John sounds as old and crusty as his recent tirades.

With lyrics that sound like teen soap-opera scripts and music so mellow it makes Dido sound like an espresso junkie, songs like "White Houses" and "She Floats" are tailor-made to soothe the soul.

What it lacks in aggression, though, the disc more than makes up for in inspiration, as these covers are so radically reworked that they sound as much like originals as the disc's lone new tune, "Passive."

He gets all beautiful on your ass for the Orpheus portion of this double-disc set, then explodes with a pounding intensity on Abattoir Blues that'll knock your socks off.

While the signature muffled beats of Shadow are missing, Land is so much more expansive, effortlessly melding electronica and Britpop.

This isn't just a step in the right direction for the band, it's--believe it or not--a good move for the pop-punk genre as a whole.

Futures goes back to the band's roots, sporting 11 sparkling gems that carefully balance balladry with bombast.

Exquisite, angry, sad and personal, basement is a beautiful swan song of one of this generation's best.

Astronaut takes a few songs to warm up, but by the time the band hits naughty dance-floor fillers like "Bedroom Toys" and "Taste the Summer," it feels like 1983 all over again.

Provides a mind-blowing nostalgic trip for those who grew up with these songs.

Whether the songs get a grimy edge or sweet touch, the textured album leaves Shadows as a bright spot in the singer-songwriter genre.

A funky, soulful flashback to the works of outspoken jazz and R&B greats like Gil-Scott Heron and Miles Davis.

But whether they're being snotty or serious, there is a constant thread at work: those catchy melodies.

Palookaville will surprise you.

Unfortunately, things do go awry more than a few times.

Slapping his knees, spitting and grunting, Waits makes the already raw blues sound of songs like "Metropolitan Glide" and "Trampled Rose" sound even more grizzled.

Shatner oversees some surprisingly tuneful turns.

Pulling off the tricky balancing act of aiming for mainstream success while keeping one's street cred intact, songs like "Ghost of You" and "Predictable" abandon the band's mall-rat roots in exchange for more mature influences like U2 and Muse.

The results, much like last year's debut, Soul Sessions, are spine-tinglingly great--even if there is the slightest bit of bland Celine Dion balladry seeping in at the edge.

There's something totally irresistible about Antics: The air of mystery, the bleak but hopeful arrangements and the melodies so sharp and moving that they might inspire a night of heroic partying.

While undeniably ambitious and moving in parts--with sunny harmonies and layered production--it also happens to be a little kitschy.

Costello's most exciting album in ages.

There's still plenty of spunk in to be found in this Sgt. Pepper-lite.

Even though some of the novelty's worn off with Let's Bottle Bohemia, the hand claps, woo-hoo choruses and wide-eyed lyrics are still undeniably enjoyable.

While some of the posturing about his bling--as well as the repetitive dirty South beats--might get a little tired, this one is guaranteed to keep it hot in herre all night.

Nice and musically diverse.

An emotionally wracked masterpiece, drawing on immaculate influences like the Pixies and Talking Heads while sounding distinctly original.

Some called their first two albums derivative, but with this third disc the guys wrestle their greased-up garage boogie until they own it.

LL does DEFinition with a superstar panache that never gets into that dangerously cheesy Will Smith territory and keeps it streetwise without putting on a front.

The album quickly unravels into a mess of mumbled vocals, pointless guitar solos and songs that sound suspiciously unfinished.

Fans of the Icelandic wonder's more orchestral tunes might think there's something missing here. Well, unless they're too busy being totally blown away.

U Saved Me's songs of praise like "Leap of Faith" and "Prayer Change" can be taken in two ways: attempts at redemption for what you've just heard or hollow attempts at album sales.

Sure, a couple of the hokey lyrics... slightly taint the return. But pulling tricks like sampling the Welcome Back, Kotter theme for the [title track's] intro is pure genius.

Fans of Travis and Coldplay will certainly find much to treasure in the soaring harmonies, soft strings and heartfelt sentiments.

Even though the production is slicker, The Dirty South is still packed with painful, well-illustrated southern gothic sagas.

Part new-wave keyboards, part folky acoustic guitars, the music on More Adventurous is unexpectedly beautiful.

All of this vitriol, however, tears away at the more palatable hooks found in past Saliva hits, which isn't necessarily a good thing.

It's a welcome throwback in today's complicated rap game.

Is she blazing new trails? Naw. But this sounds exactly right.

Its glossiest production yet.

Bluesy, fragile and gorgeous.

The Old 97's are a good band, but Drag It Up simply isn't them at their best.

Take Elton John, multiply him by five, add a pinch of Frankie Goes to Hollywood, maybe a little Beck and some Carson Kressley, and you'll have something resembling the Scissor Sisters.

The biggest kicks come from the bedroom demos and odd covers of songs like "Blowin' in the Wind," but only the initiated will be able to stay awake long enough to hear them.

It's not as hands-down great as the Swedes' last (Veni Vidi Vicious), and a handful of tracks are too-short bursts of energy that only leave you wanting more. But when the band gets rolling with tracks such as "Walk Idiot Walk," there's no stopping it.

Even if it doesn't wow you, Autobiography may surprise you.

