It's been a good three decades since Dylan has sounded as footloose and, er, freewheeling as he does on much of Love and Theft. That it comes on the heels of '97's haunted, hellhound-on-my-trail-vibed Time Out of Mind makes it all the more remarkable.

Comparisons will inevitably be made between Canto and the Buena Vista Social Club disc, but the most significant similarity is that they both feature great songs and terrific musicianship.

Casablancas is all old-school rocker in the Mick Jagger/Chris Robinson mold -- an ugly/pretty boy out to beg, borrow and bleed for even prettier women while acting like nothing ever satisfies.

The band's new sound appropriates slabs of dance music, free jazz, rock and techno to create a menacing landscape of rattling beats, thundering bass and crippling distortion, dotted with lyrics that evoke urban decay and social disgust.

Miss E... So Addictive shows another side of Missy Elliott, yet unlike the calculations of other artists who morph themselves mainly as a marketing scheme, her dancing-sex-queen moves come through more like revelation than reinvention.

On the evidence of her work here, one would have to say there really isn't any pop-rock composer writing more sophisticated material these days than Mann.

By my count, you've still got 50 keepers out of 69, give or take a few songs. And about a third of those sound like classics.

The collaboration ultimately benefits both players, adding a touch of art house abandon to Hammond's at times studied formalism, and authenticity to Waits' Martian grease-monkey blues.

She has always been a good songwriter -- experimental, dynamic, probing -- but here she demonstrates that she has the potential to be a truly masterful one. With newfound clarity and restraint, and with her usual wit, she examines the ways in which we try to convince ourselves that we are safe in an unsafe world.

1997's Homogenic, also a mixture of heavy beats and strings, was not as varied or complete as this album, and while Selmasongs, last year's soundtrack to "Dancer in the Dark" (in which Björk starred), was lovely in its own sweeping, cinematic way, Björk has surpassed herself with this new work.

The Blueprint is not a perfect album. Some of the material is undoubtedly filler. But this recording makes it clear that hip-hop is supposed to be fun -- and that Jay-Z is having a ball.

The only complaints involve omissions. Four of five singles between '92 and '94 (among them the minor American hit, "Bang") aren't here, which bypasses the band's crucial early development and leaves only one song from Modern Life, the punchy "For Tomorrow." On the other hand, the disc could easily have shed at least one of its five offerings from Parklife -- most noticeably the title track.

Remedy is the next great step forward for house music.

Agaetis Byrjun is an impressively unself-conscious record that would have been difficult to make in a trend-obsessive center like London or New York. It is sincere and though its influences may be familiar, its beauty and tenderness are refreshingly new.

Welch has become a notable talent on that long, rootsy highway, and she and Rawlings have fashioned their own unique sound.

With the twangy, kaleidoscopic blend of country blues, downtown jazz and so many other unexpected flavors and sounds on Bill Frisell's latest album, Blues Dream, one can't help but be reminded a little of the updated American folkloric music score in the Coen Brothers' latest film.

The writing shines throughout... Steve Earle seems able to do anything he cares to.

Little Sparrow captures one of country's greatest talents in top form, backed by some of the best acoustic players around...

Some of the finest music of their already sterling career.

Even darker and more emotionally resonant than its impressive predecessors.

Without resorting to sappy new age or yuppie lounge cliches, Hebden has created a blissed-out ambient album for the post-rave generation.

He's responsible for some of the most classic (and controversial) jams in the history of hip-hop.

A trip into the prettiest altered states the Lips have yet kissed.

Continues the musical evolution that was evident on last year's Knock Knock, with a collection that goes beyond Smog's standard home-alone-in-the-basement-with-a-four track-and-a-weird-mood aesthetic.

Feeding everything from polyrhythmic samba marches and interstellar jazz excursions into his mixer-microprocessor, then topping them off with obsessive beat-programming, Tobin blurs the boundaries between organic and prefabricated, as if the coexistence of the two should be an undeniable rule.

