The recording suffers from thin, uneven sound and, on tracks like "Stars Are Crazy," a surfeit of muddling reverb.

The Vancouver quintet play flower-brained folk and Satan-friendly hard rock to evoke that moment when the hippie dream got creepy. Their third disc is their heaviest and most concise.

A swank live set of classic makeout ballads.

She has claimed a brand of stylish, postmodern soul singing -- pained but detached; theatrical yet spare -- as uniquely her own, and she presents it here with all the confidence her experience has earned.

The London threesome behind X-Press 2 slaves to house's repetitious mechanics (check the ugly robot fart clouding "AC/DC") yet often transcends its self-imposed limitations through fastidious craft.

Not his most satisfying concept, but he can do more in 72 seconds that most artists can in four minutes. [May 2020, p.89]

Like Alice's Wonderland, the world of Joker's Daughter is freakish and marvelous by turns, a perfect soundtrack for your next mushroom tea party.

The brood is most convincing on giddier kiss-offs like "Chainsaw" (rhymes with "such a shame y'all") and the Brad Paisley co-write "Forever Mine Nevermind."

Always an underrated guitarist, Harvey makes use of the jaunty rhythms of British folk music, but takes no comfort in the past. And you don't have to care about English history--or England in general--to fall under Harvey's spell.

Finds him singing as the no-sweat superstar he's become.

Most bar bands don't manage trio harmonies near this gorgeous, but the song selection is uneven.

A straightforward barnburner of an album.

[He] strikes a balance between unexpected elegance and verbosity.

Early metal bands drew inspiration from the netherworld, but on the fifth album from Chicago hard-rock band Disturbed, all the demons live within.

Lightbody has an agile tenor, and the band distinguishes itself from the post-Coldplay pack with a flair for arrangements that almost justifies the grandiosity of 16-minute epics.

The running theme here is a giddy release--the Buzzcocks-style guitars and dark jokes about commitment in "What I Want," the helium-gospel rush of "Witness"--packed with care.

If the album has a fault, it's that Usher never surrenders his meticulously groomed veneer - don't hold your breath for a genuine rawboned holler or hint of reckless spontaneity among these calculated compositions. Still, despite Usher's radio-safe reserve, 8701's wispy slow jams and booming club cuts strike a sweet nerve.

Their live shows are always explosive fun, but for the first time, the ladies (and their new dude drummer) capture their rowdy energy in a studio.

Although a handful of dated, unimaginative instrumentals drag down Déjà Vu's momentum, Moroder has always been more of a singles artist.

A collection that flows, at times, a little too smoothly.

#willpower siphons Chris Brown, Bieber, Britney, Miley, Skylar Grey, K-pop act N2E1 and many more through mistily whooshing, thunderously stomping dance pop that manages to be both hilariously one-dimensional and obsessively high-def.

[Slipknot] has married a little beauty to its beast, with schizophrenic results that are best summed up by the line "The only thing I ever really loved was hate."

Musically, he gestures towards the current hip-hop world a little more intentionally than his hermetic-sounding albums have tended to in the recent past. ... In a new lyrical wrinkle, Em steps into the role of political commentator and protest voice, with mixed results.

For the most part--despite Auto-Tuned slow songs--Kingston's mix of young-adult desire and disco heat shows he can cross over in unexpected directions.

At her best, she is pop's most galvanizing tough broad, but her sixth LP devolves into self parody.

As a representative of a modern production-by-committee rap album in 2023, Set It Off achieves a modest goal of being erratic yet diverting.

The pace can be a problem, but the music is long on understated beauty.

Peter Bjorn and John's sixth disc is pretty mannish, a foray into Seventies English punk rock, early U2 and R.E.M. anthemics, arena-drum bombast and a cowbell-happy jam their fan Kanye West could flow over.

Heaven and Hell excel at ye olde power-dungeon plod. Too bad Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler's most churning riffs tend to last mere seconds, before getting buried under attention-deficit arrangements and Dio's theatrical mythopoeia--which gets tiring when so many songs exceed six minutes.

The future-shocked verses and digital wheedling often miss their marks, but as a vehicle for Harrison's soulful voice, the band is a work-in-progress worth watching.

