Dull, pretentious talk-singing over uninspired musical backing. The dry production on the vocal makes it all the more insufferable.

For members of Black Flag, niceties such as vocal melodies must have seemed like concessions to The Man, so they're nowhere to be found on this album. Henry Rollins rants 'n' chants his way through these tracks while Greg Ginn aimlessly riffs on guitar. The rotten mix and overall shoddy production doesn't do the material any favors either. One of aims of punk was to reinvent rock and roll, but on *Damaged*, Black Flag's mission of discarding everything that seemingly stands in the way of "self-expression" is like throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

Some of the songs on this album are decent ("Wonderwall", "Don't Look Back In Anger", "Champagne Supernova") but nearly everything on this record is performed in hamfisted, overblown way that it becomes exhausting across the 50 minute running time. The graceless, dynamics-free mix also pushes the guitars *way* up to the front on many of the tracks, to the detriment of the other instruments.

First off, the production on this album is fantastic. The bass-heavy mix (with trebly guitars riding over top) is peculiar, but it works. The playing is also top notch, especially that of drummer Gary Whelan who holds everything tightly together. Vocalist Shaun Ryder talks, raps and chants over the pounding, repetitive (but hypnotic) music, with only the barest melodies showing up here and there, making him the somewhat far-removed cousin of The Fall's Mark E. Smith. Like Smith, Ryder has an anti-charisma that makes him compelling to listen to. This is an upbeat, weird and occasionally obnoxious album by a band with an idiosyncratic vision. It's certainly not a major masterpiece, but it does qualify as being a minor classic.

Utterly inessential (which is made even worse by its 71-minute running time). On side 1, Stephen Stills sings the blues over competently-played but unimaginative songs. Side 2's tracks are country and bluegress genre exercises (in which Stills' voice somehow mysteriously acquires a twang). Side 3 ventures into laid-back rock territory with no discernable direction ("Move Around" does have some groovy synthesizer sounds though). Stills toughens his voice up once again for the mostly forgettable blues-inflected rock songs on side 4, though the band does manage to whip up some actual rock and roll energy on the latter half of "The Treasure (Take One)".

Band can whip up a storm of energy, but each of the tracks feels less like a song than a series of disconnected riffs glued together. Doesn't help that the singing is monotonal and colorless either.

The opening song "Infected" stomps but that's the only real standout track. Johnson's affected singing quickly wears thin across the span of the album. The overly-long and overstuffed songs wear out their welcome after a while.

This is an interesting and diverse record with some beautiful harmonies throughout, though I wouldn't say that I found it to be compelling overall.

Right off the bat, Mr. Stills gets automatically docked a point for the gross sentiments of "Love the One You're With". ;-) He's certainly a competent songwriter and performer, but most of the tracks on this album don't rise above the ordinary (except for "Do for the Others" and "To a Flame" which show he's at his best when he dials down the rock 'n' faux-gospel bluster).

Wainwright seems to be aiming for something grandiose on this album, but a lot of the songs are overcooked and have too many sections or parts, and the net effect is that they meander rather than getting to the point; some judicious editing could have helped tighten them up. The arrangements on this album also pile on instrument after instrument but paradoxically they make the songs more generic-sounding. At its worst, the overly-busy instrumentation is practically in competition with Wainwright's voice. (I'm looking at you, "Little Sister".) However, the two standout tracks on the album, "The Art Teacher" and "Waiting for a Dream", avoid both of those mistakes - the songwriting on these is uncomplicated and direct, and the restrained arrangements give Wainwright's vocals room to breathe.

Brilliantly played and produced, *Armed Forces* is loud, direct, punchy and weird - it's everything a good rock and roll record should be. Many of the tracks are stellar and rank as the best of Costello's career. His wordplay and pointed observations are even sharper than ever on *AF* and his innovative arrangements (such as on "Green Shirt") expand on his sound in interesting ways. Not *every* track is a complete success, though. "Big Boys" is stuffed with too many songwriting tricks and struggles under its own weight. "Party Girl" has one too many sections; it's one draft away from brilliance. "Busy Bodies" and "Mood for Moderns" come across as generic new wave and don't stand up to the rest. "Sunday's Best" is a waltz-time outlier that would have been better as b-side material. None of these tracks are duds, but the fact that they fall short of the genius of "Accidents Will Happen" or "Oliver's Army" keeps this album from being a complete masterpiece.

The vocals are wavering and out of tune at times. It doesn't help that the bare-bones production often highlights the flaws and occasionally sloppy playing. The country-inflected numbers stick to predictable chords and are largely forgettable. On such a short album, the numerous instrumentals (such as "Aurora Borealis") seem like lost opportunities. The frenetic singing on faster-paced tracks like "Split Myself in Two" and "New Gods" unfortunately reduce the vocal melody to a blur. However, the perfectly-paced "Plateau" pulls everything together and is the highlight of the album; the fleshed-out arrangement really does the song justice.

Album cover says it all, looks more like five scientists conducting an experiment than a rock 'n' roll band. Almost every song is a car crash of genres, mashed together to...parody them? Is this a critique of American traditional music? Of sunshine pop? Of musicals? Of psychedelia? Just as soon as the band settles into a groove, it often gets sidetracked by some weirdo digression into discordant noise, such as on the first two-thirds of "Cloud Song" (which surprisingly has a lovely outro). I mean, do they even *like* the music that they are playing? The whole album is about as pleasant as twisting the radio dial for 37 minutes straight. Had the band dialed down the nuttiness (like they do on the relatively straightforward "Love Song for the Dead Ché") the album might have been a more musically appealing vehicle for their anti-establishment sentiments. These people are obviously accomplished musicians, just imagine what they could have accomplished if they had chosen to use their talents for good instead of evil.

