A 70s soul homage featuring live musicians and a smooth funk sound that wouldn’t be out of place on a CTI record, Mama's Gun is the female companion to D’Angelo's ”Voodoo,” with which it shares a reactionary pseudo- sophistication that too often substitutes good taste for good tunes.
If there’s such a thing as a buoyant PJ Harvey record, this set of high voltage love songs — Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea — is it.
The group’s first full-length album, Slanted and Enchanted, is brimming with beautiful pop songs, soured a bit by the rhythmic clamor of harder guitar rock.
On Björk second solo album, Post, the ex-Sugarcube finds a bizarre and irresistible connecting point between industrial-disco, ambient-trance, and catchy synth pop.
Loveless ... is simply the most astounding-sounding album produced last year — a collage of voices, looping, and reverberated metallic guitars, and effects guaranteed to convince unprepared listeners their CD players are dying.
What you take away isn’t a guitar riff but Love’s voice. A thick, reedy instrument that makes her sound like the younger, brattier sister of Johnny Rotten, it stands out like a suited IBM executive at Lollapalooza.
For the most part, Funeral is a lovely, uplifting, and often pleasingly grandiose whirl through a panoply of sounds.
His witty lyrics and gruffly gratifying beats on Illmatic draw listeners into the borough’s lifestyle with poetic efficiency.
Frontman Wayne Coyne is a natural fabulist, weaving trippy tall tales within the folds of tricky, heartbreakingly frail arrangements.
Unfortunately, The Low End Theory’s head-trippy hip-hop doesn’t move my rear end on the dance floor — there seems to be little passion at the core. This may be the greatest hip-hop album that will never quicken my pulse.