The intricate vocal arrangements and alluring harmonica parts of opener 'Shampoo' grab the listener with bright potential, while 'Hey' is a lovely upbeat duet with Lavender Diamond’s Becky Stark.

It’s a rare and amazing thing when an indie musician finds ways to keep chugging along on her own steam for years and then releases an album that brings together in the most powerful way everything she’s learned. Moncton singer/songwriter Julie Doiron has accomplished this with her eighth album.

Flint and Maxim toss off innocuous, vague lyrics in the hope that something sticks. Nothing really does, and the joyless end result is flat-out exhausting.

Quirky melodies and unpredictable, anti-country structures make it interesting over repeat listens. A mid-career triumph.

The problems that litter No Line fall into two categories: mind-numbing blandness on the part of the band or embarrassing, face-palm-inducing vocal choices by Bono.

Overall, the record is solid: lots of fuzzy psychedelic riffs and infectious melodies. But inevitably, a few of the toned-down tracks miss the mark.

While opener 'Trash' sounds like the sort of thing Bloc Party should have done after "Silent Alarm," most tracks are hurt by a real lack of lyrical depth.

Some songs work. He makes great use of Ethiopian-sounding jazz samples and M.I.A.-style children’s chants on ABCs, and excels while rapping over some of the album’s otherworldly beats.

He rushes through the tunes, slurring syllables as if enunciating the lyrics would be too much work even if he could remember all of them. And clearly, one day wasn’t enough rehearsal time for his hired band, who are so often in vamp mode while trying to figure out where Morrison’s going that they lose track of the tunes.

Hungry Bird is tired, unvaried and dull, possibly because the band’s dissolved and reformed many times since 1991, with singer/songwriter/guitarist Eef Barzelay the only constant.

Overall, the impression is of an assembly-line product manufactured on a Monday morning or Friday afternoon.

At times, the material here comes dangerously close to sounding like 14 versions of one song, but he manages to mix up the moods and textures just enough to avoid that pitfall.

Reg has matured a lot, and Jet Black is easily the most dynamic and upbeat record of his career.

There seems to be something unsettlingly artifical about the whole Beirut project, as if idea man Zach Condon is playing some strange cultural appropriation game for which he’s the only one privy to the rules.

His latest disc could be his best yet.

This time his band has gelled into an effective stadium-rocking outfit, and his dark humour actually seems connected to some real emotion rather than a strategy designed to create some ironic distance.

Vetiver’s 2006 To Find Me Gone found that nice place for campfire listening, but tracks like Everyday and More Of This sound more like background tunes released for the purpose of selling a digital camera or a cellphone with really good reception.

The 10-song album ricochets between great – the grammatically playful What You Is, the countryish Hurry For The Sky – and just okay.

If you can disregard the arrogance of proclaiming yourself outside the parameters of musical taxonomy and if you don’t mind Anna Barie’s shrill chanting, appropriately ghoulish on Sand Tassels, you’ll probably dig this synthesized blueprint of the future.

With this single self-produced masterstroke, Alela Diane has effectively shaken off all the ill-fitting labels of “new weird America” and “freak folk” and given notice that a warmly expressive and unique voice has arrived with stories to tell.

It features top-shelf exclusive original and cover tracks by softer-side-of-indie acts currently riding a wave of relevance.

Edmonton’s the Faunts have livened up on the punctuation-happy Feel.Love.Thinking.Of., moving away from the floating dreamscape world of their filmic M4 EP.

It’s art school punk that you can dance to, which automatically makes Mi Ami more fun than most of their peers.

This isn’t Mandell’s best album ("Thrill" holds that distinction), but it’s as strong as nearly anything else she’s done.

Yet something needs to be said for Allen’s ability to make cursing seem cute, and tunes about giving head sound charming.

Auerbach delivers the goods with spooky, sleazy and soulful style.

Anyone familiar with the Flat Duo Jets will tell you that Dexter Romweber is a helluva guitarist (Jack White is a proud fan club member), yet our boy Dex has always been lacking in the vocal department. So his delivery on Ruins Of Berlin sometimes sounds more like a Buster Poindexter impression of Conway Twitty.

The Alabama-born Houck knows his way around this music well enough to walk the fine line between respect and reverence as he delivers impassioned readings of 'Can I Sleep In Your Arms' and 'Too Sick To Pray' and kicks out a freewheeling rip through 'I Gotta Get Drunk' with the appropriate tinge of self-loathing.

Love, Hate And Then There’s You isn’t entirely devoid of entertainment value--Stollsteimer’s misguided attempts to replicate the successful sound of the Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand, the Strokes and other alt-rock radio staples at the time these songs were conceived turns out to be quite funny, however unintentional the humour.

The 27-year-old can write killer tunes, and his voice is sweet-guy inviting. There’s a masterpiece disc in him yet, but this still isn’t it.

These kinds of shameless retro-isms would usually be cause for a scathing review. But as much as we’d like to snub their lack of originality, it’s hard to deny that the Pains do what they’ve set out to do quite well.