A marvel of multitracking, this album is more admirable than awesome. It must take an amazing amount of forethought to be able construct a completed song with yourself on nearly every instrument. Wonder also pushes the boundaries of pop and R&B music by using (what were at the time) cutting-edge synthesizers in place of conventional instruments, charting a course that would be followed by successors such as Prince and The Gap Band. "Superstition" stomps, obviously. The tight songwriting of "You Are the Sunshine" keeps it from being too lightweight. "I Believe (When I Fall in Love It Will Be Forever" is a minor classic. "Tuesday Heartbreak" is solid but not stellar. "Big Brother" gets a big lift from its interesting arrangement. Some of these songs are loosely structured (e.g. "You Got It Bad Girl") or overly complex (e.g. "Blame It On The Sun") which blunts their impact. "Maybe Your Baby" is a long mostly two-chord jam that sounds like it was more fun to make than to listen to. "You and I (We Can Conquer the World)" honestly would have been better as a straight piano ballad without the sci-fi synthesizer embellishments.

Sounds more like an audiobook with low-key musical accompliment. What melodies there are vary little from track to track. Chord choices are pretty mundane, not a surprising moment to be found. (And yes, I know the backstory of this album but it still doesn't excuse what's in the grooves.)

Featuring nonstop vocalizing over repetitive jams, this album wore out its welcome *fast*. There's so much going on in the vocals that there's no real focus to the songs. On top of that, the verses and choruses (within the same song) often share the same chord progressions, which robs these songs of any sense of forward motion and causes these already-long songs to drag on even longer. D'Angelo pulls off the one-man band stunt well, and the production and execution are well done, but ultimately this album seems like a stylistic exercise, an attempt to make something that *sounds* great. Too bad the same amount of effort wasn't put into fleshing out the songs.

This lightweight album is not rough enough to be punk and not weird enough to be avant-garde, but instead takes an overly-safe middle path. Aside from "Our Lips Are Sealed" (better done by Fun Boy Three), there's not much to get excited about here.

This EDM album is muscular and sophisticated at the same time. Immaculately produced, it *sounds* like a million bucks. Containing a number of top-notch tracks (such as "Cobra Bora" and the titanic "Pacific 202"), perhaps its greatest flaw is not being able to sustain that level of quality across the entire record. *90* opens with a couple of forgettable tracks but then ups the game with the propulsive "Cobra Bora", followed by the centerpiece of the album, the "Pacific 202" version of the group's hit "Pacific State" - a magnificent track that is both energetic and serene at the same time. Following that, "Donkey Doctor" is solid but displays its Kraftwerk influence a little too plainly. Penultimate track "Sunrise" heads into chillout territory and would have made for a fine album closer (though oddly that slot is given over the bizarro "The Fat Shadow - Pointy Head Mix", a brief and incongruous slice of clattering drums and sci-fi sound effects).

The songs on the album are ok, but nothing here remotely approaches the quality of Mayfield's best work.

*EVOL* finds the members of Sonic Youth bangin' and clangin' away on their respective instruments in an attempt to make some sort of manicured noise, but unfortunately the end product doesn't add up to much. Lead track "Tom Violence" starts to build up a head of steam but the loses focus by heading into a ditch for its middle third. Kim Gordon's subdued vocals on "Shadow of a Doubt" aim for an air of noir-ish mystery but instead sound affected. On "Starpower" her vocals are reminiscent of Nico's work with The Velvet Underground but flatter and less tuneful. The spoken-word "In the Kingdom #19" is also reminiscent of VU but comes across like undercooked beat poetry. "Green Light" has a steady pulse for a couple of verses and then pointlessly digresses into formless guitar noise. After a thumpin' and bumpin' first half that sounds like it was recorded in a warehouse, "Secret Girl" busts out a surprisingly pretty keyboard part and another overly-dramatic Gordon vocal. Not to be outdone, Thurston Moore takes a turn over-emoting in the subsequent track "Marilyn Moore". All is not lost though, because album closer "Expressway to Yr Skull" (aka "Madonna, Sean and Me") manages to sustain a full dose of rock 'n' roll energy for the majority of the song and actually earns its long atmospheric outro. It's also the sole moment on the record where the guitar excursions complement the song rather than capsizing it.

Probably the high point of Genesis' career, (nearly) every song on *SEBTP* is fully-developed, and everything within the songs, even the long instrumental parts, keep the songs constantly moving forward. The songs span a wide range of emotions and musical directions, but album holds together as a whole really well. (The only thing that keeps *SEBTP* from being a complete masterpiece is the inclusion of "More Fool Me", a lightweight track with a tentative vocal by Phil Collins.)

The appeal of the tracks on album's first half (especially on those co-produced by DJ Premier) relies solely on the well-chosen samples that provide the backbone of those songs. Aguilera's grit-free vocals, however, wail over the instrumention but leave little impact. Every song seems like it's supposed to be a demonstration of her vocal capabilities, but not every techinque needs to be applied to every syllable. Had she dialed it down from time to time, it would have been far more effective. The last three songs on the first half of the album are Aguilera's observations about her career - they *want* to be bold and powerful statements but instead come across as self-absorbed. (Too bad there isn't a way to delete the fawning voicemail messages from her admirers on "Thank You (Dedication to Fans...)".) The singing on the second half of the album is more straightforward but the songs are largely genre exercises that don't break any new ground. 2

This live album of tango-based instrumentals is expertly played and flawlessly recorded, but the results aren't consistently good. Some of the songs seem like beds for improvisation (especially on the vibraphone) but these are the least interesting tracks; the ones that are more tightly composed are the strongest and most memorable ones. Opening track "Milonga is Coming" has a movie soundtrack feel to it but is too tame to be interesting. "Vibraphonissimo" has lots 'n' lots of soloing on the vibes (no surprise) but is a little too monochromatic. "Little Italy" is pleasant but not much else. The album finally starts cooking with "Nuevo Tango", a precisely-written and crisply-played track which dials back the soloing in favor of well-defined melodies. The following track "Laura's Dream" can't keep up the momentum, however. Fortunately, "Operation Tango" is another tight composition with interesting interplay between the instruments. Closer "La Muerta del Angel" keeps the tempo moving but clutters up the arrangement with overly-busy soloing. (There is also some really weird violin playing on this record, from scratchy staccato parts to sci-fi sounds to police sirens. Bizarre and a bit distracting.)

