We weren’t sure if Madonna could surprise us anymore. Until she did.
See Mystery Lights is by turns buoyantly poppy and eerily satisfying.
You’d be forgiven for confusing Anjulie’s self-titled debut for an album by Nelly Furtado.
Upon first blush, there isn’t much to chew on in BLACKsummers’night. Upon second pass, the absences become haunting.
None of the album’s benign fluff comes close to exhibiting the raw energy Brooke White brought to American Idol
Horehound establishes the Dead Weather as a fully realized band with a sufficiently distinctive point of view.
The reverence that Sweet and Hoffs bring to their performances and arrangements give the record a genuine warmth.
Sparks is a pop artist and makes no bones about it here.
The music is defined by a few overpowering elements rather than its intelligence or melodic dexterity.
As good as Molina is at working with gloom, Josephine is thankfully not a one-note slog through the valley of the shadow of death.
It’s the tracks that play to Son Volt’s strengths that draw the album’s dour shortcomings into sharp relief.
That the material on Leave This Town is clearly so meaningful to Chris makes the experience worse.
Twista remains an acquired taste, and if you haven’t acquired that taste yet, now is probably not the time to try.
Oneida’s Rated O seems to thrive on its own difficulty.
If post-punk revival is the musical equivalent of fast food, then Civilized is most assuredly its Happy Meal.
American Saturday Night stands as perhaps the most consistent set of material Paisley has committed to record.
The lack of stretching is deliberate.
Cazwell’s Eminem-derivative singsong delivery still radiates resolutely masculine pheromones and solid genderqueer credentials.
Teena Marie’s unforced confidence exists outside of the success-failure continuum.
The music of Michael Jackson still serves as a crucible for our various compromises and self-imposed psychological barriers.