Featuring vocal contributions from Primal Scream's Bobby Gillespie, punk-blues aficionado Jon Spencer and ex-Tricky collaborator Martina Toppley-Bird, Bow Down to the Exit Sign is a dark, soul-wrenching trip through an even darker world.

Horns, keyboards and acoustic guitars dominate the 10 tracks here, with an overall live sound that steers clear of the studio effects the band embraced with their last release, Guerrilla.

Play is a modest, charming little record built on a few simple ideas, and a winner on its own low-key terms: Moby has made the first electronic blues album.

ESG may have been heard mostly in other artists' songs, but A South Bronx Story is an impressive attempt to focus attention on the force behind the samples.

Ditching lo-fi aesthetics for a more radio-ready sound in the spirit of, say, the Raspberries or Badfinger, Pollard has wisely chosen not bury his songs in oblique lyrical references and muddy tape hiss.

A smart, sensitive blend of head and heart.

And while not so instantly accessible as much of the band's recent output, the songs still manage to be catchy, if elusively so; this is an album that rewards repeated listening.

It ain't Dusty Springfield's Dusty in Memphis, but it's close.

Midnite Vultures is the album of a great entertainer, not a great artist.

There are more layers here than on Mouse on Mars' last album, 2000's critically acclaimed Niun Niggung, and everything is more intricately detailed, each sound given plenty of space in the mix.

What a refreshing rarity this is: movie music that's vital to the story being told, yet proudly standing on its own, with no trace of SoundScan calculation in its choices.

While Bilal's vocal gymnastics -- high-arching notes, off-rhythm choruses and complex harmonies -- add texture to these songs, many of them sound too musically similar to everything else in the neo-soul movement. He's at his best on the tracks that he or his partner, Dahoud Darien, have produced themselves.

Overall, Poses is more daring (and, at times, more mellow) than its predecessor, mostly because Wainwright has densely packed images and sounds in a way that is less immediately catchy and more complex.

Imagine Charles Bukowski or Irvine Welsh reading poetry with musical accompaniment provided by Joy Division, and you've got the general idea.

Stephen Malkmus sounds like a great unmade Pavement album polished to within an inch of its life.

It's too bad this independently released album will most likely fall through the commercial cracks, because Stag is one of those rare albums that fuses aggression, good music and sharp institutional critiques without sounding strident or, um, stiff.

Basement Jaxx create real songs around their chugging house beats.

The resonant and smooth singing takes some getting used to if you're familiar with earlier, craggier, quirkier recordings, but by the gallant train-wreck tragedy of "Engine 143", I found myself singing along.

An album of surface comfort masking massive insecurities -- a perfect complement to the nation it so redolently evokes.

Melodies howl along before being ground down under the weight of distorted guitar. Strings float songs along, then scrabble against the flow.

Isaac Brock's goofy, hyperactive child voice, capable of earnest whine and arch speed-rap, peels the lid off his inability (refusal?) to come across as cool.

Vega's been good before, especially on her eponymous 1985 debut and its '87 follow-up, Solitude Standing, but never as consistently good as she is here.

Call it thinking-man's pop from a reluctant star, but Figure 8 is a "grower." However weird it may sound initially, it merits repeated listenings.

It opens with a nine-minute song. It's a concept album. Worse still, it's a science fiction concept album. With songs about robots. But here's the thing: Every time I listen to it, I don't hate it.... The combination of prog-rock ambition, scrappy sounds and the odd hip reference almost make it feel like Pink Floyd growing up and making a disc in the post-Beck era.

It contains some of the most affecting work she's ever created, exploring the power of songs stripped to their essence, and the juxtaposition of delicate melodies with the explosive emotions conveyed by her lyrics.

At first audition, Broadcast is disposable John Barry-inspired pop drenched in overcharged organs, egregious electronic overproduction and languorous vocals that somehow have no residue.

A landmark album that is Carpenter's best effort since 1994's Stones in the Road -- and, quite possibly, her best ever.