With music as minimal as this (lots of static one- and two-chord jams), then the melody is going to need to carry the day, but on *Maxinquaye* there's not much to be found. Vocalist Marina Topley-Bird's hook-free vocals leave very little lasting impression. Tricky himself often talk-raps in the background, lending creepy counterpoint. Unlike his idols Public Enemy, Tricky's use of samples is hardly transformative. Instead, he repeats loops in an attempt to conjure up some sense of atmosphere but it doesn't lead anywhere interesting.

Featuring all of the groovy sounds popular in the late 60's (cheesy organs, ratty overdriven guitar, sound effects, etc.), this album is as dated as they come. It just seems...musty. The production on this record is slapdash and the songs are frequently corny. The abrupt changes within the songs and the heavy guitar effects are attempts at making a cutting-edge album but instead end up being grating on the ear. There's too much weird for the sake of weirdness on this record, had they played it straight these tracks might have been more appealing.

*Blue Lines*, the debut album by the Bristol trip-hop group Massive Attack starts off unpromisingly with a couple of repetitive jams that go nowhere, but hits its footing with third track "Blue Lines" where Tricky rhymes over a well-constructed beat reminiscent of A Tribe Called Quest. After digressing with a well-executed cover of "Be Thankful For What You've Got" (whose robust chord progression casts the lesser songs in an unfavorable light), the album heads back into hip-hop territory with the strong but overlong "Five Man Army". The album's centerpiece, "Unfinished Sympathy", features dramatic chords, a compelling lead vocal from Shara Nelson and a complex beat, all of which gels into a sophisticated whole. "Daydreaming" is a solid track has Tricky on the mic again, with vocal embellishments by Nelson. "Lately" finds the album retreating back into a repetitive groove that never reaches escape velocity. Closing track "Hymn Of The Big Wheel" takes an unexpectedly upbeat turn but feels misplaced after the darker tone of the rest of the album. 3

This album shows flashes of adventurousness, but for the most part plays it safe. Most of the songs (such as "Save Me", "Outside Myself" and even lead single "Constant Craving") take very few risks and come across and tame and predictable. There a few exceptions: "Season Of Hollow Soul" is a bright spot, in which lang's voice is more expressive than on the other tracks and the songwriting is more dramatic. "Miss Chatelaine" and "So It Shall Be" are also a cut above the rest. On the whole, lang's voice is *technically* good, but her style takes a cautious middle path - it lacks any kind of much-needed grit on one hand, and on the other hand it is so stylistically limited that it sounds generic at times. (At least she sings the songs straight and doesn't overdo it.) The arrangements on this album are tasteful but rarely get interesting. It's well-played by talented musicians but along the way there are the occasional sparks that demonstrate that it could have been so much more.

Nelson Riddle's arrangements on this album are utterly hyperactive, with horns and strings cartoonishly jumping out in every direction, *seemingly* trying their hardest to steal the spotlight from Ol' Blue Eyes. Two things prevent this: one, Sinatra's voice is squarely up front in the mix, and two, he sings with absolute confidence and control. Lesser voices might have been overwhelmed by the barrage of instruments, but Sinatra is completely in charge. Even though most of the songs on this album are from the 30's and 40's, Sinatra's delivery is thoroughly timeless. What detracts from the whole enterprise though, is the ridiculous, gimmicky (and horribly dated) big band accompaniment which renders this album both tedious and exhausting to listen to.

On this album, Waits uses a range of different and distinct vocal styles, sometimes pushing his voice into unbelievably raspy territory. And yet it all works as a whole, as he deftly matches his vocal style to the content of each song (such as his bluesy wail on "Jesus Gonna Be Here" and his more straightforward delivery on the ballad "A Little Rain"). In addition, even at his most stylized, Waits singing stays solidly melodic, which keeps the songs grounded. The adventurousness in this album doesn't reside in the songwriting (which is uniformly good but not earthshattering) but rather in the wild instrumentation, in which Waits and his fellow musicians hold up a funhouse mirror to traditional American musical forms.

If a band's music consists of ultra-basic chord progressions and singsong melodies over simplistic, repetitive beats, they better have some secret sauce to compensate for that, but Cornershop doesn't deliver the goods. The album aims for a loose feel but comes across as unstructured, a hodgepodge of vocal and instrumental numbers with no rhyme or reason. There are a few decent tracks. "We're in Yr Corner" has muscle but overstays its welcome by a third. "It's Indian Tobacco My Friend" conjures up an eerie atmosphere with its vocal and strings samples over a beat laden with dub effects.

A pale mimicry of established blues and soul forms, this regressive and backwards-looking record has little new to offer, especially in the context of the revolutionary transformations that were happening to soul and R&B at the start of the 1970's.

An absolutely transcendent record, the beauty of this album is that it takes folk as its basis, but transforms and modernizes the sound of it without being glossy or overly polished. A gifted melodicist, lead singer and songwriter Robin Pecknold sings in a direct and clear voice without being flashly. Lyrically, the stories he tells through the songs on this album are vivid and relatable.

No wonder people got mad when Dylan "went electric". The first half of this album (the so-called "electric side") is bookended by the great "Subterranean Homesick Blues" and the energetic-but-bizarro "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream", but in between those two songs it's a hard slog. Dylan mostly sticks to repetitive blues structures, and his backing band plays in a ramshackle, rudimentary style that frankly borders on amateurish. Arrangements are nowhere to be found, it's just everybody-playing-all-at-once-all-the-time, reducing everything to featureless mismash. The "acoustic side" (featuring Dylan mostly alone on guitar and harmonica) fares much better. Here he branches out beyond basic blues chords, which gives each song its distinctive stamp. "Gates of Eden" has moments of tension and release, which give the song a dramatic character. "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" has a sophisticated decending chord progression at its heart and features some of Dylan's most potent lyrics. An unnecessary bass part intrudes in "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue" but it's not enough to derail a song that serves as a fine album closer.

Perhaps the most outstanding thing on this reggae album is how the complex, intricate arrangements and the sharp, expert playing combine into a propulsive sound with a lot of character. Tosh is a confident, expressive singer, and this record contains some terrific songs ("No Sympathy", "Why Must I Try" and "Till Your Well Runs Dry"). On the downside, many of the other songs rely too much on repetitive structures, consigning them to the "also ran" category: for example, tracks like "Burial" and "Brand New Second Hand" are content to amble across a single loop of chords for their entire duration, dulling their impact. "Igziabeher (Let Jah Be Praised" and title track "Legalize It" reduce things down ever further, resulting in simplistic two-chord jams (with the former almost redeemed by an dramatic piano part and the latter containing dubious health claims about a certain controlled substance 😀).

