Scabdates is as exhilarating as it is confounding.

The drawback is that when he isn’t playing guitar, the music on this disc is oddly muted.

Her newest solo project, La Sera, replaces distortion with light, beatific girl-group harmonies and clean, sweet production of jangling surf guitars and soft brushes of snare drum.

The real pity is that Kelly, one of the most talented players on the current R&B scene, repeatedly squanders his gifts. His voice simmers with an existential pain that is clearly rooted in the same secular vs. spiritual battle that defines the music of artists like Marvin Gaye and Prince. But he keeps the struggle one-sided in his lyrics -- staying largely on the bump-and-grind course -- and that wears thin quickly.

Depressed guitar poetry that's both elegantly wasted and kinda murky.

Hebden's lovingly arranged pet sounds cohere nicely when he jacks up his trip-hop-y beats.

On his full-length debut, Starlite turns his faith in catchy tunes into a series of studies on the persuasive power of pop itself.

The band mainly shows growth through the music.

Aphrodite is her finest work since 1997's underrated Impossible Princess, teaming her with Madonna producer Stuart Price.

Davies’ tune sense is still relatively intact, and he turns out loose melodies amid nimble bar-band grooves. Unfortunately, Davies’ feistiness fades at times, and he lapses into blandness.

The midtempo grunge-metal and reggae jams, more sustainable channels for grown-ass anger, feel most like home.

There's a little heartbreak here and there, but drinking--a constant theme, naturally--helps wash it away.

Their decision to fuse the songs with a series of spaced-out instrumental passages is indulgent, to be sure, but the album's breathless, genre-spanning ambition makes it easy to forgive.

Though new vocalist William DuVall doesn't have his predecessor's talent for shaping Seattle sludge into molten-dread anthems, founder Jerry Cantrell's expressively torpid guitar steps up to become its own kind of lead voice.

Singer Ian Watkins has Mike Patton's croon/scream down cold, and his group deftly applies FNM's anything-goes approach: equal parts thrash riffs, symphonic keyboards and moody jazz intervals.

This is a missed opportunity--there aren’t many artists out there right now hurling out James Brown-like screams over dissonant, programmed beats--and it’s indicative of the overall timidity at work on Young Sick Camellia.

Any faults just add to Swimmin' Time instead of diminishing the sincerity of this full, flavorful record.

There are few surprises here, but The Best Damn Thing is totally fearless about targeting pop radio and rather expert in its execution.

Its mildly art-damaged sound is just right for indie kids who like their beauty a little messy.

Other tracks--from the joyful 'The Prettiest Girl in the Whole Wide World' to the anxiety ode 'My Brain Is Working Overtime'--feel slightly undercooked. But they offer an intimate look at Cuomo's songwriting process --and proof that he truly needs his bandmates.

The storm of guitars here is proof enough that he's still alive and kicking.

It's Wye Oak's arrangements--feedback blasts, tape-loop-like effects, violin and pedal steel sighs--that turn standard indie-rock ballads into unusually evocative mood music.

A mellow concoction of atmospheric textures, electronic samples and funk-lite beats.

Miller's grown-ass beats clash with his juvenile boasts, so he often ends up sounding like a well-meaning kid who can't stop putting his kicks up on the fancy furniture.

Haunting as the results may be, they are distinctly lacking in Bjork's own musical personality and her greatest asset: her inimitable voice. [8 Sep 2005, p.112]

Nothing seems off-limits here.

Getting serious doesn't really suit him, especially with tedious ballads about finding the Lord.

Michael’s pop instincts--not to mention some warm, jumpy beats from up-and-coming producers like Shea Taylor--keep him afloat