this is a delightful power-pop excursion.

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.

The time apart has made the Posies come back fiercer, louder and heavier.

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

Chase This Light is packed with huge pop moments, galloping off with the exhilarating 'Big Casino' and swiftly following it with the towering 'Carry You,' songs seemingly custom made for action-packed pick-up truck commercials.

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

The drawback is a lack of diversity which keeps those sunny, delicious moments from having the impact they should.

The band is seeming lackluster and suffers from it.

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

While such willingness to experiment is admirable, in this case the attempt comes off as slightly desperate and too diffuse.

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.

Persson, the finest pop lyricist working today, is on peak form while the band's back-to-roots grand piano and grander acoustic guitars provide an appropriately magnificent backing.

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.

The disc is truly beautiful on the ears, filled with gorgeous dynamics, crisp, discordant playing and impressive production to boot.

The Beekeeper returns the quirky singer to the same whimsical terrain of 1992's Little Earthquakes, but with much stronger storylines, and a much more assured and nuanced voice.

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.

Few modern songstresses work a beat better.

Easily their best album since 2000's Red Line.

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.

In time-warp fashion, the band plays as distinctively and playfully as ever.

There's an elegance to it that Prince fans, no strangers to pop music that's truly sublime, won't fail to appreciate.

Traditionally, Kylie Minogue has been at her best attempting pure pop, not chasing credibility, but X--her tenth studio album, and the first since 2003's "Body Language"--somehow pulls off the trick of being both

A severe line-up change has left the Stills devoid of much of its original edge.

Tears for Fears skirts the has-been trap impressively, translating years of experience into play-it-again, sophisticated modern pop worth paying attention to.

Like its predecessor, Genesis, this album is sonically superior to most in the marketplace.

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

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

The best tracks on Oblivion with Bells are also the most ambitious....But after that pair of opening tracks, you have to wait until the very last piece, a long, trancey bit of psychedelic drift called 'The Best Mamgu Ever,' to hear something more than unformed melodies and unstrung ideas.

The production seems a bit slick, as if the group was going for some Interpol-type success, while the songs would perhaps be better served at a studio like Easley in Memphis.

In fact, "delayed," "drenched," and "dervish" pretty much sum up Goodbye. Schnauss piles on effects and layers in a psychedelic melee that would leave Ozric Tentacles and Pink Floyd standing transfixed by his stroboscopic strategies.

Out of the blue and virtually as fun as a party out of bounds, Funplex is a dee-lightful reunion record.

Its center becomes weighed down with bland mid-tempo numbers and the final song detracts from the powerhouse close the record might have had.

As much an album for slam-dancing nights out at Goth haunts as it is music for the psychiatrist’s couch.

It's easily Franti's best album yet.

Busta has never sounded so mature.

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

Emancipation works the kind of pure-pop magic that sets us all free.

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.

Beneath this band's graceful posturing lies a deep discontent and anger, but band lyricist Michael Timmins manages to once again turn that gentle simmering fury into poetic grandeur.

Brit-leaning space-pop that switches rhythmic gears with pleasing regularity from dreamy to driving.

Wildflower moves Sheryl Crow one step closer to Hall of Fame status.

Trouble is, Chesney, who wrote or cowrote all 13 tracks, ended up with enough material for only half a record, and then repeated many of his ideas.

Sprawling, funny, angry, compelling, and entirely unafraid.

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

All the Roadrunning--while beautiful--seems somehow underwhelming, and without a true centerpiece.