R&D team-created corporate product masquerading as personal statement.

Dinosaur Jr.'s third album has everything: distorted guitar chords strung together with no real direction, flat vocals, lackadaisical melodies, barely understandable lyrics, nothing resembling an actual riff or a hook... Frontman J Mascis is in the producer's chair for this album but somehow manages to oversee an absolutely *terrible* mix in which the submerged vocals sound completely disconnected from the instruments. (This album *might* would have benefitted from an outside producer who *possibly* could have been able to sort out this record and deliver a decent mix but we'll never know.)

The beats are competent. The production is solid but isn't anything exceptional. Common's flow isn't particularly distinctive and his lyrics aren't memorable.

An amazing marriage of (subdued) pop melodies and sequenced electronic sounds and rhythms, this groundbreaking record sounds as fresh as it did as it was originally released.

Elvis' vocal prowess is in full force on this record but, aside from a few exceptional songs ("Gentle on My Mind", "Any Day Now", "In The Ghetto"), his titanic voice overmatches the largely run-of-the-mill material. Perhaps in an attempt to keep up with The King's vocals, the production on this record is often over the top (such as on "I'm Movin' On" and "Long Black Limousine", the latter of which has multiple (!) ascending key changes), with the results being more Vegas than Memphis.

This album isn't groundbreaking in any way - it's fairly easy to draw direct lines from this record back to The Kinks and The Jam, two obvious forebears. In addition, the singer's voice isn't particularly distinctive and the arrangements don't vary much from song to song, so sonically nothing really stands out. There are a few decent songs scattered throughout ("Caught By The Fuzz", "Strange Ones", "Time") but overall the record suffers from being too much of being an imitation of other, better bands.

Proof positive that the shadow of the Beatles looms large over British rock music, the first half of this album takes its cues not only from late-period Beatles albums but also from post-Beatles progeny like ELO, without building on either of them in any significant way, though. As the record progresses, it trades the Beatles influence for other touchstones from pop and rock history. "No Sympathy" steers towards Blind Faith territory (albeit with a bizarro electronic coda). "Juxtaposed with U" is a string-heavy number that swipes its lush arrangement from Philly soul. This is obviously an ambitious record, but to pull off an enterprise like this, you need more ideas than to just stripmine British rock from the past few decades. If singer Gruff Rhys at least had an interesting voice, it might have provided a solid center to these songs, but absent that, the record comes off as hollow.

Del Rey is in fine vocal form on the album but co-producer Jack Antonoff torpedoes the proceedings here. He does his best to approximate the sound of previous LDR records but his songwriting contribtions fall grossly short of the mark. Nothing on this record approaches the sense of mystery or weirdness found on *Born to Die* or *Ultraviolence*.

First off, the production on this album is fantastic. The bass-heavy mix (with trebly guitars riding over top) is peculiar, but it works. The playing is also top notch, especially that of drummer Gary Whelan who holds everything tightly together. Vocalist Shaun Ryder talks, raps and chants over the pounding, repetitive (but hypnotic) music, with only the barest melodies showing up here and there, making him the somewhat far-removed cousin of The Fall's Mark E. Smith. Like Smith, Ryder has an anti-charisma that makes him compelling to listen to. This is an upbeat, weird and occasionally obnoxious album by a band with an idiosyncratic vision. It's certainly not a major masterpiece, but it does qualify as being a minor classic.

Some of the songs on this album are decent ("Wonderwall", "Don't Look Back In Anger", "Champagne Supernova") but nearly everything on this record is performed in hamfisted, overblown way that it becomes exhausting across the 50 minute running time. The graceless, dynamics-free mix also pushes the guitars *way* up to the front on many of the tracks, to the detriment of the other instruments.

Utterly inessential (which is made even worse by its 71-minute running time). On side 1, Stephen Stills sings the blues over competently-played but unimaginative songs. Side 2's tracks are country and bluegress genre exercises (in which Stills' voice somehow mysteriously acquires a twang). Side 3 ventures into laid-back rock territory with no discernable direction ("Move Around" does have some groovy synthesizer sounds though). Stills toughens his voice up once again for the mostly forgettable blues-inflected rock songs on side 4, though the band does manage to whip up some actual rock and roll energy on the latter half of "The Treasure (Take One)".

*Amnesiac* is the sound of Radiohead trying hard to not repeat itself in the wake of *OK Computer*. This album turns the band's sound inside-out, empasizing what used to lurk in the background and eschewing many of the elements that made up their mid-to-late 90's sound. The aim of this album seems to be to use the most minimal amount of instrumention as possible and yet be able to convey some sort of emotion or feeling. The vocal melodies are less conventional also, almost as though singer Thom Yorke is using his voice for texture rather than serving as the focal point of the songs. The results, however, are often more admirable than enjoyable. The album as a whole conjures up an atmosphere of mental dislocation, but because the individual *songs* are so skeletal, not many of them have a strong emotional impact when taken on their own. Only the more fleshed-out songs (such as "Pyramid Song", "You And Whose Army?" and "Knives Out") come close to having some distinct emotional punch.

Grating, chirpy indie pop with totally unnecessary strings 'n' flutes layered on top. A mostly predictable retread of British indie rock and pop from the 80's, there are very few surprising or innovative moments on this album (unless you consider randomly aping Black Sabbath riffs groundbreaking). In addition, the poor mix reduces vocalist Nina Persson's voice to thin whisper most of the time. In the midst of all this, there a couple of standout tracks. "Step On Me" actually has some muscle and a decent chorus. "Losers" has a solid melody and a dramatic arrangement that thankfully ditches the twee sound that plagues the rest of this record. 2/5

The three members of Sebadoh split songwriting and singing duties on this album, leading to wildly uneven results. The Lou Barlow-penned and sung tracks are top-notch. His vocals are heartfelt and the songwriting is thoughtful and nuanced. The production on these songs also really makes them shine. The contributions of the other two band members aren't up to the same level of quality, though. The Eric Gaffney songs are wacky sub-Devo semi-hardcore numbers that sit incongruously next to Barlow's more sophisticated songs. The Jason Lowenstein tracks suffer from Lowenstein's undistinguished vocals.