Rather than risk experimenting with anything radically new, they’ve cautiously tried tweaking their tempos and varying instrumental textures here and there in hopes that listeners won’t notice that they’ve written the same song about romantic frustration in 12 slightly different ways.

Springsteen has trouble leaving well enough alone. No matter how small the song idea, he whips it up into a sweeping epic with lavish choral accompaniment and blustery solos all building to some grand final flourish.

There’s not a lot to get excited about, but it’s a catchy enough confection that should work well in gadget commercials, which was likely the whole point.

Despite a few hiccups, Loney, Dear is one of Sweden’s best exports.

The Empyrean, is an engaging collection of brilliant soundscapes, fancy guitar work and some intriguing electronica flourishes.

All 11 tracks feature painfully predictable song structures and lethargic chord progressions devoid of anything resembling a hook.

Unfortunately, his songwriting isn’t much better, which is surprising given the catchy, melodic bass lines he’s consistently laid down at his day job.

While they’ve obviously raised production values for Merriweather Post Pavillion--the sound of guitars has been eclipsed by a sampledelic woosh and gurgle--Animal Collective fans will be relieved to find the group keeping a safe distance from mainstream pap.

Hegarty sounds more in control of his remarkable voice than ever before, and this new restraint suits him. When you’ve got this much emotive power at your fingertips, it’s wise to reel it in a bit.

This disc comes off like an early home demo for a mediocre New Pornographers recording before all the bright colours and drama get added.

There are some sweet la-la-la bits and a bit of cheery whistling, but nothing jarring or abrasive which might prevent listeners from lapsing into a deep sleep by the sixth track.

The married couple bash out organ-pumping pop blasts that exuberantly pick apart their youthful experiences.

Initially off-putting due to the pitch-corrector’s close association with the grossest of gross pop, Woods slowly enchants with mesmerizing vocal layers that pay no mind to verse/chorus/verse conventions.

Fans of the Editors will certainly dig the dour pop 'Expectations,' while the album’s optimistic anthemic opener, 'Happy As Can Be,' offers the record’s most memorable moments.

Danny Elfman’s Notorious Theme feels stranded between two worlds, while the Legacy remix of 'One More Chance' is a perplexing and disturbing Pro Tools-era creation in which Biggie’s 12-year-old son rhymes back and forth with his father, lewd lyrics and all.

This debut is mostly a collection of re-recorded singles so there aren’t any filler tracks. Excellent find, McGee.

Concocting a ruse about how the album came about after discovering a cardboard box of dusty and undated reel-to-reel tapes of the BPA’s lost studio sessions from the 70s seems foolish and unnecessary if the recordings were good enough to stand on their own merit. Sadly, other than Iggy Pop’s crack at the Monochrome Set tune He’s Frank, they’re not.

Unfortunately, the rest is incidental disco-lite dross, with a couple of bland bumpers and a little East-meets-West fusion thrown in for good measure. The three M.I.A. tracks would’ve made a solid EP.

The great joints (like the anthemic Just Blaze retouch of The Champ) are outnumbered by the mediocre, and a couple of new tracks are thrown in for added buying incentive.

So there’s no shortage of sick beats, but Common’s decision to dumb down his rhymes to a rude and rudimentary level comes off horribly crass at best and at worst downright embarrassing.

The abysmal Justice concert recording is relegated to the audio disc (also hiding evidence of whether or not Gaspard Auge’s MIDI controller is actually plugged in), while the DVD in this package contains the much more engaging behind-the-scenes tour documentary covering 20 days of bleary-eyed debauchery.

Cat Power fans who aren’t familiar with the originals might be thrilled, but most everyone else will be left wondering, why bother?

Spears is immersed in an often trite, intensely narcissistic look at her existence, crafted almost entirely by songwriters other than herself. That’s not to say that some of the songs aren’t catchy or danceable, but they’re wasted on a singer who brings no real personality along for the ride.

Somehow, fond recollections of the bad old days in the ghetto with fellow superstar Wyclef Jean just don’t have the same resonance and uplifting power as previous songs that came from a place of near-defeat and unfulfilled aspirations.

For Los Campesinos! to come up with such a strong follow-up not even a year after their last is an amazing feat.

It opens with the raucously bluesy 'Nothing Too Much Just Out Of Sight,' a promising start. But before long, McCartney reverts to pop messiah mode and tries to turn each tune into some grand statement about love, life and/or world peace in the hope that positive vibrations might inspire people of all races to join hands and sing along as one. Really.

Many will hate it, but those willing to give it a chance will be impressed by the naked humanity West reveals. He’s gone way out on limb, and for that alone it deserves open ears.

Yes, it is Christopher Bridges’s best work (relatively) but ultimately, he might not be capable of a Whut?! Thee Album-level classic. Top track: I Do It For Hip Hop, co-starring Nas and Jay-Z NOW | November 26-December 3, 2008 | VOL 28 NO 13 Go to Music Post a comment : All comments are reviewed.

What he winds up with is an unfocused yet sonically balanced mess.

Cuomo’s notes contain detailed autobiographical backstories for each song, some of which are probably the best Weezer never recorded.

