The album sees the singer-songwriter moving in a different direction.
Prince reminded the crowd of what a true talent was capable of, throwing the town’s biggest block party, a celebration of musicality.
Enter the Mother of Reinvention. Madonna would probably prefer Mother of Evolution, or even Revolution.
The Empire Strikes First is Bad Religion’s bold and satisfying re-entry into the punk rock fray.
Compared with the bubblegum pop of their debut, Underneath reveals a more mature, guitar-based sound.
JoJo is pretty damn creepy.
I Feel For You is a true pop touchstone.
The album is a wish-you-were-here postcard from the ’80s.
Guitar solos work for the Eagles, not three wispy-voiced Cali girls.
Ramsey’s got the pipes, but she deserves better than this rather pedestrian assemblage of songs.
That’s right, it’s Lynn’s album, so we’ll try to keep the Jack White fawning to a minimum.
Incense and polyester get stale after a while. Unless you’re Lenny Kravitz.
Despite its lack of thematic cohesion, Uh Huh Her is immensely playable.
Múm’s Summer Make Good could be a companion piece to Nicolas Roeg’s Don’t Look Now.
While the hooks here are undeniable, Avril’s lyrics are often vague or archetypical.
The album sounds as if it was indeed created long before daylight.
Katie Melua’s Call Off The Search is no musical Ovaltine.
Coldplay. There, it’s been said.
The album allows Mike Skinner to live—and relive—the minutiae of a failed relationship.
Truth Hurts oozes personality, and the racy, sexy, and mature Ready Now almost completely fills the promise of her debut.
Alanis Morissette’s latest, the pleasantly unambitious So-Called Chaos, forsakes anger for forgiveness and grandeur for simplicity.