This album of Brazilian music might have been eye-opening to an international audience in 1964, but because the sound of bossa nova has been absorbed into not only American culture but also other cultures (such as with Japan's Shibuya-kei sound), its capacity to surprise and intrigue is somewhat diminished. The musicianship on this record is solid but everything on this album is played in such a low-key way that on the whole it's more pleasant than truly engaging. (The mix also drains away a potential source of energy by shoving the drummer all the way over to one side and turning his parts way down.) The moments where Getz' saxophone takes center stage are the high points because they inject some much-needed excitement into the songs.

This album is competently played and well-produced, but basically consists of 60s soundtrack clichés layered on top of run-of-the-mill songs.

Anita Baker has the pipes and all, but the music on this album is a toothless, gutless version of R&B that's unlistenable.

On the plus side, this is a progressive, visionary and forward-thinking record. The vocal and instrumental arrangements are innovative and interesting. Standout tracks include "I Want To Take You Higher", "Everyday People" and the album's title track. On the minus side, there's *way* too much repetitive jamming, the worst offender being "Sex Machine", a 13-minute track that takes up an entire third of the record and left me wondering how to pull the plug.

Certainly not a terrible record, but often invokes the ghosts of other, better albums. The vocalist in particular sounds like he's aping Tom Verlaine on some songs and Howard Devoto on others. The tracks have lots o' rock & roll swagger but aren't particularly groundbreaking.

This album finds Cocteau Twins at the height of their powers. The band's sound (which is practically in a genre of its own) reaches full flower on these glorious and mesmerizing tracks.

The music on this record is often stripped down and minimal, and to the degree that this album succeeds, it does so largely on the strength of Iggy Pop's personality. "Dum Dum Boys" is the high point of this album, a track in which Pop looks back on his days with The Stooges.

These are well-crafted and interesting songs. The production is very good, though sometimes the overly fussy arrangements are off-putting. Vocalist (and songwriter) Neil Hannon is singing in character on this album, which mostly works but is a little too mannered on some of the tracks.

A "too many cooks" record, the 10 songs here pull in a number of different directions, leaving the album with no cohesive center. There are a couple of terrific Brian Wilson co-written tracks ("'Til I Die" and "Surf's Up") and pair of Carl Wilson co-written tracks ("Long Promised Road" and "Feel Flows") that represent a step forward for the Beach Boys sound. On the other hand, it also contains a number of clumsy attempts at social commentary (including the bizarre 50s-ish throwback "Student Demonstration Time") and some corny tracks that should have stayed in the vault ("Take A Load Off Your Feet", "A Day In The Life Of A Tree"). The band deserves credit for trying to move forward but this album contains just a few too many missteps.

Dull, pretentious talk-singing over uninspired musical backing. The dry production on the vocal makes it all the more insufferable.

On *Metal Box*, Public Image Ltd. retain the anger and anarchic spirit of punk but pursue an entirely different direction musically, a fusion of dub-inflected basslines, Krautrock-influenced instrumentation and John Lydon's unique approach to vocals. A solid rhythm section holds down the bottom end, leaving space for Keith Levene's guitar and synthesizer experimentation. While most of the tracks are exceptional, not all of them are entirely compelling, and the instrumentals (with the exception of "Radio 4") aren't terribly essential. On the whole though, this is an audacious album that shows the strength of the band's vision.

Deserves points for managing to be a compelling album despite having a number of tracks that aren't conventionally-structured songs. On the other hand, at least two tracks are outliers that don't fit in as well as the rest: "The Great Gig In The Sky" and "Money", the latter of which breaks from the other songs thematically and musically sounds like it wandered in from another album.

Congratulations boys, you've managed to take the worst aspects of both punk and hard rock and distill it all down into a singularly unpalatable brew. Good job!

Sounds like something you'd listen to in order to tide yourself over until the next Bowie album comes out.

Energetic rock reminiscent of the singer's late 70's / early 80's work. Bowie sounds forceful and committed on these tracks and the playing is top-notch. Many of the songs are short on melodic and instrumental hooks though, leaving them somewhat less than memorable.

This is a beautifully-done record with oodles of melodic invention and immaculate arrangements. The songwriting on this album is uniformly very good, though a few of the tracks (like the jazzy number "The Man Who Sailed Around His Soul") are stylistic outliers that, while solid on their own, sit strangely next to the more pastoral cuts that dominate this record. However, as good as this album is, the lack of percussive punch on this record keeps it from attaining the heights of other XTC albums like *Black Sea* and *English Settlement*, both of which paired acoustic guitars and powerhouse drums to better effect. *Skylarking* is like a pleasant stroll in the garden, but lacks the thrills and intensity of the busy world outside the garden walls.

When Cindy Wilson sings "Why won't you dance with me? / I'm not no Limburger" on "Dance This Mess Around", it's both hilarious and cuts right to the bone at the same time. It's emblematic of this record as whole in that underneath the fun there are darker, more tense undercurrents, both musically and lyrically. A quintessential New Wave record, this visionary debut record is tight, crisp and sharply-played, topped off with terrific, personality-filled vocal performances by all three singers.

Boring, predictable chord progressions. A real snooze.

The songs on this album mostly consist of rambling melodies over nondescript chords, gussied up with fake Americana. Only "In A Station" and "Chest Fever" provide any spark of surprise.

Some decent rock tunes here, undercut by the swampy production and a drummer who can't calm down.

This album contains a number of beautifully-written and arranged songs, but the weird mix often does a poor job of meshing Alison Goldfrapp's close-mic'd and treated voice with the orchestral instruments behind her. (And I don't know what's going on with "Deer Stop", but she sounds positively spitty on that track.) The glitchy synth effects that also appear throughout are an interesting idea that's successful only some of the time. A promising but uneven debut.

Co-produced by Arcade Fire and Markus Dravs, the band concocts a big, anthematic sound on this record but also manages to sneak in some weirder sonic elements. Doesn't break a ton of new ground but the performances are convincing and the songwriting is solid.

