The album has its moments but suffers from fussy production.

CSS is stripped of the qualities that made it the charmingly objectionable crush of two summers ago. And note, this is not the sexy kind of stripped this time around.

So instantly pleasing, the trickery is transparent, a hook to keep listening until the content of Toby Leaman and Scott McMicken’s songs makes itself known.

Unfortunately, no amount of slick beats and swagger can camouflage Untitled’s defects.

Forgiven has bits and pieces, like a bunch of base hits, but not even one song possessing homer status, much less a grand slam like “Heaven.”

The Twins aren’t so compelling as songwriters, and too many of these fire songs sound merely serviceable, with mellow hooks and humdrum sentiments.

Now mature pop songwriters, the Omaha quintet sounds more like a conventional band on O, favoring rousing sing-along choruses, richly layered pianos and trumpets, and even standard drum kits.

Given Eno’s quarter-century of Bono-fides, this isn’t surprising. Martin’s interests are frequently vague--on 'Lovers in Japan/Reign of Love' he sings about soldiers who must soldier on and runners who must run until the race is won. Seriously?

On some tracks, Morissette’s voice channels Björk (with whom Sigsworth has also worked), but the mood ultimately switches to watered-down Evanescence.

Kaiser and Cartel just might be the Sonny and Cher of the indie-pop world.

It might as well be Harcourt’s thesis: marrying the histrionic truths of the deeply aggrieved with the formal mastery of great pop. More often, Harcourt’s failed attempts at mimicking Jeff Buckley throw whatever genre he tries off balance.

Give Adem his props for chancing a foray into the cover album field, a move which always carries its risks. But Takes simply doesn’t warrant much attention, no matter how much its material means to its creator.

Now we get Cuomo name-dropping Eddie Rabbit, Joan Baez and "a Cat named Stevens," which makes Weezer sounds like a retread of "Built To Spill," who did the recycled-classic-rock-cliché thing back in 1999. Did it better, too.

These songs were already so impeccably performed that Johansson didn’t have very many new places to take them, and although her effort and nerve are commendable, “not as terrible as you thought it would be” just isn’t the same thing as good.

El is the kind of album you listen to once--and appreciate--but never really groove through with any regularity.

Unfortunately, its during these rather naked moments where the album falters, mostly because Duffy’s robust voice often overmatches the music that surrounds it.

The Brooklyn band’s innate charm and accessibility allows forgiveness of its near-abandonment of bass-driven new wave.

This record is not for everybody--including, I suspect, the majority of Arctic Monkeys fans. Nonetheless, Turner deserves props for unleashing his inner Bowie and embracing artifice with such nerve and verve.

U.K. upstart Jamie Lidell’s latest is trapped squarely in this box, but the quality of his vocal performance generally keeps things from being stifling.

Konk is a bit too glossy for its own good, with neatly distorted guitars, swooning multi-tracked harmonies and perfectly manicured choruses working against the energy inherent in the performances.

Now the kid’s a toddler and his pop is widely known as Stephen Colbert’s hyper-literate, prog-rocking green-screen nemesis, but Sings Live! calls to mind a simpler time.

In terms of mere diversion, though, the perfectly titled Hold On Now, Youngster… is best administered in small amounts; otherwise, you run the risk of overdose.

Wonderful as they are, imagining the 76-year-old “Rocket 88” creator singing the weary gospel of “Remember When (Side A)” or the reflective “Things Ain’t Like They Used To Be” makes Dan Auerbach’s vocals sound tragically demo-like.

It's only fair to consider Saturday Nights, Sunday Mornings in the context of the rest of the Crows’ catalog, and with that in mind--to borrow a phrase from Duritz--this one might fade into the grey.

With Real Emotional Trash, he proves he can retain both, leaving behind the controlled one-man-band environment of 2005’s Face the Truth and issuing his most eclectic and unpredictable album yet.

The band gets bogged down far too often with a slow-verse-then-guitar-solo model, making Shots a nice overall listen but not much more.

For fans who’ve followed the singer/songwriter since the demise of Soul Coughing, there’s a lot to recommend on Golden Delicious.

While never unpleasant, Lucky represents a slowdown from the roll Nada Surf has been on.

The lack of sticky material that has beset each of her albums since 1992’s "Ingénue" continues with the self-written, self-produced Watershed, preventing it from rising above the level of tasteful mood music.

But even the highest highs soon crash and dissipate, wallowing once more in a proggy bog.