On first listen, it seems like they picked some pretty obvious anthems, but the standards are bookended by enough discoveries to make the overall package strong.

Weaker songs near the end dull Day & Age’s initial shine.

For all the wank and bluster throughout the album’s 14 tracks, the bottom line is that the shit simply doesn’t rock.

The quality of the recording and performances makes for a brilliant soundtrack.

Unfortunately, the "deluxe edition" is bloated with filler, and the shorter "standard edition" omits some of the more creative songs instead of dropping the duds.

Kroeger’s voice sounds more like a wounded goat than ever before, and their blatantly recycled songs touch on familiar themes like strippers, sex, prostitutes, drugs, sex, drinking and sex.

Performing live in the BBC studios affords the group the ability to stretch out and test the new song ideas that made these one-off recordings so sought after by the group’s most ardent sweater-clad fans. Regrettably, it’s not a comprehensive collection of their entire BBC recorded output.

It’s essentially a continuation of "Ballad Of The Broken Seas," with Lanegan’s world-weary baritone bellow completely overpowering Campbell’s wispy waif-like purr and making her come off like a background singer on her own project.

On his third album, experimental electro sounds that initially seem grating and disparate weave together to form bona fide pop melodies.

Despite repetitive structures and an average song length of over seven minutes, the duo hold interest with their sterling musicianship and artfully detailed performances.

If you already hate him, nothing on this disc will change your mind. But some surprisingly creative moments throughout the album will likely inspire hundreds of clones over the next year.

Listening to the fiercely adrenalized sophomore disc by Sweden’s Love Is All is like being at the fair for an entire weekend, stuffing your face with cotton candy and taking one too many spins on the Gravitron.

All the tracks on her eighth studio album, Our Bright Future, are as clear as her voice, and the lyrics are simple and honest.

The Bronx’s third self-titled album sounds a little too comfortable.

So the cookie-cutter joints are tossed out the window for The Renaissance as Q-Tip attempts to show that he can creatively flow over whatever unusual progression or production twist comes along with each successive track.

There are some really gorgeous moments here, as on sleepy waltz 'Don’t Watch Me Dancing' and beautiful lazy closer 'Evaporar,' but overall the album comes off as an incomplete and thrown-together hobby project.

Even though he’s become a much more expressive musician, the updated Berlin is no more powerful or gripping than the original commercial flop. It is, however, much more consumer-friendly.

It feels like she’s made no effort to censor herself musically or lyrically, and that naked honesty makes this disc stand out strikingly.

Occasionally sounding like Vast Aire’s little brother with Bigg Jus aspirations, this immense man spills his solemn life lessons while treading the literal lyric territory that Vast owns so effortlessly.

The rewards are there--it just takes some work.

Ronson lowers Ricky Wilson’s maddeningly limited vocals and amps the bass, but the disc still fails to come alive.

4:13 Dream is slightly better than the misguided hype suggests.

The otherwise likeably raunchy and bratty Pink is now officially walking a fine line, leaning dangerously close to the humdrum.

If you’re not up on that stuff, Microcastle may seem like a more impressive creative breakthrough than it actually is, which could explain the gushy reviews.

This album, like everything else Legend has done, showcases his skill as an artist, but it lacks the passion that would help him reach the Stevie Wonder status he strives for.

This lengthy offering comes complete with a detailed manifesto about its inspiration. Too bad it reads like your kid brother’s first ’shroom trip.

There are some great moments, to be sure, but there are too many spots where the lyrics induce cringing and the electronic interventions sound more like gimmicks than real song elements.

While the production is tight, it’s not going to cause rival producers to sell their samplers and look for jobs in air conditioning repair.

In the end, Car Alarm is likeable enough if you’re already a fan. Just don’t expect to die of excitement.

While the record is a solid listen front to back, standout moments include 'Princes,' which features Ghana-London rapper Tinchy Stryder, and the breathless vocals on the ghostly 'House Jam.' Watch for this album to pop up all over year-end best-of lists next month.

On the Dears’ fourth album, the Montreal melancholics take simple melodies and spin them into seamless epics.

When these two dimensions come together, as on the stunningly awesome 'American Names' or 'Who Do We Care For?,' it all but erases the anguished waiting for him to finally come back around.

Black Ice may sound like a vintage AC/DC record in a superficial way, thanks to producer Brendan O’Brien and engineer Mike Fraser, but having Brian Johnson squeal dumb cliché phrases--three of the 15 songs have “rock ’n’ roll” in the title while a fourth has “rocking”--over a steady 4/4 thump is going to bore even their most ardent followers.

Williams does sound inspired, and there’s an energetic current running through Little Honey that was missing on previous records.

Excellent lyrics can’t save the record from the unnecessary length of some songs; Flesh sacrifices some of its immediacy and impact in tracks that can drift away from the point.

All six tracks are taut, catchy and depressing, 'Fire In The Ocean' in particular--making you wonder what could have been had they stayed together.

Of course, being an audio document, you miss out on the entertaining high-handed flourishes of González at the piano and Bárbarito Torres showboating by playing the laúd behind his back, but it’s still a stellar document of a special performance, the likes of which we’ll never encounter again.