[Segall] obscures weedily muffled lyric snatches under waterlogged guitar fuzz that builds into a thick wash and varies the formula with hippie-commune harmonies, space-alien dirges, acid-folk jangles--all with a precision that belies his surface amateurism.

Their fifth album deals with the at-times-taboo-for-punk subject of romantic commitment.

Their third album is their most conventionally songful.

In a country field crowded with smooth pros, Bentley is sweaty and workmanlike.

If you liked Franz Ferdinand's last album, Tonight: Franz Ferdinand, but thought it was missing something--perhaps a futuristic, stoner-friendly electro vibe?--you're in luck.

[He] still doesn't quite cut it as a horny roughneck.

Ashcroft's mastery of balladry makes "Buy It in Bottles" his best since the Verve's "Lucky Man."

Ja Rule seems to be more interested in movin' on up (to the pop side) than keeping grounded on the gangsta grid.

Sometimes these outtakes feel like, well, outtakes.... Impressively, though, for an album that's more about utilitarian versatility than making the songs her own, Sia's personality often comes through.

Rateliff can be guilty of overwriting, as in the jumble of raging-wildfire images that drag down "Still Out There Running." His husky voice can lack the suppleness of classic soul singers; when he taps into his inner Sam Cooke on the dusky "Babe I Know," he sounds more fatigued than uplifted. Yet even when he overshoots, Rateliff's restless throwback sound feels like it's moving toward real revelations.

On this Lady Gaga remix album, 10 producers and DJs sink their teeth into her meaty catalog--with predictably uneven results.

Roth's tight, witty debut lives up to the Internet hype that has swirled around him for months.

At her best, she takes PJ Harvey and Nick Drake back to their primordial folk roots, evoking mean sex in overgrown glens and casual farmhand violence.

On Amerie's fourth album, she excels at getting in your face without overdosing on divatude — not much excessive Beyoncé-size vocalizing here.

On Sirena, Cousteau are in a class by themselves: Behind every lovely trumpet line lurks the ghost of "Layla."

Marilyn Manson-isms still haunt singer Jay Gordon, but this time he binds his secondhand poetics to a forward-looking glam too catchy to be denied.

Unfortunately, Pop puts the head-banging on autopilot with his longtime touring band, the Trolls, to fill out this overlong seventeen-track album.

On their third album, they move far away from their garage-rock starting point and construct an expertly lyrical world of yearning and insinuation.

It's about as country-soulful as an old British indie guy can get. [28 Oct 2004, p.103]

Jay often sounds like he's trying to convince himself that he should still be excited about making music. What's disappointing is, he doesn't always seem to be winning that argument.

Sounds underproduced. [10 Feb 2005, p.80]

These Swedes are as retro as most of their countrymen, and they have even less to say.

Aside from a lousy plot, Oczy Mlody's only other failing is it's a slow build. The first half is sparse, uninviting and even a little drab.

It's all over the place, but it packs enough sweet noise manipulation and actual songwriting to get over.

As always, frontwoman Marissa Paternoster's winding guitar solos and dogged vibrato vocals steal the show.

It's so earnest, you hope everything works out--so long as he doesn't steal the White Stripes drummer away from her main gig.

Simon's songwriting can feel slight but in a dolorously cute way.

Despite the title, her new album is a softer sell--and more appealing--than 2007's Will.i.am-assisted Big.

There isn't much of a through line between all those sounds, but there's plenty to love.

Beneath the digital production and R2D2 vocals, Akon is secretly an old-fashioned romantic, and his third album is his most heart-on-sleeve.

While Trinity is consistently engaging, it never quite achieves Dutty's immediate, overwhelming pop appeal.

Despite its title, Rock & Roll Time actually ends up making a better case for revisiting Lewis' oft-ignored legacy as a country hitmaker.

Sometimes the album slips into haziness. But the best songs are unsettling in a good way.

Tyler rages at his absent father, scowls through uncomfortable fan encounters and--true to form--spews tons of supposedly ironic sexism and homophobia. If you can get past that tic, there's plenty to admire on Wolf.

Sounds a bit like a stripped-down version of Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Crisp Florida bass beats from producers like DJ Khaled and Boi 1da and sharp guest spots from Lil Wayne and Future keep things rolling, but his big heart keeps it real.

