When Maxwell sings songs cultivated to melt a girl's heart ("Silently"), it sounds more like grand, fervent gospel than a cheap, fevered move.

The words are now injected with a new industrial strength venom that make the last album seem like Hanson's Christmas disc.

Elephant Shoe recalls the somber tranquility of Velvet Underground at its most remote.

Not every moment of Revelling/Reckoning is a winner. But the record is probably DiFranco's first where all the tags -- staunch D.I.Y.-er, feminist, bisexual folk-punk -- and the baggage of her brutally personal songwriting play second fiddle to the songs found within.

Throughout Standards, Tortoise takes the listener on mini-journeys into sound that alternately shimmer, contort, seduce, and confound...

With 18 songs that clock in at over 63 minutes, The Hour of Bewilderbeast meanders too much, and the quirky pacing (there are many random instrumental interludes) makes it difficult to enjoy as a whole. But taken in sections, it's a bit of a grower.

A thoroughly modern, introspective album... The lush sound of earlier Go-Betweens albums has been traded for simpler, more restrained instrumentation even when accented with cello and violin.

On Art and Life, Beenie's lyrical flow is unstoppable. He unleashes some of his sharpest and funniest rhymes over slickly-produced tracks aimed squarely for hip-hop radio airplay.

Although most tracks don't stray far from the studio versions (aside from a few typical chants and rants from Hyde and a nice transition or two), Everything Everything is a must-have as a milestone in the life of the band.

It is truly exciting stuff from a group that represents a sagging genre's vitally bright future.

Air's score darkens their brand of soft, introspective melodies with wavering pianos, funereal organs, and disembodied synth loops, and the resulting soundscapes often have a spacey, Pink Floyd-ish quality.

Carefully written, elegantly performed, and generously emotional, it's another work by an artist still at his creative peak.

Becker and Fagen seem to have found their happy place during the recording of Two Against Nature. And as it's presented on this extremely infectious collection, their joy is contagious.

When a band amasses most of its fan base from constant touring, as ATDI has, creating an album that captures the rawness of live shows is paramount. This natural ingredient in its sound is captured beautifully on Relationship of Command.

Everything about Folk Implosion’s One Part Lullaby admits to coming-of-age. The Lou Barlow /John Davis indie side project has gone major label; its so "lo-fi" sound has turned lush, and the adenoidal adolescent complaints have, if not completely matured, at least become more accepting of life’s cycle.

The Beta Band evokes the lushness of '60s AM popsters the Association in its soft vocal ensembles while demonstrating an instrumental prowess ("Eclipse") that recollects the lo-fi sonic buzz of Flying Saucer Attack.

The Boys unleash some of their most sublime and accessible material in years.

Scarecrow is a fine album, one that can be placed favorably next to Brooks' career milestones No Fences and Ropin' the Wind.

The country-tinged melodies and beautifully simple arrangements combine with the downcast romanticism of singer Neil Halstead's lyrics in a way that is simultaneously inspired and confident.

An album that's as complex and mature as De La Soul has ever done, but also smooth, polished, and downright soulful enough to capture a whole new audience for these enduring hip-hop legends.

Her message, so powerful when unadorned, tends to get diluted by the awkward arrangements that accompany it.

There's a welcome sunniness to much of the album, with "Beat a Drum" recalling The Beach Boys' "Feel Flows," and "Imitation of Life" displaying some of that classic Document-era jangle. The two songs are Reveal's only real highlights.

Thievery Corporation sets a new standard in the downbeat discography.

At times, Aaliyah's somewhat frail, underpowered vocals seem insufficient to meet the emotional heights she seeks to attain (particularly on the epic ballad "I Refuse"), but simultaneously that's a large part of her appeal.

Musically a pretty blend of folksy guitar and lightly new-wave synth, these tunes seethe in a nice-girl way, simmering slightly, but never quite boiling over.

While Low turns to touches less subtle than before on Trust, the drape of ambient tension over gently ramping repetitions results in the band's most assertive album to date.

Simon aims his melodies outside the box this time around, incorporating world-beat rhythms and working his sublimely dour mood to best advantage.

Mogwai has moved past relying on Slint-like soft/loud dynamics to get attention. Now it garners attention for the detail of its songwriting, the majority of which can now be heard without turning the volume to 11, only to receive a rude awakening at the crescendo.

This isn't just pop-inflected electronica: Gerald's compositions evince a depth and artistic integrity rare in albums of this ilk.

Haunted is largely a concept album. With 17 tracks, several clocking in at over five minutes a pop, it's a bit heavy to carry in its full weight. However, for listeners up for the challenge, it's a beautiful, psychological journey in audio.

The most honest-sounding collection of songs Westerberg has penned in years.