By broadening both their emotional and musical spectrums, Tindersticks have come up with their best album yet -- and a classic of its kind.

A lot of what distinguishes Wonderful Life is its fragility. At its best, the music feels as though it could blow apart at any moment.

[rating only; no review]

Continues in the bucolic vein of Deserter's Songs, and sounds almost as wondrous.

Ron Sexsmith actually rocks, albeit only sort of and irregularly.

Kid A represents the first time in Radiohead's short history where their desire to do something different has outrun their ability to give their experiments a personal imprint. The problem with the album isn't that it's introspective, or obscure, or even that it's derivative (alternately conjuring Eno, Aphex Twin, Pink Floyd and so forth), but rather that the striking group personality so well defined on the last two collections has seemed to evaporate.

Folkish acoustic guitar and lumbering trip-hop rhythms grind the second half into one bland, undifferentiated musical mass. Because she's an icon, she probably doesn't feel comfortable releasing a formal coup of an album where she toys with French disco-house the entire time.

Recorded at various venues between 1990 and 1996, the versions of the songs that appear on Live are generally rougher and more expansive than their studio counterparts. And they're not only loud: they're heavy. Mike Inez's bass feels like it's jammed in your spine. Vocalist Layne Staley -- he of the well-documented battle with heroin addiction -- sounds like someone in crisis who may implode at any moment. He grips you, and you lose yourself in his struggle. All of this helps make these performances vital.

Another quality installation from an artist who views his entire oeuvre as a work in progress.

Slayer return to the knuckle-busting fury of their demonic 1986 speed metal classic, Reign in Blood, while still somehow managing to spike their sonic mayhem with some catchy riffing and the odd melodic vocal line.

It's about as good a hip hop album as you will hear this year. Correction: Make that great.... It's hip-hop that plays to the streets and the suburbs with equal intensity, intelligence, insanity and integrity.

Private Suit finds them more in command of their craft, filled with less fury, but no less skilled at crafting sublime pop ditties.... Though there are a couple of misfires, it's their most confident effort since their debut.

But what makes Badu a source of deep pride for her black audience (and intriguing puzzlement for her ever-growing white one) is that her mysticism produces its most compelling poetry when set against gritty realities such as drug-dealing boyfriends, jealous neighbors, ghetto etiquette, and the constant war on poverty. As a songwriter, Badu's particular gift is being able to work such everyday touchstones into sublime allusions of spiritual rebirth.

At times, Yang's ethereal monotone is the attention-getter. Elsewhere, the music takes over, often in the form of lengthy guitar solos and a slow, bittersweet weaving of instruments traditional... and otherwise.... This is smart, deep-thinking slowcore.

Ancient Melodies... acknowledges the importance of ongoing adult relationships. This may reduce the music's hipness quotient, but it greatly increases its emotional resonance.

Although Sound of Water, Saint Etienne's fifth album, may not be as overtly clever as 1991's Foxbase Alpha or as thematically consistent as 1998's Good Humor, it is as subtle as an Antonio Carlos Jobim tune and as mysteriously satisfying as a lazy summer night.

When a tune falls into the jurisdiction of the venerable country-folk troubadour, the accumulated details of any previous readings or associations are stripped away, and its core brilliantly revealed.

They may not always transcend their influences, but even when they don't, they make wallowing in them a helluva lot of fun.

U2 albums are generally slow growers, so it's much too early to label All That You Can't Leave Behind a classic. One can say with reasonable certainty that it's their most vibrant offering since Achtung Baby, their hardest-rocking one since The Joshua Tree, and their first true soul recording.

Rather than an abdication, In the Mode is a defiant and defensive statement.... This bristling new approach pays off well for the most part. As on New Forms, some of the best moments come when the crew mixes some soul and R&B stylings into the proceedings... At times the determination to keep the beats pounding hard and heavy leads to a slightly generic feel, especially on the instrumental cuts.

