The songs rarely cohere into anything greater than the sum of their individual parts.
All the guitars on Palookaville (when they show up) sound like Top Gun Kenny Loggins.
David Byrne and company truly had their fingers on the metronomic pulse of modern culture.
Luckily for Rufus Wainwright, George W. Bush has won a second term.
My Kind of World is unlikely to turn Amber into an album artist.
The New Danger is more a collage than a collective statement.
Poe Little Rich Girl is proof positive that the world may indeed be coming to an end.
Where Our Love Grows will undoubtedly bolster Swing Out Sister’s status as a cult coffeehouse favorite.
The album is filled with radio-ready pop songs that are so slick and overproduced that the personality is virtually polished right off.
It seems politics has become an unavoidable pop fixture.
Astronaut doesn’t necessarily know whether it wants to be Duran Duran ’83 or Duran Duran ’93.
Ray Ray features Saadiq’s signature fusion of sturdy programmed beats, strings, vintage soul melodies, and live guitars.
Harvey has never struck me as an explicitly political artist, but her lyrics are vague enough to welcome multiple interpretations.
The album is intelligent ear candy for those who don’t mind a sugar rush.
Arthur’s new songs are nothing short of breathtaking.
With Scott Stapp gone, Mark Tremonti has a little more freedom to flaunt his guitar skills.
Not one single standard is given a novel twist, and each arrangement seems to have the exact same crescendos and ritardandos.
The album’s closest antecedent is probably the Word Jazz installments of one Ken Nordine.
What is it about Duff exactly that makes us want to scratch our eyes out?
Ciara’s debut doesn’t exactly deliver the, uh, goods.
Recoil neatly combines melody and intensity with a smattering of vaguely political lyrics