GVSB returns with the hallmark components of its early '90s Touch & Go days: piercing guitar riffs, frequent attacks of twin basses, surging percussion, and a heavy dose of vocal sass from Scott McCloud.

Packed with classic R&B and making clever use of electronic/dance, blues, and rock, Everybody shies far from the bloated vocalizing and obvious production that have marked the genre of late, helping put the soul back into a previously moldering art form.

Fans might finally have a proper companion to the arena-in-my-closet-rock of '95's Alien Lanes.

The songs are brilliantly Costello-esque, fairly varied, and don't sound at all dated.

Few will quarrel with Springsteen's reliance on his pre-Born in the U.S.A. output, or with the use of only one track, "Youngstown," from The Ghost of Tom Joad. But the absence of anything from the grievously underrated Tunnel of Love is a shame, as is the absence of "Further on Up the Road," a wistful and gorgeous new track played often during the Garden dates.

Dense with upbeat, guitar-based songs, Wasp Star brings to mind the best of mid-'60s pop (think the Beatles, the Beach Boys, and the Kinks).

Their simplest, softest sound yet. While 1997's The Fawn thrived in tender disarray, this 10-track outing sparkles with a warm and graceful confidence.

As one would expect, it's the ballads on Driving Rain that wield the greatest power.

The Eminem Show lacks the overwhelming, single-minded force that The Marshall Mathers LP had.

Dispensing with the synthesizers and glossy production that marred previous efforts, the group instead delivers no-frills, arena-ready rockers with a dense, almost punkishly raw sound.

The first thirty minutes are a chaotic mess of style over substance, and while Joi's weirdness immediately sets her apart, "It's Your Life" and "Techno Pimp" are cloying and difficult to listen to.

Whatever the source, each song is given a finely detailed treatment that gets to its emotional core, and the exquisite engineering allows each nuance to add to the total effect.

Arguably its most cohesive and dynamic effort yet.

The performances aren't much different from the studio versions beyond an extra dose of guitar grit, so this is mostly a case of tossing a bouquet to Luna collectors.

A clever party record, complete with oodles of guest appearances and multiple R&B hooks.

Another solid effort.

Tool has made an album that's undeniably its own, yet one which adds layers of subtlety, texture, and meaning that move its sound forward into complex new territory.

Co-produced by Sparklehorse's Mark Linkous, much of Forever captures that group's penchant for dense atmospherics.

Floats, captivates, and repulses simultaneously.

Like the best of BF5, it's both plaintive and punky.

The tunes here are full of immediately memorable, if not obvious, hooks, and the vocals capture a tenderness and vulnerability he's never before revealed.

Matching Homework in quirkiness, buoyancy, and club-ready freak-beats, Discovery combines the best of what Daft Punk has to offer: mid-'80s synth-pop ("Digital Love"), sleazy euro-funk ("Harder Better Faster Stronger"), shake-your-booty electro-metal with spacey guitar effects ("Aerodynamic" -- Basement Jaxx meets Eddie Van Halen), and minimal, big-beat tunes that Underworld wishes it would have thought of first ("Superheroes").

It's the breath-taking songwriting that clinches the deal here.

It's not likely that Up will have the same kind of cultural significance as a milestone like So, but there is no way that fans can write Up off as a disappointment, either.

Morphine's most ambitious and accomplished work.

Shopping Trolley is a fun, for-the-fans work with a heavy dosage of otherwise unavailable rarities. It's safe to say, however, that casual listeners looking for Gomez's Philips [TV commercial] appeal are not best served here. Try 1998's Bring It On instead.

By assembling a heavyweight lineup of talent to support -- including soul legend Bobby Womack, the Congos, and the Pharcyde -- Rae & Christian set lofty aspirations and, more often than not, reach them.

Sailing to Philadelphia, the singer's guest-star-heavy sophomore outing, is a deliberate, grown-up record (in a season which has seen a pronounced lack of adult offerings) that feels -- heavily in places -- like Dire Straits: Five Years Later.

Mathers slips only when he tries to play out the movie's rags-to-riches vibe with his friends.

It's only on "Close to Modern," a slinky, soul-infused number, that the French Kicks truly distance themselves from their downtown N.Y.C. contemporaries.

Let It Come Down, might well contain the most potent feel-good music he's yet crafted.

Unemotional throughout, Long Walk Home is without obvious peaks of joy or valleys of sorrow, offering instead a steadfast, unerring journey.

Yup, the angst and fury of 1997's Pinkerton is a thing of the past, as the band indulges in the kind of buzzing hooks and euphonic harmonies that made songs such as "Buddy Holly" and "Undone (The Sweater Song)" such huge hits.

The overall package is a slick, Rockwilder-produced old-school styled joint that's still got a foot in the year 2000 -- classic and timely all at once.