It's a simplistic but intoxicating roots fantasy - full of Dylan mysticism, spidery acoustic Dead jamming, tasty 1970s rock moves and evocations of high-plains drifters with itchy trigger fingers drinking from jam jars.

The best thing about Habitat is how much less seriously Austra seem to be taking themselves than they often have. It's a promising sign for their future.

On their second album, Radio Wars, the Bells deliver billowy dream pop accented with atmospheric guitars, string arrangements and digitized beats.

Check the track by Sobanza Mimanisa, who add guitar and more melody to the mix, as well as the accompanying DVD, which beautifully documents the recording of the CD.

Although Both Sides of the Sky--the third volume in a vault clearing that began in 2010 with Valleys of Neptune (close to a must hear) and continued with 2013's People, Hell and Angels (a little less close)--repeats songs and fragments found in more fully developed versions elsewhere, it still offers plenty of thrills, as, time and again, Hendrix pushes solos along the knife-edge that separates this world from another.

The Neptunes don't necessarily need guest MCs to make a great album of their own, but if they want their rhymes to keep up with the strength of their tunes, they need to dig a little deeper than this.

Aside from a couple of ponderous, buzz-killing instrumentals, Forever is one long rave.

They sound like they sincerely believe the greatest thing that ever happened to rock & roll is Sammy Hagar's solo career.

White Pepper, their seventh studio album, could be Ween's most accessible release yet.

On their eighth album, this roots-music party band still acts as if electricity was never invented.

The third Quasimoto LP is a jumble of rare and unreleased tracks but still a fine stoner-rap set.

A likable disc -- but no reason to get hot and bothered.

Even this seasoned songstress occasionally gets stuck in unglamorous midtempo muck.

The songs aren't terribly memorable, but several cuts offer imaginative mash-ups.

Cursive haven't sounded this crazed and inspired since their breakthrough album, 2003's "The Ugly Organ."

Moorer's handsome voice is remarkably twangless here. Also remarkable is that the most indelible of her goth-chick musings is the happiest-sounding.

The quartet's first record in a decade is a surprisingly vital viva-la-grunge manifesto.

Patrick and cohorts haven't left behind big, dumb obviousness. Thrashy, trashy tracks such as "Columind" still weigh the album down with anonymous groans and heard-'em-before riffs.

It all seems spazzy, but it's actually meticulous and crisply rendered: order through chaos.

Morcheeba make a lovely sound, but they seem to be broadcasting from a very bright and pretty hell.

With Rick Rubin co-producing, there's a bluesy toughness to the anti-capitalist jeremiads "Big Boss Man" and "Gold Digger," while "Cat & the Dog Trap" recalls the simple folky prettiness and direct, easeful messages that made him a Seventies icon.

Their crafty wordplay of yesterday has been filed into more pointed jabs, bolstered by deliciously 2000s gang vocals.

Vocally, Tinashe is probably more musically adept than half of the artists she emulates. But she won't truly carve out her own space until she figures out who she is.

Some of Knives' tunes suffer from [vocalist Caithlin] De Marrais' oversold sentiments.

Melissa Etheridge wears her heart on her sleeve and anywhere else she can think to plaster it, and in that regard, Lucky -- despite some songs that are, by her standards, upbeat and celebratory -- doesn't break the mold.

His grooves have mellowed, as Fela's did over time, and so has his delivery.

The album is less a reboot than a re-affirmation of their ability to fuse over-the-top oversharing and Queen-ly operatic stomp with an elastic vision of pop.

With a backstory that includes gas-station hooking and heroin addiction, Michigan electro-extremists Salem are spooky straightaway. Then their quicksand sound sucks you down.

This is one of BTS’ droopier releases.

The beauty of A Hundred Days Off is that it pumps and churns so suggestively; it somehow evokes the blues of the otherwise successful modern man, who goes out every night and dances alone in his head.

When Bemis is on--shuffling between a touching Latinate melody and an ace, bloodletting chorus on 'Hangover Song,' delivering the sugar-rush pop of 'Shiksa (Girlfriend)'--his songs are tuneful and invigorating.

The lyrics, built from Kerouac's prose, often feel wordy. But the singers channel Kerouac's angst, and when they combine their magnificent voices, as on 'Sea Engines,' the effect is striking: ugliness spun magically into beauty.