The singer has yet to discover a sound or sensibility that truly distinguishes her.
For all that Columbia’s PR people are making of Bacharach’s original lyrics, this album is best when it’s cruising wordlessly along.
Descended Like Vultures sounds foremost like the work of a proper band, rather than a DIY effort from one immensely talented guy.
It’s impossible not to view Timeless as anything more than enthusiastic, pitch-perfect karaoke.
I wonder what Nietzsche would say about the throngs who beg musical geniuses to, please, quit while they’re still ahead.
I Am Me isn’t half bad, but it’s only half good.
Animal Collective’s Feels fails to come together as a coherent whole.
What if Mozart and Haydn had joined forces to compose a symphony?
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.