Hiatt holds down the drummerless rhythm with his acoustic six-string and a National resonator guitar. The boisterous atmosphere (everybody hoots and hollers) evokes a back-porch picking session, and Hiatt's songs draw from similarly down-home sources.... a recording that reflects the spirit of musicians who live to sing and play.

Methodical, often sprawling and sonically messy, 13 isn't a charmer, but it is awfully seductive.

Unfortunately, the obtrusive vocals mess up the vibe like an unwelcome party crasher. Underworld's experiments with electronica, vocals and rock are dismal failures.

Lemon Jelly's groovy, Technicolor music exudes a warmth and sense of fun that predates samplers, sequencers and the concept of the DJ-as-auteur.

Whenever the delicious sensuality of the music threatens to take over, the anxiety and restless intelligence that drive it return to the surface, creating a quietly riveting tension. Fan Dance could be Sam Phillips' best album yet -- and that's really saying something.

When the Pawn Hits ... is so good that the next album could have a 900-word title and I wouldn't even scratch my goatee.

From a pounding rendition of "Pistol Grip Pump" by West Coast hip-hoppers Volume 10, to a snarling, grunged-up assault on Bob Dylan's "Maggie's Farm", singer Zack de la Rocha and company deliver atomic thrills with revolutionary fervor. Still, anyone hungry for new insights into this uniquely righteous band, or looking for evidence of risk-taking, may feel shortchanged.

A curious time warp of a recording: loud, soft, tender, mean, thoughtful, reckless.

In an age of "been there, done that" cynicism, Rancid come across like true believers...

Lovers' Rock ranks among the finest albums of the year, as Sade, nimbly utilizing that distinctively smoky, vulnerable instrument that is her voice, weaves gentle yet insinuating odes to love and loss.

Now is Maxwell's best album, because he's learned that while soul can be suggested by a good groove, it really lives in a song.

The problem is, as the album drags on, young Master Mathers wastes his considerable wit and opts to grouse in the guise of a rampaging reactionary. Song after song finds Eminem viciously baiting real and imagined enemies, as if that's all he knows how to do.

Revelling/Reckoning is a dense, daunting work -- and, quite possibly, her strongest one yet.

It sounds like she couldn't care less if anyone's listening.

Feminist Sweepstakes does occasionally stumble.

The Friends of Rachel Worth is the first new Go-Betweens album in a dozen years, and, remarkably, it's as if they were never away.... an ever-so-slightly-updated sound with a hint of lo-fi -- something the Go-Betweens pioneered on their earliest albums, before they found their more renowned intimate style.

The result is entertaining but so bound by the requirements of Jamaican and American clichés that there's not much room left for his own personality to come through.

A seamless and transcendent eight-track mix culled from a handful of 1998 and 1999 performances...

Why is Quality Control -- an album no doubt many will love simply because of its hip- hop politics -- so damn bland? For all their good intentions, J5's results are so monochromatic, of such a singular focus on staying true to a specific kind of hip-hop blueprint, that even the inclusion of grinning left-field randomness... lacks the fun it means to inject.

The duo deliver an evocative, mostly instrumental set that effectively serves their inspiration, as well as their fanbase.

Harding has streamlined his lyrics and placed them in taut, soulful settings à la John Hiatt...

Because her samples are so shameless, so out in the open, what No More Drama sounds like in the end is Blige singing along to the radio: equal parts fan and artist.

Two Against Nature marks a timely return of two chilly, heartless hipsters.

This maturing band is getting closer to a fully realized vision.

Mojave 3's lead singer, primary songwriter and aforementioned poet, Neil Halstead, writes simple, graceful love songs populated by lonely characters who are usually hopelessly hopeful and usually, albeit fleetingly, in love.... Excuses for Travellers is beautiful music for romance's never-ending cycles of beginnings and ends.

A six-piece with musical roots in the '60s, fronted by a sensual-sounding blonde bombshell called Debbie, the Januaries' most obvious reference point is Blondie.