The Good the Bad and the Funky is the first new album from the Tom Tom Club in eight years, and it's absolutely remarkable. Not only does it stand up to any of their previous releases, it may just be their best, most focused work ever -- and that's a lot to live up to, given the band's history.

Zevon, so frequently great, should know better.

Title TK sounds as if nothing happened since Last Splash.

Sheik... seems uncomfortable with the slicker presentation.

The album as a whole leans a little too far toward dissonance and gratuitous noisemaking.

An optimistic-feeling, playful record that recalls the jazzy-edged sunshine and beat pop of the '60s.

Keeping things light is both the band's strongest asset and its greatest weakness.

Time -- and a bigger production budget -- has lost Creeper Lagoon's fuzzy, scatty edge to a fuller, more cohesive sound.

The Guest, for all its flaws, is wise beyond the years of the musicians who made it.

Her sharpest offering yet, and one of the better live albums in recent memory.

Travis' knack for making saccharine songs is both a blessing and a curse; one doesn't know whether to feel the love or scream bloody murder.

Breach is equal parts likeable, lyrical jamming, and inflated mediocrity. The Wallflowers achieve their most noteworthy moments in their uptempo, instrumentally thick songs, such as the first track, "Letters from the Wasteland," and "Sleepwalker." When the band leans hard on lyrics as the primary stability of a song, the album falters a bit ("Witness," for example, is slow and tedious).

A truly superb and definitive record...

An early study of California hip-hop, Überzone mixes twisted, bubbling Roland bass, big beats, and vocoder effects to make futuristic electro-anthems that manage to pop and lock like robots, but recall the organic '80s breaker heyday and never sound sterile and stiff.

His eighth album again plays out his lonesome blues as the sincere struggle of a lovesick man -- and, as only Isaak can, he gets away with it.

Cake often veers close to the land of Dr. Demento -- but its catchy, quirky music always manages to pull back from the brink of madness by being a bit more substantial than your typical novelty tune.

It's an impressive debut, and one that justifies the hype she's gotten.

A sophomore album that actually lives up to its hype.

Despite its obvious classic-rock feel, what could have felt like a novelty album -- a tired K-Tel collection of long-forgotten hits -- feels like a revelation in places.

A finely wrought chronicle of joy and heartbreak, partying and love, his tuneful, raspy voice the perfect balance of eloquence and muscle.

Daybreaker's more conventional nature puts a greater and more intriguing challenge on Orton's vocal cords to be the album's main instrument; that voice, a breathless cry that falls somewhere between Natalie Merchant and Bjork, is more than equal to the task.

Sonically, this is the most diverse and intriguing work of their careers.... A welcome surprise.

The sounds are simply too dark and sweaty for most fans' home listening.

Solaris is like no Photek album you've ever heard before: It's an album that celebrates both dance and relaxation, touching on deep house, trip-hop, and ambient, with (gasp) only one drum-and-bass track (the typically spare "Infinity"). Sentimentality for his musical roots and the desire to create music with a warmer, more human feel drive Photek on these 11 disparate tracks, and the outcome is mixed.

How Sweet It Is shows Osborne's strength as an interpreter far more than her already-established singing talent.

The problem with Flowers is that McCulloch's voice never soars. He still has the timbre, but he's lost his range and forcefulness, resulting in a lost sense of urgency.

Quasi's only mistake might be that it made this album too long; it clocks in at over 50 minutes. Such tracks as "Seal the Deal" and "Little Lord Fontleroy" show the limitations of a duo, and, at times, Quasi's basic keyboard and drums approach lacks a sense of wholeness and tends to meander.

Nellyville is quite calculated, right down the tired skits about bootlegging -- it sort of has to be, given what's at stake, though one would wish otherwise.

In anybody else's hands, a blending of techy aesthetics and near-tender melodies would be a musical oxymoron, but in Squarepusher's, it is delicious.

Electric Mile is good, just not earth-shattering, and coming from someone with Dutton's creativity, it would be nice to hear something a bit more, well, electric.

The rockers here, however, aren't his best work, sounding like the Goo Goo Dolls with steel guitars.

Miller explores his usual subjects -- getting out of places and into relationships -- with more unusual touches.

At the core of these lush power ballads is a lot of empty posturing -- especially when it comes to lyrics.

Oddly, it's the faster songs -- once Pearl Jam's forte -- that detract from Binaural as a whole.