Generic electronica. Contains only the thinnest of ideas, all needlessly stretched into 5-7 minute tracks. Best thing that can be said of it that the production is pristine.

This album is sonically groundbreaking, but the fractured songs on the first half of the record are somewhat uneven. Tracks like "Breaking Glass" and "Always Crashing In The Same Car" are stunning in their originality but others like "What In The World" are disjointed experiments don't always gel. Bowie's decision to devote the second half of the album to moody, mostly wordless instrumentals is a gamble that largely works. What's remarkable about these tracks is that they still have the imprint of Bowie's personality even though his literal voice is mostly absent.

Though it's often called a country rock album, *Sweetheart Of The Rodeo* leans heavily towards the country side of the equation, and in doing so doesn't bring much new to the table. Only "One Hundred Years From Now" comes anywhere close to a country/rock fusion (and is the most successful track on the album).

Colorless, melody-free alt rock with an insufferable lead singer.

This garage rock/roots rock-inspired record is reasonably well-played and the production is sharp. It has a couple of standout tracks ("Havana Gang Brawl" and "Nightmare Part II") and it gets a bonus point for having a saxophone and some decent vocal harmonies. In general though, it doesn't have much else to distinguish itself from the great number of albums that covered the same musical territory in the early 2000's.

Some of the songs on this soundtrack album have a certain amount of dramatic intensity (such as "Freddie's Dead" and "Pusherman") but the rest of them don't have as much impact outside of the context of the movie.

This album tries to mix traditional tango instrumentation with modern production techniques such as dub effects and sampling but doesn't end up accomplishing much of anything.

As is the case with many of their other albums, Deerhunter creates a complete sonic world on *Halcyon Digest* with fairly simple ingredients. On their best tracks the band delivers solid pop songs in a post-punk style without lapsing into the clichés of either genre. On this particular record the songwriting is somewhat inconsistent but the high points (including the epic "Desire Lines") are stellar.

The quieter passages of this album have a low-key ambience that's appealing. The fact that the music is often centered around single notes or repeating melodic structures gives the pieces an often-hypnotic sound and allows to more complex instrumental passages on top to really shine.

For members of Black Flag, niceties such as vocal melodies must have seemed like concessions to The Man, so they're nowhere to be found on this album. Henry Rollins rants 'n' chants his way through these tracks while Greg Ginn aimlessly riffs on guitar. The rotten mix and overall shoddy production doesn't do the material any favors either. One of aims of punk was to reinvent rock and roll, but on *Damaged*, Black Flag's mission of discarding everything that seemingly stands in the way of "self-expression" is like throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

Nick Drake was a gifted songwriter with a distinctive voice (and terrific guitar finger-picking skils) but the songs on this record would have been much better served by pared-down arrangements rather than the overly-busy ones here. The arrangement on "Hazey Jane II" (especially with its cheesy horns) is directly at odds with Drake's guitar and voice. On the otherwise-beautiful "At The Chime Of A City Clock" the sax player incessantly tries to barge into the spotlight. On "Poor Boy" it sounds like the backing musicians are playing an entirely different song than what Drake is singing. There are good songs here but a lot of this album seems like a lost opportunity.

Siouxsie And The Banshees were responsible for an outstanding string of singles, but their album cuts unfortunately don't live up to that same standard. *Juju* is no exception. This album contains two exceptional songs (the magnificent "Spellbound" and the hypnotic-but-lyrically-bizarre "Arabian Knights") but the remaining tracks are fairly generic post-punk that's long on atmosphere but short on hooks.

Copy-and-paste bloop-bleep music with an aggro "edge". *Might* have been revolutionary at the time, but now sounds like something a 14-year-old with pirated copy of Ableton could crank out in an hour.

The Finn brothers' songwriting here lacks the spark or magic of their previous efforts in Split Enz. Most everything here is oh-so-pleasant (not a good quality for a rock record) with the exception of "Fame Is" which manages to bust through the blandness. Mitchell Froom's hyper-crystalline production also robs the songs (even the few tougher-sounding ones) of any kind of punch. The chimey guitars on this record come across as toothless. (Dude also has no idea how to properly mix the drum parts - does the snare *really* need to be louder than the singer?)

This album is the obvious result of a number of very specific aesthetic choices, the apparent aim of which was to upend a number of rock conventions such as having clearly-delineated lead and rhythm guitar parts, and having the lead vocal as the central element of the song. Fair enough. But does it work? Well, the trouble is that those conventions came into being because they're *effective*. If you rip up the rulebook, you better bring something else to the table, but Ride fails to do so on *Nowhere*. Compared to albums like *Psychocandy* and *Loveless* which *did* break with rock's norms (the former with its wall of feedback, for example), Ride's debut record seems like a half-step towards well, nowhere in particular.

It's "Alive"! For all of the talk of grunge being a fusion of punk and hard rock (not that that was a particularly good idea to start out with), there isn't anything resembling punk rock on *Ten*. Instead, this album is Frankenstein's monster of 70's classic rock moves, all competently played but without making any improvements on the source material. Unless a band is going to take an existing genre and infuse it with something new (see *Separation Sunday* or *Pack Up The Cats*, for example), it's going to be little more than a retread. (And then, after it's almost all over, there's an awesome, atmospheric hidden track with a fretless bass part that pays homage to Mick Karn. More unexpected elements like that would have made for a much more interesting record.)

One absolutely outstanding track, a few reasonably good numbers, some weird stuff that doesn't really gel, a track with an annoying keyboard riff that quickly wears out its welcome and (lastly) a bid for arena rock immortality that sees Prince dumbing down his considerable songwriting skills.

This album is so allergic to the idea of emotional commitment that it can barely bring itself to use actual chords, instead substituting single-note guitar lines that could have been written by someone with a week's worth of guitar lessons. The no-effort, monochromatic vocals additionally emphasize the emotionally-neutered nature of this record. The drum machine programming is so minimal here that it probably took an hour, tops. Really, if you can barely muster the energy to write and record your tunes, why bother at all?