Of her three post-"comeback" albums, it is the closest in spirit to her '70s work. And not coincidentally, it may be her best.

The songs don't vary a great deal dynamically. Harris' lyrics set Red Dirt Girl apart.

Guitar-heads will automatically buy this, but it also deserves to reach any audiences excited by imaginative music working outside commercial boundaries.

This one finds him getting almost downright sappy. But it suits him well.

In spite of the sudden changes of mood and style, the album coheres nicely around Jackson's strong personality.

They're too smart to just be "art punk," so singer Karen O squeals like Kathleen Hanna and Barbara Mandrell because, well, she can.

As someone previously known to wallow in her torment on occasion, Etheridge has found with her seventh studio release a newfound maturity that bodes well for both her emotional and musical future.

While Dreamland is a dignified, pleasant album, you can't help but give the edge to 1975.

Mirwais lays down grooves that aren't even sensual; they're rambunctiously horny.

Cuttin' Heads whizzes by in just under 40 minutes, with ridiculously charming acoustic pop, Latin-flavored sizzlers, and menacing love songs.

Fans of both Parton and refreshing acoustic roots music should find the album unambiguously divine.

Provides a refreshing change of pace from the current formulaic R&B chanteuses.

Many artists try their hand at varying stylistically within the same album, but often fail miserably. With Movement in Still Life, BT has turned out one of those rare albums that actually pulls it off.

It's surprising how well the songs on White Pony absorb the band's disparate influences (Slayer, the Cure, Bad Brains) without compromising any of its destructive effect.

While most of the mixing is clean and effortless, it is also often unspectacular. Furthermore, the decided lack of turntable wizardry certainly won't earn him a "DJ Dan" moniker among vinyl mavens. But in terms of selection and overall execution, Monkey is a very nice listen.

The album, as a whole, is not a washout; it just doesn't live up to the hype and expectations.

There's some rehash of the flimsy fun of the Green Album, and the choruses here aren't as memorable as much of the group's '90s material. That said, there's a darkness to Maladroit that will likely satisfy long-suffering Pinkerton fans.

Shangri-La Dee Da sounds like two completely different bands -- DeLeo's hard rock and Weiland's soft balladry. Happily (for Atlantic Records), the album has something for both slumming Papa Roach fans and growing Jessica Simpson fans. STP has enough talent to hold both together.

Pink continues to work her groove thang on much of Missundaztood, but equal time is given over to some genuine stylistic risk-taking.

Similar to the Radiohead-lite maneuvers of fellow Brits Coldplay, the bright spots (of which there are a fair share) are dulled by the facsimile presentation.

Just because the Britney Spears Empire was not built on actual artistic merit doesn't mean the singer can't craft -- or have crafted for her -- a snappy and utterly enjoyable pop record.

Parachutes is full of devotional songs that whisper their honorable intentions in our ears like a repentant sinner's promises, while moody sonics mostly call to mind Radiohead, though at times you can hear the grandiose bellow of U2 and the vocal poignancy of Jeff Buckley.

By going back to that almost naive passion for spacious, drawn-out, instrumental dance tracks, the Chemical Brothers have discovered songs again, not just "tracks."

Fortunately, the energy and enthusiasm with which the seven tunes are hashed out here makes them compelling enough to render the miserly production inconsequential...

Although the album lags somewhat in parts and is bogged down a bit by an overarching sameness, this is a promising start.

Previously merely noisy screechers with no sense of how to play their instruments, Marilyn Manson is now an accomplished and complex industrial-strength hard rock band... It's a point driven home by the group's new album, Holy Wood (In the Shadow of the Valley of Death). Though not as strong or consistent as the glammy Mechanical Animals, Holy Wood instead bridges the gap between that album and its dirtier, raspier predecessor, Antichrist Superstar, with songs that are catchy on the inside, but noisy on the outside.

The CD unfurls a ragged blend of infectious melodies, couched in brisk tempos, and shimmering ballads culled from the blueprint of such past hits as "Name" and "Iris."

It's a richly textured album, often filled with a melancholy that suits Moorer's dark, rich voice just perfectly.

A funny and engaging spoken-word collection from a man who's done enough of them to know what works.

With Bedlam Ballroom, the Squirrel Nut Zippers sound rejuvenated. The musty '20s and '30s influences that made their previous endeavors sound occasionally laughable now crackle with ornery energy.

What's so striking about A Hundred Days Off is that frontman/producer Hyde and producer Smith have reshaped Underworld as a duo without coming off as incomplete, overzealous, or jaded.

His most impressive sound collage yet.

Maas has done what not many others in his class have managed to successfully pull off: making a truly decent, engaging record that is more than just 72 minutes of electronica generica trading on name recognition.