Bloodflowers is a marvel. It has something to say, and it delivers that message with passion.

Though not as stellar as such past Max-era classics as Chaos A.D. or Roots, Nation is another worthy set of brutally dense, hardcore-tinged metal.

It's a tribute to Williams' almost delusional self-confidence that he sounds equally at home no matter what the musical form; he invests each track with an energy many of them don't deserve.

The most alluring aspect of The Platform is the array of finely-crafted beats assembled by Evidence and DJ Premier protégé The Alchemist, which are in turn juggled and sliced at will by the hands of DJ Babu, the oft-forgotten man in the hip-hop equation.

It's obvious right from the start that Vitamin C is going for a sexier, vampier, and more grown-up image on More... But for all of her provocative lyrics and musical innuendoes, Vitamin C doesn't necessarily make a convincing argument that the change is a positive one.

Semisonic's newest release, All About Chemistry, hits all the right pop spots, but will likely appeal to a very niche group -- the same group that embraced the easy, witty pop of bands such as Crowded House or Ben Folds Five.

What South demonstrates most effectively is that Nova, who had been awkwardly marketed as an edgy alt-rock chick, is now a performer perfectly poised for adulthood, and the mature listening audience that comes with it.

There are moments on Stillmatic where the old fire is rekindled, the power of his emceeing reborn.

An eclectic, enjoyable array of quirky tunes.

Blink-182 sticks to the winning formula of past efforts Dude Ranch and Enema of the State on Jacket, an extremely well-produced, hard-hitting exercise in pre-pubescent punk rock that will no doubt sell millions to throngs of misguided juveniles who relate to the band's piss takes on life's everyday miseries.

RZA and company get back to basics with the kind of stripped-down ghetto menace that made the Wu Tang great in the first place.

Vintage Reed?

Few bands can both rock and pine as well as Duritz and company.

For the most part, Amy Ray and Emily Saliers have abandoned the experimental plugged-in nonsense that bogged down their last two releases, concentrating on pure songwriting this time out.

Lenny benefits from being Kravitz's most consistent album in years, if ever.

The scattershot recording technique seems erratic for a quartet of chums who've spent upwards of fifteen years gelling together, and most of the rock tracks like "Hella Good" and "Platinum Blonde Life" suffer from a mix of overproduction and lack of urgency; missing is the California garage band vibe that was the trademark of their earlier, more energetic material.

York Blvd., Acetone's fourth album, is its most fully realized effort yet, attaching guitarist Mark Lightcap's drowsily effervescent solos to a set of shaggy but economical tunes worthy of Neil Young's stamp of approval.

The prickly edged new wave of the band's debut has morphed into keyboard-addled post-punk on The Menace.

While the soul-searching is utterly sincere, the music is only intermittently successful.

You'd be hard-pressed to find a prettier set of songs about love and disappointment than the ones that grace Teddy Thompson's self-titled debut.

This collection shows Mitchell as the self-conscious and restless innovator, picking her way carefully through the minefields of human relationships, leaving a trail of eloquent breadcrumbs, as she describes the passing scenery with her evocative and off-kilter imagery.

The only misstep is in the pacing.

What holds the whole thing together is still the wicked combination of Mystikal's shotgun bark and the Neptunes' bumpin' production.

Dirty might not have been worth the nine-year wait, but it's one of the finest and most colorful dance-oriented discs of the year.

Most of the songs on God Bless the Go-Go's are lacking the huge hooks and punk spark that once made the group unforgettable...

Unlike any of the pop princesses that have gone before her, however, Lavigne offers a sound far more guitar-heavy, and lyrics packed with unshakable attitude.

What makes this disc cohere is the world view presented in Byrne's quirky lyrics, sometimes stark to the point of simplicity and often with the detached tone of an observer alternately shocked or amused.

Hyacinths and Thistles takes a grab-bag approach to whisper-soft pop, though, at times, the lullaby vibe dangerously teeters between being appealingly fey and overly precious.

Undoubtedly one of the most infectious records you'll hear this year.

Highly Evolved is clunkiest on long, drawn-out stuff like "Homesick" and "Country Yard," but singer Craig Nicholls has most of Kurt Cobain's shrieking mannerisms down, and, like most grunge, the band's simple three-chord rock is most exciting when played extremely fast.

A fun, contemporary pop record that's uber-cool without ever seeming forced.