Mitchell sings with absolute confidence and is in total control of her remarkable voice on this record but her jazz-inflected vocal melodies here are so elaborate and complex that they render the songs hard to relate to. "Song For Sharon", perhaps the best track on this album, is not coincidentally one of the most melodically straightforward tracks. More power to Mitchell for following her muse but keeping up with her on this trip down narrow and winding roads is a rough ride.

Yet another album of copy-and-paste-and-paste-and-paste electronica. C'mon y'all, repeating a 2- or 4-bar loop with minor variations for 3 minutes does not a song make. (The track "Destroy Rock & Roll" is good for a laugh though, so Mylo gets a bonus point for that even though the preacher sample is doing all of the heavy lifting.)

Sinatra is in fine form here and the tasteful arrangements do the songs justice but the album suffers from having nearly every song at the same sleepy tempo.

Even though R.E.M. were supposedly trying to reinvent themselves with this record, the music here doesn't break much new ground, as much of it has the same simple guitar strumming and picking patterns common to a lot of other R.E.M. songs. (Even when Peter Buck switches to mandolin, he's still in default mode.) Additionally, on a lot of the tracks Stipe's vocal melodies don't mesh well with the music ("Pop Song 89" and "Stand" excepted, where he keeps it more straightforward). The acoustic tracks are a mixed bag - "The Wrong Child" is overcooked, for example, but on "Hairshirt" all of the pieces come together perfectly.

The core concept of this album is about the mechanization of human activity, but the application of this idea to the music itself renders a lot of it lifeless or inert. The electronic percussion, for example, serves as little more than a metronome. This is not to say that the songs themslves aren't good (for the most part), as is evidenced by the superior versions of the *Man-Machine* tracks that appear on *The Mix* and *Minimum-Maximum* (especially the transcendent version of "Neon Lights" on the latter) but the deliberately flattened performances on this record often don't make for engaging listening.

Outta the gate with a hell of a collection of songs, this expertly-produced record has only one drawback: everything is played *so* precisely that it's just a li'l too stiff-sounding at times. A minor quibble, though.

With a distinct absence of decent songs, the VU goes off into the ozone on the their second album. The throw-it-against-the-wall-and-see-if-it-sticks approach flops in nearly every case and results in some singularly unpleasant stuff, including the quease-inducing tracks "The Gift" and "Lady Godiva's Operation", and four pointless minutes of guitar feedback on "I Heard Her Call My Name". The trash production values on this record only seal the deal, with just "Here She Comes Now" and "Sister Ray" (barely) managing to rise above the muck.

The music on this album is just plain boring - there's no sense of surprise, no magic, no spark whatsoever. Morrissey's longtime musical collaborators, Alain Whyte and Boz Boorer, have once again provided the singer with the blandest of backing tracks (all played in a simplistic sub-glam rock style) and even though Morrissey is a gifted melodicist, he can't breathe any life into these plain-vanilla numbers (with the exception of "I'm Not Sorry", the only track on this record that distinguishes itself).

SY's fourth album is more let's-make-weird-noises-with-guitars racket that sounds like it was more entertaining (?) to make than to listen to. The tortured-psyche lyrics on this record are also delivered in such a ponderous way that they're more laughable than anything else.

The musicianship and the craft that went into this record are exceptional but the subject matter and the tone of it leaves me cold.

Pretty damn good for a debut album but not perfect. The singles from this album ("Zero"/"Alison"/"Red Shoes") plus "Welcome To The Working Week", "Mystery Dance" and "Waiting For The End Of The World" are all knockout punches, full of stunning wordplay and inventive song structures. However, the also-rans on this album (like "No Dancing" and "I'm Not Angry") are shadows of other, better EC tunes and can be skipped without missing out on much.

Utterly pointless Arcade Fire rip-off. C'mon guys, let's try a little harder next time. (Oops, guess there won't be a next time.)

Jeez, this is some dire stuff. "Dark Star" is a 23-minute track in which everybody forgets they are supposed to be playing a *song*. On "St. Stephen" the multiple colorless vocalists are no substitute for one good one. On "The Eleven" the everyone-soloing-at-once adds up to absolutely nothing. The band suprisingly manages to put together a coherent riff at the beginning of "Turn On Your Love Light" before it devolves into a mess of cruddy singing and drum improvisation. It's on this song that the Dead commit the biggest sin - they drag out a snappy two-and-a-half minute number into an insufferable 15 minutes. That ain't rock 'n' roll, boys. Let's see, where were we? Oh yeah, side 4. "Death Don't Have No Mercy" and neither do the band as they plod through this track with lots o' go-nowhere noodling and poorly recorded vocals. The penultimate cut on this already self-indulgent set is "Feedback" which is a non-song consisting of (yes, you guessed it) guitar feedback. In the hands of someone like Neil Young or Jimi Hendrix this might have been an exciting idea but here it just flops around like a dying fish.

"Help Me", Free Man In Paris" and "Raised In Robbery" are the high points of this record, and it's no coincidence that those are the tracks that adhere most closely to conventional song structures. The other cuts on this record mostly avoid choruses and refrains, much their detriment - they're sophisticated and jazzy, but because they don't have solid hooks they aren't very memorable. (Nice cover of "Twisted", though.)

Best I can say is that the musicianship is competent and that the overall mood is "pleasant", but otherwise this jazz album is barely more than wallpaper music.

Average-sounding R&B with hideous, artless lyrics (by Gaye) griping about his divorce proceedings. No thanks, my friend. Is only entertaining when Gaye stops yammering on about attorney fees and lets the sax player do his thing (such as on "Is That Enough"), moments that are few and far between.

A well-crafted record that at times operates more like a machine on autopilot than anything else. Contains a handful of above-average pop songs (but nothing really compelling), a lot of generic PSB stuff and some goofy songs that aren't much more than throwaways.

With layers of rhythmic vocals over drum-heavy backing and peppered with electronics and skronky guitar, this album wanders around in the expanse between dance-punk and experimental rock. On the tracks where the band settles into a groove (such as "There's Always Room On The Broom" and "They Don't Want Your Corn, They Want Your Kids"), their bizarre vision takes flight. "Read The Book That Wrote Itself" is an intriguing near-ambient piece and the final track "Flow My Tears The Spider Said" is a tranquil number that brings the album gracefully to a close. However, in between those songs are noisier, less structured tracks that aim more towards the experimental but never really gel.

