We weren’t sure if Madonna could surprise us anymore. Until she did.
Audio Bullys don’t waste energy giving any of their half-baked whims time to develop into songs.
It’s no surprise there isn’t much difference between the singer’s studio creations and her stint on MTV’s once-again resurrected Unplugged.
What’s next? A figurative beard to go with his literal one?
Evans is going to have one hell of a greatest hits CD a few albums down the road, but Real Fine Place is less than essential.
Phair has waived her right to get off so easily by having been fearless and brilliant.
The emotions Allan confronts on his latest album are steeped in a nearly unfathomable complexity.
Tournament Of Hearts is ideally suited to be a left-field commercial success.
The U.S. version of the album has been altered only in the most minor, inconsequential ways.
Is it sort of disingenuous to sanction your own tribute album, and then to party-crash it?
Think of Metric as a poppier Yeah Yeah Yeahs or Breeders and think of Live It Out as another step toward indie-pop splendor.
The deeply felt personal passion that Etheridge displayed on Yes I Am remerges in her new songs.
The album is so stacked that you’d think Lil’ Kim was going away for 12 years, not 12 months.
Some wags would argue that deep-fried shoegazers My Morning Jacket have never really known restraint.
The Magic Numbers sound less like the love children of Teenage Fanclub and more like a not-so-dour Kings of Leon.
Sheryl Crow remains a strong writer and singer, to the extent that Wildflower earns more than just a passing recommendation.
It turns out that all the conspiracy theories and rumors surrounding Fiona Apple’s long-delayed third album were only half-truths.
Gretchen Wilson’s All Jacked Up sounds like a collection of b-sides and outtakes from last year’s Here For The Party.
My Better Self finds singer-songwriter Dar Williams in typically fine voice and form.
Much of Libra harks back to Braxton’s previous ballad-heavy successes.
Guests like hype man du jour Fatman Scoop offer little aside from their apparent contractual obligation to brand Ben-Ari as “the hip-hop violinist.”