While it's refreshing to hear an R&B singer emphasizing the psychic toll of libertinism, his angst sex grows tiresome. Once in a while, can't this dude just get laid, and have fun doing it?

[A] sense of distance permeates the music: dark, mutable, likably repetitive synth whirr that recalls artfully creepy bands like the Knife.

Their second album rivals the best of Backstreet and 'N Sync when the material pumps. But when it doesn't (i.e., most of the ballads), a certain amount of douchiness creeps in.

Teyana Taylor is a good singer, capable of shifting between a soft lilt on “Lowkey” and a strident punch on “We Got Love.” But she tends to sound like others, particularly Brandy. She hasn’t quite absorbed her influences into a vocal presence all her own.

Those who dismiss Bieber out of hand are missing out on a seriously good pop record, one that mines vintage teen-pop themes but plays like a primer on 2010-model bubblegum.

Levine and crew could be blue-eyed-soul godheads, the 21st-century Hall and Oates. But they need to loosen up first.

[Setzer] reaches back to actual swing classics like "Pennsylvania 6-5000" and "In the Mood," as well as to vocal and jazzesque chestnuts like "Caravan" and "Mack the Knife." Foolishly, he has updated these with ungainly frills like hip-hop passages and dim-bulb lyrics.... other energetic fare works better...

His once-golden voice is gravelly and weathered, but the genius still flashes. [Jan 2020, p.84]

When everything connects--like on the single "Centuries"--FOB are a glorious nexus of Seventies glitter rock, Eighties radio pop, Nineties R&B and Aughts electro stomp. But the LP still runs the risk of being too cutesy and referential.

Bixler-Zavala is no Maxwell; he's more about sharp pain than voluptuous ache. By the end, he invokes Gordian knots alongside a fractallike Omar Rodriguez-Lopez guitar solo. Dude sounds like he's back home again.

Shangri-La is one of those archetypal "it takes a few listens" albums -- although even songs like the meandering title track do eventually make an impression.

White covers much the same ground... but it's a testament to his mastery of Southern-gothic atmosphere that his banjo, melodica and pedal steel musings on Jesus and haunted love never fail to raise goose bumps. [24 Jun 2004, p.177]

Not enough of this album delivers on the promise of [lead single] "One More Time."

The reissue is loaded with worthy extras. ... There will never again be a rock bomb quite like Be Here Now, and as such its memory should be honored.

Fusing elements of goth, screamo and what was once called nu metal with the late-Seventies new wave of British metal-metal, their sixth LP piles clarion solos atop clean, sludge-chug riffs.

The beats are terrific--the problem here is the MC.

It's rich, often funny material, but in Cuomo's ambition to make a career-sweeping tour de force-- telegraphed by the band's choice to return to estimable producer Rick Rubin--he badly overcooks the musical porridge, layering on overdubs, packing songs with key-change modulations and meandering instrumental codas, and generally refusing to hone and self-edit.

The manicured hooks on their third album show off AAR's drive, but the songs also show how normal these Oklahoma boys are, as songwriters and humans.

The album is a randomly sequenced display of Fleetwood Mac's best instincts: Buckingham's bittersweet tunes about playing for keeps; Nicks' tough, swirly songs about fragile and wicked women; and the experiments the group can't stop indulging in.

This Is PiL proves that the taunting weaponry of his voice is still a delight, as he drawls out syllables like an over-the-top TV villain.

[It] has a slightly oddball lineup (Natalie Merchant, the Fray). But most of the contributors succeed by honoring Holly's no-frills greatness with chiming pop rock (Jeff Lynne's "Words of Love"), torchy twanginess (Chris Isaak's "Crying, Waiting, Hoping") and, um, emo (Patrick Stump's urgent "Everyday").

It runs a little thin over sixteen tracks.

Like many songs here, "The Party Line" pairs vaguely political lyrics with vaguely clubby music – an unusual combination for this band, and one that doesn't always work. Thankfully, there are also a handful of inventive standouts.

The overall effect is sort of like watching freak-show performers who haven't figured out how to maximize their talents.

What comes through on Sidewalks more than anything else is a sense of optimism.

The Last DJ is quintessential Petty, by turns strident and starry-eyed.

For the most part, Stone employs her remarkable instrument with focus and nuance on Introducing, and the result is an album full of solid pop-wise R&B.

It's a Top 40 record of a high order, packed with electro-pop hooks and big Kelly Clarkson-style shout-along choruses. Cyrus' 17-year-old ire--however genuine it is--just adds spice.

What he's selling here is the craft: well-constructed, harmony-drenched pleasantry that Sweet can tour on. It won't get him back on the charts, but it's proof he hasn't quite lost his touch.