A much more spiritually fulfilling listening experience.

Following 2002's experimental Phrenology, which featured all manner of drum 'n' bass and techno influences, the real-instrument-playing Philadelphia hip-hop collective ditches the frills on Tipping Point.

There's enough melody and structure to keep one engaged.

She's the perfect '70s soul-funk mama, and lucky for us, she's stuck in 2004.

It's hard to imagine a set of songs that better reflects every phase the group has navigated through its turbulent career.

The one thing Banks lacks is Fiddy's natural charisma--he's also about eight bulletholes short in the "life-experience department."

Afrodisiac teases more than tantalizes.

If the album weren't so agreeably off-kilter--short, whispery tunes alternate with long, rambling epics--its mix of guitars and piano would almost seem like the stuff you'd hear on rockers like Layla or Abbey Road.

[A] balanced mix of streetwise, club-ready and bedroom-bumping cuts.

Fun, but hardly fresh.

As studio swan songs go, this sounds pretty darn good.

The Killers sound like a delicious puree of Blur, Pulp and the Cure, loading Hot Fuss with stylish synth-pop effects and big blazing choruses.

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

Happenstance is lush and brooding, the kind of record that makes most sense coming through the headphones late at night.

Rather than coming across as an unfriendly piece of self-indulgence--which may or may not have been the intention--her latest CD is quietly captivating.

Mostly made up of charming-but-harmless ballads and little bursts of fiddly Celtic pop.

Sounds like a funky offshoot of the Stone Roses, mining blissed-out acid grooves, hypnotic rhythms and the kind of distant, detached vocals that don't sound like vocals at all.

Her thin voice is no match for the thick guitars that dominate this metallic pop marathon, but there is a strange, earthy quality that makes songs like "Overpower Thee" and "Skin Receiver" compelling.

Under My Skin gets generic at times, but that's why it works.

It's nice to hear a garage band that actually sounds like it was recorded in a garage.

Yes, she still has an interesting voice that's beautiful and quirky at the same time, but there's so much here to sift through and nothing much that immediately grabs you.

The opening song, "First Wave Intact," is nine minutes of churning Led Zeppelin-size rock. And it gets stranger from there.

Think of it as more of a mix tape because the British quintet's jam-band explorations dip into everything from Beatles-esque pop and Delta-blues-influenced ballads.

Okay, so it's not the most revolutionary concept album, but the raw energy and mad buzz make it one that's easy to get hooked on.

The music doesn't impress much, serving as more a backdrop for Morrissey's lovely chops.

DOLL may lack style, but it makes it up with substance.

Amazing collaborations that emphasize the veteran band's rich Latin and blues roots.

While the trippy Scottish foursome's third disc may make a few nods to reality when it incorporates boring things like, you know, choruses and verses, songs like "Assessment" and "Liquid Bird"--all electronic gurgles and off-the-wall vocals--still wave the freak flag.

Holland gracefully achieves the spookiness and timelessness artists like Tori Amos and Cat Power have been chasing for years.

The pretty ballads meditating on the vast wilderness and lonely highways of the great white north provide the perfect showcase for Krall's sultry voice and Costello's classic melodies.

The duo's collaboration on Van Lear Rose is unexpectedly gripping, a raucous slice of vintage Nashville fuelled by Lynn's down-home wisdom, twangy gee-tars and White's inspired hand at production.

With Musicology, the doctor of sexual funk puts the self-indulgence on hold and digs back into the enticing grooves and towering melodies of his glory years.

This is pleasant, bouncy pop, perfect for the carefree days of summer.

If there's a touchstone band for this album, it's Little Creatures-era Talking Heads cranking out songs that are joyously eccentric, celebratory and catchy.

Sexsmith's best album yet.

They've updated fuzzy '90s-era alternative rock while tinkering with becoming Northern Ireland's answer to Coldplay.

This isn't necessarily the best place to hear the definitive versions of Bo Diddley's "Road Runner" or Big Joe Williams' "Baby, Please Don't Go," but it's definitely the place to hear Aerosmith having the time of its life.

The originals are still the best, but this is pretty fly for a white guy.

Strong and sensual.

His pipes are in tip-top shape, sure, but hearing this stuff is sometimes more embarrassing than reading your little sister's diary.

More realized than 2002's In Search Of..., they hit all of their marks, rubbing guitar licks against '70s funk and sexy R&B that's bound to get any club flying high.

Has a few more production touches than his past crackling work.

The audio equivalent of a warm bubble bath.

This album tends to lean more toward the psychedelic ballads, which slows down the action a little too much.

If it's not his best, it's easier to warm up to than most of his solo releases.

A quiet, meditative effort. [5 Mar 2004, p.68]

Pawn Shoppe Heart is all sensational glam riffs and massive shout-along choruses.

It's the album you wish the Strokes would've made.

Surprisingly bright and confident.

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

Embracing lonesome gothic-folk traditions, slight blues and country, this stark release is all about misery, hardship and stuff you'd rather not think about.

Instead of making any stupid concessions to her sudden celebrity... the Home girl plays it cool, carrying on with the same smooth vibes that made her a star.