Costa’s jazz-tinged neo-folk songs are boyishly engaging for as long as they last, but they drift away without leaving a trace, as he too often settles for merely maintaining a feathery, bittersweet modality, so that the McCartney-esque tunefulness of the title track, the Mungo Jerry-like lilt of 'Miss Magnolia' and the ever-so-slight edginess of 'Cigarette Eyes' stand out by default.

45:33 is as much gallery-crawl as beach-run; purpose-built in gliding tempos and warm-down synth shimmers for iPod-strapped runners, yet appropriate for a cruise through the Whitney, too. [Review of UK release]

Young uncorks his storied one-two punch, mounting a pair of sweeping, detailed social narratives while ripping away at the guitar strings, laying his psyche bare. Long may he rave.

With few real rockers, Born is more disappointing than it had to be.

Too often though, the digitized productions act as ?ller, sounding forced.

Put in context, White Chalk serves her purposes, much as Bruce Springsteen’s "Nebraska" served his. On initial listen, the album is not a step forward, nor is it a step back, but rather a lateral move intended to leave breathing room for her next attack.

In Our Bedroom After the War isn’t Stars’ best effort, but it ultimately satisfies: in wartime, one takes solace wherever one can.

In Our Nature’s fingerpicked reveries, sonic gentility and lugubrious vibe might tug at your eyelids, but be warned: Its heavy-hearted sentiments are hardly the stuff of dreams.

Happiness ultimately falls victim to a faintly generic feel. There’s nothing we haven’t heard before, so reserve the album for background music rather than close listening, and it shouldn’t disappoint.

This is either one of 2007’s most refreshing or most grating albums, and there’s a hair’s breadth in between. Swerving but creative, Rise Above may wear on repeated listens but still it connects more than it should.

Andorra belongs on a hip continuum but something about it still feels slightly cold--it's a druggy album that's too precise to be made with drugs, a lush album that’s too filigreed to be emotional.

A bevy of worthy underground rappers (Mr. Lif, The Coup's Boots Riley, Lyrics Born, and Lateef The Truthspeaker among them) struggle to distinguish themselves over the mid-tempo bootyshake churning around them.

These 10 songs repeatedly strike the same dynamic and evoke the same vague drama, each sounding more perfunctory--and more soulless--than the previous.

Things get slightly clunky when the tempo slows and they stretch for drama, but there’s a growing self-awareness here that keeps Rooney within its comfort zone, which, refreshingly, is comforting more often than not.

The years, however, have worn on the Meat Puppets. Their unrestrained gusto has been replaced with a slower, methodical purging.

While any given song on the album contains a memorable melodic passage or a compelling idea, some of them are more mixed in their results.

Unfortunately, “almost as good as Steve Miller” is about as good as things get.

Here, most gestures remain a bit too consciously panoramic—elegant enough for comfort but often not chancy enough to be breathtaking.

Simplicity is king, as a relentlessly jaunty onslaught of jangle-pop hurtles ever onwards. [May 2007, p.96]

For diehard Elliott Smith fans, New Moon is an absolute must... For remaining listeners, it's merely instructive, sublime in parts but not solid enough or surprising enough or interesting enough, musically, to merit multiple listens. [May 2007, p.58]

It's the sound of a band trying to play it both ways, and succeeding at neither. [May 2007, p.61]

More Pete Seeger than Cat Power, her interpretations sometimes feel too internalized to startle. [May 2007, p.61]

The album suffers from a lack of focus. [May 2007, p.67]

The band simply reiterates earlier ideas less interestingly. [Apr 2007, p.54]

Wilson's fake tales of Middle England lack the sharp observational focus of the Arctic Monkeys, the bratty cleverness of Blur circa Parklife or even the sexy swagger of Franz Ferdinand. [May 2007, p.61]

The playbook is obvious and efficiently executed. [Mar 2007, p.63]

On The Search... Farrar discovers some genuinely exciting new haunts, and frontloads them conveniently. [Mar 2007, p.62]

What she has done so compellingly throughout her career--evanescent moments of self-doubt given voice through melancholic bursts of catharsis--yields here to '70s singer/songwriter cliches once peddled by Carole King and later adopted by the Lilith Fair crowd. [May 2007, p.68]

Though much of the blandness can be attributed to Matt Rollings' MOR production, one is left wishing an artist of Carpenter's considerable talents would eschew the aural dreck and truly shine. [May 2007, p.68]

This album rocks harder than 2003's The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place, and it's more sinister, too. [Mar 2007, p.67]

At root, the gritty, back-to-the-garage drive of these pop tunes adds a layer of grease that makes them stick. [Apr 2007, p.58]