Live at a Flamingo Hotel (any Flamingo Hotel will do, apparently) has 19 swaggering, giddy takes of fan favorites like their better-than-the-original Architecture in Helsinki cover "Heart It Races."

Unfortunately, Borland has picked up Ween's affectations (pitch-altered vocals with wacky accents, ultra-chintzy synthesized beats) without the songcraft that lets them embody the genres they mock.

It's as close to emo as hip-hop gets.

It is another Don Toliver album, recommended if you like the other Don Toliver albums. The opener sets the temperature, and it is perfectly temperate, full of springy trap drums, pointillist guitars, and a whole host of Dons Toliver, alternately spectral and keening, dissolving in and out of focus. ... At this point, it’s worth considering his superficiality more of a feature than a bug.

"Summertime," "Strange Fruit" and "God Bless the Child" show reverence and impeccable technique yet not quite enough signature to transcend mere impressiveness.

It's a fruitful partnership: Earle's hard-won earthiness acts as a counterweight to Baez's ethereal tendencies, and Day After Tomorrow leans toward tough-minded material with blues and Appalachian overtones.

Suggests a marriage of Jeff Buckley and early Radiohead, minus the guitar freakouts.

With its lack of gimmickry and a surplus of sweet Seventies soul, Stripped is almost an album for grown-ups.

By McCartney's recent standards, the album justifies the pop eccentricity he pursues so imperturbably.

The echoey vocals recall Nineties shoegazers like Ride, and the instrumental breaks suggest quality time has been spent with Pavement's Slanted and Enchanted.

Producer Amaze 88's quirky soul loops are all highlights, but the project veers off course when A.D. taps Bay Area-beatmaker Young L, and derails entirely (and possibly intentionally) when the rapper steps behind the boards.

Black Letter Days evokes an early-Seventies Stones bootleg -- a little bit country, a little bit rock & roll - minus the danger.

The latest installment in his band's multi-album cycle Teargarden by Kaleidyscope--is a surprise.

His official debut LP still sounds like it's stuck in the past, with solid production from old-school legend DJ Premier and his latter-day disciple Statik Selektah.

DeMarco's weed-y lazy-day croon can be a little too tongue-in-cheek. He's best when he's more earnest, both lyrically and melodically.

What's missing is the modern edge that would give Beck's fiery playing a better context. Too often, the techno-funk rhythm driving the action here sounds stiffly electronic, like a Chemical Brothers castoff from the Nineties.

Doesn't have enough finesse to hold your interest all the way. [27 Jan 2005, p.61]

The resulting aural rummage sale brings some timely noise while proving D can still deliver lyrical knocks to the deserving.

For all the sloganeering, Press the Spacebar never forgets that it's a dance album.

The monster beat shell games of "Scud Books" and "Portrait of Luci" show why his jams are a hip-hop gold standard. The vocal takes impress less decisively.

Royksopp show a debt to art rock, but they replace Pink Floyd's paranoia with a mood of late-night sorrow.

The lyrical tone is often foreboding, but Selway's vaporous tenor, which suggests a less paranoid Thom Yorke, is reassuring.

Happiness sounds like a string of freaked-out AM hits.

Future improves upon his 2016 output. Although the 17-track, hour-long affair lasts way too long, Future sounds fully engaged.

Gringo's very modern garage-rock bedrock supports the experimentalism well.

Lupe Fiasco's fifth album is a swirl of double meanings, extended metaphors about yoga and math, and increasingly labyrinthine ways to say "I'm dope."

Lyrically, Morello still goes over the top, piling on biblical references and Dylanesque nonsense like "one-eyed crow, tappin' on the windowpane." But with a solid band behind him, he seems much more confident in his new role as a modern protest troubadour.

The eclectic sounds are impressive, even if a tighter focus might have hit harder.

[It] takes an echoed-up tack that's more Sonic Youth than Voidoids.

What emerges is a basement-punk groove band where you're never quite sure where the groove will take you.

The end result isn't as gripping as the debut, but Berlin is still one of hard rock's more compelling politicos.

The packaging in which she wraps her openhearted thoughts makes Sunshine a decent little pop record.

4x4=12 is audacious, mixing generic house grooves with eclectic fare like "Bad Selection," a kinetic jam with dog-whistle synth builds.

All this new-Benz shininess would get annoying if it weren't for the sugar-shot melodies.

Stone is best when she's rawest, bookending LP1 with "Newborn" and "Take Good Care," stripped-down tunes where her howl goes from plaintive to bone-shaking in a few lovesick heartbeats.

Logic rhymes in exciting ways, but the meanings can be a little strained.

