On bluesy new tracks such as "Stubborn Beast" and "Moonshiner," she conjures a sensual, serious confidence that suggests she's ready to depose Cat Power as the queen of indie teardrop ballads.

Fans and Luddites will find much to treasure when dropping this platter on the Victrola.

It's the kind of album that finds its own cozy place somewhere between Lynyrd Skynyrd and Leonard Cohen.

A glorious noise in which wailing guitars, teeth-rattling drums and Ralph Cuseglio's bug-eyed hollering leave no place for pretense.

Fusing R&B, pop, jazz, blues, throwback soul--hell, you name it--Keys delivers grandstand ballads (like the single "Fallin' "), midtempo music, diary-worthy lyrics and feminist funk as if they were all as uncomplicated as scales.

The disc is all over the map, moving from booming dance cuts to gangsta fare, but it satisfies with crunk-tacular gems like "What You Know."

If you're not already part of the Dashboard faithful, these tortured-by-love songs get to be a bit much.

He comes across like a smarter, gentler sidekick to Badly Drawn Boy.

Taylor sounds assuredly relaxed and content.

This ain't another Daydream Nation, but Nurse is a good cure for what ails the airwaves.

As leftovers go, this Album is refreshingly tasty.

Sounds like it was recorded in a tin can and constructed from leftovers off the group's debut.

The reactionary disc is a step up from 2003's similarly political offering, Greendale, largely because it doesn't come disguised as some community-theater production.

Injecting the album with plenty of soul, gospel and throwbacks to that old-school Motown sound, producers like the Neptunes, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis and guests like Eve help round out what's possibly the best R&B album this year.

This is smart, literate stuff painted on a rich canvas of pedal steel, ukulele, upright bass, strings and soft drums.

Some Girls dishes out dirty, greasy rock 'n' roll that doesn't sacrifice mood for hooks.

Having scored a minor hit with a track that appeared on the Kids soundtrack, the group now has a big-label deal and a hip new style--still recognizably moody and tentative, but with enough down-tempo beats and electronic knob-tweaking to drift into trip-hop territory.

The overall psychedelic mood works wonders for any self-respecting fan of the Beach Boys and David Bowie.

An hour-long dream-pop kiss that floats by on a bed of brushed drums, lilting Hawaiian guitars and whispered vocals.

Their whisper-thin, doo-wop harmonies, fuzzy guitars and barely-there percussion make the Strokes seem like Led Zeppelin. But that's not a bad thing.

The songs don't exactly have the stripped-down demo feel Harrison intended--but mercifully aren't as over-glossed as those on his last solo album, 1987's Cloud Nine.

Country's biggest commodity takes the easy way out with a meticulously picked and produced batch of tunes (see: safe) that would be impossible to screw up.

An album that is as lovely as it is seductive.

This could have been groundbreaking once upon a time, but there's nothing really new here and only a few songs ever rise above sheer novelty value.

For hard-core fans, there's a wealth of rare gems here.

This album contains just eight tracks--but each one of them is a testament to the unshakable power of the group.

Someone get this woman some drama, pronto.

Walk isn't groundbreaking as much as typical Tori Amos--a dramatic menagerie of atmospheric tracks filled with manic piano, morose characters and so many literary allusions you'll need CliffsNotes to figure 'em out.