Absolutely smashing fusion of avant-garde experimentation and pop sensibilities. Everything on this record is sure-footed and purposeful, even as Eno and his fellow musicians are pushing at the boundaries of rock music.

Two of the singles off this album, "Never Let Me Down Again" and "Behind The Wheel", are pulse-raising stompers, perfect marriages of melody and kinetic energy. ("Nothing" also gets honorable mention.) The rest of this album doesn't reach those heights though - too many of the other tracks are overly stiff and/or overwrought. The earnest singing on a lot of these songs also bogs down the proceedings.

Worth hearing for the oft-sampled track "Apache" but you can pretty much lift up the needle after that (seeing that the rest of the album is corny 70s horn-driven pseudo-cop show soundtrack instrumental rock).

A ramshackle mishmash of various American musical styles that sounds more like a field recording than something that was done in an actual recording studio. Central to this collection is singer/songwriter Mac Rebennack's alter ego "Dr. John", a persona (verging on stereotype) who isn't compelling enough to carry a single song, let alone an entire album.

Unlike the band's debut album, which tried to get by with just attitude and volume (and fell short), the songwriting on their second record is more complex and sophisticated, but without losing any rock & roll punch. The Beatles/Kinks/Jam roots are still evident, but this record is a big step forward towards establishing their own identity.

Does a reasonable job of generating a mood of doom 'n' gloom out of simple repeating patterns but nothing really rises to the level of a memorable hook. Vocal melodies seem practically interchangeable from song to song.

When a voice at the beginning of this record declares "the world is sound" over New Age flutes 'n' synthesizers, it's a clear sign that this is going to be some pretentious drivel and *hoo boy* is it. Content-wise, it's little more than repetitious one- and two-bar drum loops with random samples (and flute noodling) on top. Would be fine if it were a demo reel designed to show off Singh's skills with Pro Tools but otherwise has scant entertaiment value.

Working with what by now would be considered fairly primitive synthesizers and drum machines, Soft Cell at times makes some startlingly original music on this album, including the stupendous "Bedsitter", the titanic "Say Hello, Wave Goodbye" and the global smash "Tainted Love". Those tracks are in the sweet spot of this record - however, the remaining tracks are less successful, either because of cluttered, overly-busy arrangements (like on "Entertain Me") or dull, minimal backing tracks that rely too much on vocalist Marc Almond to carry the show (such as "Youth").

Listening to this record, it made me shed a tear...for the loss of the dynamic, forward-looking version of U2 that made *Boy* and *October*, fantastic albums that sounded like nothing that had ever come before. By contrast, the grossly oversimplified arena rock lunkheadedness of *The Joshua Tree* is unforgiveable. Every song sounds like it was designed to get those lighters in the air. Oh, and the emoting. So much emoting.

Contains the worst that late 60s rock had to offer: ratty guitars, earnest folky harmonies, bloozy faux-tough lead vocals, thin reverb-coated drums - all in service of songs that are strictly also-rans. Stick this one back in the time capsule.

The one bright spot of this album is the innovative use of lead and harmony vocals on a lot of the tracks - it's an interesting contrast against the distorted guitars. However, the music itself is a fairly textbook set of metal riffs that don't serve to distinguish the band from any of their contemporaries. Dragging out the songs to 5 or 6 minutes doesn't help either.

Winwood is a talented singer and songwriter whose skills shine in other settings (e.g. Traffic, Blind Faith) but there's no justification for using those selfsame skills to make this glossy, bloodless pastiche of R&B. The production on this album is state-of-the-art (or at least it was for the time) but confuses the notion of "sounds good" with "is good".

Taking its cues more from hardcore and metal than first-generation punk, *Smash* cranks up the tempos at the expense of tunefulness. Only "Gotta Get Away" has anything resembling a melody - most everything else seems like a technical exercise in playing at high speed, with the vocals never really meshing with the high-velocity chord changes underneath.

Sounds *exactly* like an album where the songs were composed one or two bars at a time and stitched together Frankenstein-style. Shifts gears within the songs faster than any prog band would ever dare. The net result is that there are barely any grooves or hooks to latch onto, because before the band can settle into any pattern, they've already moved onto something else. (The big exception here is album closer "Veteran's Day Poppy", with its repeating guitar figures - it's the least abstract and most effective cut on the album, made even more so because of its brutal lyrics.) This album is admirable in its intent and execution, but not particularly entertaining to listen to.

Wow, twelve-bar blues over and over and over again. On top of that Clapton does his thang with not a memorable lick to be heard.

Lots of atmosphere and subtle, graceful arrangements, but short on memorable tunes.

One-third of this record consists of regular rock tunes, albeit third-rate all-style-and-no-substance pastiches of 70s-era Rolling Stones. The other two-thirds has dance music producers remixin' and deconstructin' the band's thin material in order to make it funky. Out of the latter, only "Loaded" succeeds - the rest is a borefest of baggy beats and clattering percussion that leaves no impact.

Musically competent mishmash of folky alt rock and various south of the (U.S.) border styles. A lot of care and craft was obviously put into the recording of this album, but the purpose of all of this isn't really evident in the grooves.

2000s folky indie rock that draws from the same well as Fleet Foxes and ends up with similar results, although with more rustic, echo-heavy production. The songs here are adventurous, with complex structures and interesting chords. Not every song hits the mark though, as some are a little too abstract. In addition, the aforementioned production choices unfortunately make the album sound a bit amateurish at times.

Sharp, forward-looking post-punk from one of England's best. Full of melodic hooks and instrumental color. Couples top-notch songcraft (including Howard Devoto's pointed lyrics) with tight, sure-footed performances. Track after track is exceptional (with the minor exception of "Recoil" which seems more like a jam than a complete song).

This album consists basically of long-form tracks that only loosely qualify as songs and instead serve as jumping-off points for a lot of barely-structured jamming. The improvisation here never rises to the level of compelling listening. Gets increasingly ridiculous as it progresses, which is remarkable considering its haphazard start. Sound quality is equally cruddy, with brittle-sounding guitars and poorly-miked drums.