It's hardly perfect, but it's bolder, more complex, and ultimately a more fulfilling release for this band. [May 2007, p.65]

Infuriatingly inconsistent. [Dec 2006, p.90]

His grittiest, least-ethereal long-player to date. [Feb 2007, p.58]

Visitations is a return to Internal Wrangler's more straightforward form. It's not as revelatory the second time around, but it plays to Clinic's main strength. [Feb 2007, p.57]

Learn to Sing Like a Star threads together Hersh's myriad musical guises while striving for some of the immediacy and distinctive yelp of her Throwing Muses heyday. It mostly works. [Mar 2007, p.69]

In [some] songs, Mellencamp comes across as Toby Keith's benevolent doppelganger: a good ol' boy who'd rather forgive someone's sorry ass than put a boot in it. [Mar 2007, p.68]

While not as panoramic or varied as its predecessor, 9 is marked by a similar mix of poised control and impulsive gestures backed by dramatically arranged, lyrical instrumentation. [Dec 2006, p.92]

The album relies on a stark, tribal minimalism that sounds as if it was recorded several decades ago. [Dec 2006, p.93]

The songs are mostly weird, overly familiar, or simply bland. [Dec 2006, p.89]

Hello Everything is short on revelations but not quality. [Dec 2006, p.97]

It's on solo turns like "High Days"... that the elder statesman resounds much like... Bob Dylan recently did, stymieing a new generation with his continued craftsmanship. [Dec 2006, p.93]

A record enveloping enough to be therapeutic but vital enough to be inspiring. [Dec 2006, p.89]

It's the band's fussiest, most elaborately conceived work to date. [Nov 2006, p.83]

Hitchcock returns to his trademark: arpeggiated guitars swirling around hyperactive basslines with whimsical lyrics cloaked in harmony that turn dark without warning. [Oct 2006, p.76]

Her voice isn't a particularly versatile instrument, but it radiates a certain dignity and keeps the focus on her well-crafted songs. [Nov 2006, p.85]

Unfortunately songs that aren't immediately danceable... tend to dull the excitement. [Dec 2006, p.94]

Ornate but unremarkable headphone listening. [Oct 2006, p.80]

Release Therapy is solid; disappointing only when weighed against Luda's prodigious talent. [Dec 2006, p.89]

The band presently possesses more 'tude than tunes. [Nov 2006, p.81]

His work here seems scattered and gimmicky. [Oct 2006, p.75]

A couple songs on Continuum do hint at what Mayer is capable of if he can shed his perfectionist skin and get to the quick of his emotions. [Nov 2006, p.76]

If anything, the vocals provide the most effective dynamism in lifting these tracks out of their banality and providing sporadic moments of layered exaltation – short, shimmering flashes of greatness on an album that’s not especially compelling.

Meadow may amount to less than the sum of its parts, but those parts are often pretty great. [Sep 2006, p.78]

Unlike previous MagCo. releases, it finally feels like the band has achieved a unifying cohesiveness. [Nov 2006, p.79]

Only a tender take on Tom Waits' "(Looking For) The Heart of a Saturday Night" gives Peyroux the glimmer of modernity Perfect World so desperately craves. [Oct 2006, p.80]

This should go down in Mountain Goats lore as "The Quiet Album." [Sep 2006, p.82]

The urgency and bile are palpable. [Oct 2006, p.84]

Gone is the orchestral saturation that sometimes bogged down Crooked Fingers, replaced by gnomic acoustic folk that's stark to the point of nudity. [Oct 2006, p.84]

The album carries a slight-but-distinct theatrical odor. [Apr 2007, p.56]

So why is his new album so underwhelming? Because Petty has gotten away from his strength--whipping pop hooks into an emotional frenzy of harmonies--and has focused on his weakness: overly ambitious lyrics.

While One Day is a passable throwback rock recrod, it doesn't rise to the level of a true celebration of the Doll's legacy. [Sep 2006, p.80]

Keane knows its niche and plays it well. [Aug 2006, p.97]

The band is now displaying an elevated gift for arrangement. [Aug 2006, p.87]

Moorer's most muscularly produced and pointedly written release. [Aug 2006, p.87]

Display[s] a combination of openness and hookiness reminiscent of indie-minded chanteuses from Juliana Hatfield to Nelly Furtado. [Sep 2006, p.76]

Citrus is the crossroads where My Bloody Valentine and Sonic Youth mingle. [Aug 2006, p.88]

The album has the instantaneous feel of a blog. [Aug 2006, p.93]