Still, the faithful wonder if it's the same Belle and Sebastian that gave them such fey, storied gems as Tigermilk and If You're Feeling Sinister. They can breathe easy now.

There's little here that rises above the prosaic.

Bizarre, surreal, and captivating, this record does nothing expected...

With Trickle, the group continues to carve out a private niche in the rather segregated world of electronica with another set of excellent tracks full of pop sensibility and a heaping dose of sensuality.

This is a record that delights in the contrast of the group's no-frills rock past and its radio-friendly, mid-tempo future.

No Doubt does play its own instruments, placing the group a cut above the current glut of acts that concentrate more on choreography than musicianship. But try as it might to mask itself in pink hair and fast-paced arrangements, No Doubt is as close to being alternative as the members of 'NSync are to being musicians.

Iowa boldly follows up, notching maximum body blows in its unyielding production, while maintaining an odd grandeur in its professed pain and anguish, its struggle for individualism.

Faces and Names' new sonic explorations are a welcome change from the early '90s alt-rock sound Soul Asylum had bludgeoned into the ground, though the lyrics here don't approach Pirner's best.

But the Dave Matthews Band retains one essential ingredient that transcends Everyday's calculated pop: Dave Matthews. With his sassy, unassuming swagger, unique vocal delivery, and blatant sexual urgency, Matthews carries the load amply...

This Time Around scores with more sophisticated harmonies and storytelling.

More eclectic than its predecessors, this self-titled CD finds the group spiking its feel-good melodies and crunchy guitar pop with interesting stylistic detours, and even smatterings of emotional depth.

On the group's second release, the Geometrid, it experiments with various electronic sounds and alienated vocals that seem to float over the compositions, creating a sense of space, but not emotional disassociation.

Boy George's Essential Mix certainly is unsettling, but only because of its sheer, unexpected brilliance -- which perhaps should not be so surprising, considering George is now a veteran performer on the decks.

May well be Donelly's definitive post-Belly work.

The only caveat toward Two? The Saints still rock, but they don't rave quite as hard.

He's still slicing and dicing styles like this week's challenger on Iron Chef, but this time he's got some serious guest firepower to back up these cross-cultural forays.

Sleek and motorized, gusgus has paid close Attention to detail in etching a metallic mural of current interests.

There's still lots of the nasty, freaky humor and grimy lyrics that make Ludacris so much fun.

His gruff voice may have earned him comparisons to Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart in the past, but let's face it: Everlast is treading awfully close to Neil Diamond territory here. Salvation, as always, comes in the grooves. Eat at Whitey's is instrumentally opulent, adding cushioned layers of percussion and vintage keyboards to the familiar blues-hop template that launched "What It's Like."

Largely spare and reflective throughout, Gallo's experimental compositions are intriguing, though the somber beauty of more straightforward pieces such as Buffalo '66's finale, "A Cold and Grey Summer Day," are far more satisfying.

Buckcherry aim to carry on the tradition laid out by the Rolling Stones, AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Guns N' Roses -- extolling the virtues of sex, drugs, and rock and roll -- but listening to Time Bomb is a game of spot the rip-off.

God Bless the Blake Babies is a return to the simpler sounds of honey-infused indie rock.

Only time will tell whether it's a cheeky classic or a momentary novelty.

While Moore has retained her attractively demure vocals, which have a Diana Ross classic pop-soul quality, Exposed subtly updates the sound she's honed since her 1992 debut, Precious.

As a slice of rootsy blues, it works nicely.

While a little too dense in spots, NYC Ghosts & Flowers is 42 minutes of the most neatly executed pop noir you'll hear.

The record does go on a bit long, flagging at the end. But there are enough wonderful songs on this disc to knock at least a couple of boy bands off the radio.

A sweet-sounding album that's both melodious and multilayered.

Listener-friendly, surprisingly short songs that walk a thinner line than usual between tired and inspired.

Most of these re-workings preserve the essential nature of the songs; the producers know enough to stay out of the way.

It's refreshing to see a high-profile album like this take a long-form risk and stand on the merits of intuition and musical construction alone.

Sharper, edgier, and more twisted than its predecessor, Vol. Two is like a throwback to Everclear's early days, before So Much for the Afterglow launched the Portland trio into the arena rock stratosphere.

Do all of these elements add up to an album that offers something more than the usual steady diet of carefully polished, capably executed, but ultimately unremarkable angst-ridden punk-pop? Answer -- probably not.