An album that is as lovely as it is seductive.

Julian Casablancas continues to sing as if roused from a deep sleep, the rhythm section keeps the tunes as puckery tight as the band's trousers and guitarists Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jr. balance melodic strumming with some impressive shredding.

He fails to come up with an album that keeps up the standard set here by a couple of standout tracks such as "Strawberry Wine" and "Nightbirds."

Someone get this woman some drama, pronto.

Whether he makes it all work via his musical skills or chameleonic acting ability, we don't know, but it does work.

The most rewarding reworkings (Boards of Canada's "Broken Drum," Octet's "Girl") come from those who avoid novelty and realize that, underneath all the blips and glitches, Beck is just a soul man.

Has a polish that verges on parody.

Ultimately, like her manufactured pop rivals Ashlee Simpson and Hilary Duff, Lindsay is a little too superficial to sell us angst.

The lyrics seem clumsy, and some of the melodies feel warmed over, and the Carlos Santana-appearing "Illegal" is a total buzzkill. But it's not all a loss.

Reaffirms the Los Angeles-based band's strong pop sensibility.

Anyone order more of the same?

The joyful "I Love the '80s"-style disc fans have been yearning for since she took up yoga.

The band turns each song up to 11 and lets its rabid hometown fans provide thousand-strong backing vocals. It'll make you want to yell "Woooh!" too.

The songs don't always match the brouhaha surrounding their arrival, but there's no denying the exquisite craft on display.

It's stripped down (and we're not just talking about the jumpsuits), simple and the songwriter's best work in ages.

Chesney sticks with what he knows best: drinking ("Beer in Mexico"), driving ("Somebody Take Me Home") and raising his glass to everyday heroes ("Who You'd Be Today").

Though not terrible, Trey Anastasio's latest is miles below what he's done before.

Even Santana sounds bored, absentmindedly delivering Latin rock-influenced guitar licks behind a parade of stale melodies.

Not only is Depeche Mode virtually indestructible, the pioneering British synth-pop group also keeps getting better.

The pop hooks are there, but we can't shake the feeling that the sentiments come off as phony.

Most the songs feel like they should have come out around the same time Clinton moved into the White House.

As subversive as it is weird.

She might be unplugged--but she's still electrifying.

There's a bit an identity crisis going on here, but fans of this stuff ought to fall under the Numbers' spell pretty darn fast.

Her voice has grown huskier with age, the songs are barely there, and hip-hop producer Mike Elizondo doesn't have the delicate hand that's required to bring them to life.

Simply great.

Z seems like just the beginning of a whole new phase.

Most tracks have a commercial sheen that makes the songs sound like they were custom-made to be played in the background of pivotal scenes on The O.C.