His major-label solo debut is a parade of jams involving weed, drank and sketchy sex, with Cheech & Chong punch lines exhaled over fat stoner beats.

His emotional delivery drives highlights like ''Millions'' and ''Drugstore Perfume.'' Elsewhere, though, the disc isn’t urgent enough to pack the same punch as Way's best work.

Here the lyrics continue presentable insofar as they're audible. But what they, the riffs or the Whigs mean, no one knows.

The young Texas songwriter, who has proved his honky-tonk chops onstage, takes this opportunity to offer 11 expansive folk-pop songs that are closer in weary spirit to Paul Simon.

Us sounds great, with Ali's sensitive, stentorian voice plowing through sleek jazz and blues loops from producer Ant. But the album ends up blandly heavy, weighed down with dark street dramas and lessons about how "the same color blood just pass through our veins."

He's added more world-music textures to his folk pop, and turned up the blissed-out vibes on Love Is a Four Letter Word.

The album works because Oakenfold has abandoned the stylistic limits of trance yet brought the genre's tuneful oomph to tracks with a little more personality.

The Soft Pack are revivalists who keep it interesting by messing around in the margins.

Even when the lyrics verge on ridiculousness (on the Tove Lo-featuring "Rumors," Lambert denounces "haterade"), he's one of the biggest personalities in pop.

On If Only You Were Lonely, Hawthorne Heights up the drama-punk ante, channeling tricky rhythms, shimmery soft parts and a metal-schooled three-ax attack into songs that are both action-packed and gratuitously stylized.

A Behind the Music episode converted into a diffuse, rave-schooled song cycle.

The album sounds way more professional than crazy, but tunefulness this pleasant works out just fine.

This is one of the most subtle male R&B records in a good while.

A one-two punch designed to strike at the rotten heart of capitalism.

She's a strong, agile R&B vocalist who generates little excitement-adept, but not convincing, playing the club diva (in the David Guetta-produced Euro smash "Commander") and the sexual aggressor ("Work It Man").

Jeremih has a way with tunes and hooks, and the love-man game is all about finding new ways to dress up the familiar.

This is a supremely confident, fastidiously arranged, masterfully played record with a slightly prefabricated feel.

As usual, his imperial victory-march hip-hop songs are fun, and mildly exhausting.

Suncity covers some of the same ground as American Teen, but with less exuberance. These tracks tend to sound similar: Somber, swelling melodies, often laid out with a few piano chords or a simple guitar lick; lyrics that hint at various forms of angst but remain vague enough to be all-encompassing; a reassuringly steady mid-tempo beat.

Their second LP shows off their musical knowledge and ambition without getting in the way of their own preternatural adorableness.

A slightly less edgy record stuck between its two predecessors quality-wise. [21 Sep 2006, p.84]

While Greta Van Fleet excel at erecting houses of the retro-rock holy, they struggle a bit at the basics - like memorable songwriting, and especially lyrics. [Apr 2021, p.72]

As usual with T.W.O.D., these songs are only as good as their grooves.

This aesthetic journey has alienated longtime fans missing the concise, angry Ani while attracting newbies charmed by her chops. Evolve speaks to both camps with a succinct summation of her experimental side, here focused and more refined.

Now a dependably intriguing wordsmith, he still shows no shortage of unusually intelligent quirks.

The twenty-two-song collection suffers from bloat, uneven pacing and an overabundance of tunes from 2003's World Without Tears. But it's still an effective summary of Williams' career as a prophet of, as she puts it, "all that's alarming, raw and exposed."

The tunes don't always hold up. But the best ones are impossible to dislike. [22 Feb 2007, p.76]

Brad Paisley's latest is so well-meaning it's tempting to forgive how overwrought it is.

The LP is a heartfelt statement of resilience and determination that finds the singer refocusing his feel-good anthems towards heavier and heartier material. The only question is whether or not Chesney’s latest marks a reactive glimpse of inspiration or an entirely new way forward.

The best songs, particularly "Long Line of Cars" and "Pretty Pink Ribbon," exhibit a modern pop that is both mechanized and organic.

[Furtado] scat[s] her quirky high-school-musical vocals over [Timbaland's] mostly Eighties beats. [15 Jun 2006, p.94]

Miss Anthropocene is no doubt a work of ambition, and Boucher’s aims at bringing further awareness to the climate crisis are noble. ... Yet what the album actually has to say about climate change is often lost under the admittedly beautiful, meticulously composed wreckage. By the album’s end, Boucher has abandoned the muddled villainous pretext in favor of her own utopian fantasies.

Swooning song-poetry and Coldplay karaoke over electronics-tinged arrangements that sound very pro forma.