The Leeds junglist tells a story in the wrong order, in the right way.
Last night’s American Idol finale was an exercise in excess.
Manners, is, from start to finish, the product of a full-band collaboration.
B.S. offers nothing that wasn’t already tried on 2001’s Anarchy.
Striking images crop up over the course of Romanian Names, but they do so in isolation.
The album is thick with a humid sense of decaying sexuality, a desperate voraciousness made even grimier by the gritty production.
Blame it on immaturity or ambition, but there’s an overcrowded sloppiness to Polly Scattergood’s songs.
Reintegration Time is a neat, reserved album, if not satisfying as a close approximation of the band’s live sound.
There isn’t one legitimate funky snap in the album’s entire running time.
Follow-ups to staggeringly successful albums are a queer animal.
In the end, the collection’s bevy of elegance, purity, and passion is simply 10 tracks too long.
Metric’s instrumental members are pretty much impeccable.
The album’s musical skeleton is a patchwork that borrows from the influence of folk torchbearers past and present.
Franz Ferdinand seem to have conceived their third album with the express intent of annoying people.
“Cookies and Apple Juice” mixes the filthy and the infantile, typifying an album whose strange humor makes even rote topics seem somewhat fresh.
I’ve always been a trifle suspicious of my love for Andrew Bird.
Right on time for your summer barbecue, Los Straitjackets return with their 12th album of brisk, polished surf rock.
There’s a constant level of virtuosity that Lawson inspires that few other traditional bluegrass groups can match.
Ben Harper has finally made an album that conveys the lived-in groove of his live shows.
Yamin has been saddled with material that’s every bit as inert as the coronation power ballads that Idol winners are contractually bound to sing.
Epiphany has a more modern R&B edge as well as a more unified sound than Michele’s 2007 debut.