Macromantics
Moments in Movement (Kill Rock Stars)
****

2006 wasn't exactly the year for female or foreign hip-hop after all, was it? The Streets got panned in both the blogs and in ink, an also-ran right from February onward. Lady Sovereign was hyped on MTV and smeared across Reebok ads on city buses, and all that added up to was a Def Jam bust at No. 48 on the Billboard charts. Shystie who? Dizzee Rascal what?

But that's why they play the game, isn't it? And this is what Melbourne, Australia's, Romy Hoffman doesn't seem to be afraid of. This girl was in the States for only a few dates last year as a warm-up for her U.S. tour proper later this year, but allow me this: The way she conquered a bar basement in Lower Manhattan in November for 30 people sold me. Why shouldn't her debut, Moments in Movement, duly follow suit?

The whole stigma thing, that's why. But Kill Rock Stars made the right move when they snatched up the little firecracker from Oz (DJ Amy on the decks and scratching up a storm, mind), and now they're being rewarded for it: A hit down under last year when it was released last September, Moments in Movement is easily the best hip-hop album of the year, foreign, female or otherwise.

It's the first month of the year, sure, and we don't even know what we're in for this year, true. But did you hear first single, "Scorch"? Or Ground Components guesting on the tex-mex jubilee "Dark Side of Dallas"? Or Sage Francis spotting on "Locksmith"? And listen there, her voice isn't obnoxious. In fact, that awkward Aussie accentuation plays to her advantage, something North London will never conquer or comprehend. Yeah, hip-hop didn't have much to savor in '06. But if Moments in Movement is anything to go by, '07 should be a banner year. I've got my fingers crossed. P. Masterson

Sonic Youth
The Destroyed Room (Geffen)
***

Sonic Youth: Torchbearers for the elitist underground and cornerstone for college rock and indie aficionados everywhere. How is it that Thurston, Kim, Lee and Steve still manage to be "so good for this long," as they say? Trick is, they've mellowed out now in their old age and refined their sound. That means their recent albums have all been similar. Remember when Rather Ripped sounded exactly like Sonic Nurse and people still fell for it?

Boy, that was a good one. But here's one better: B-sides and rarities compilation The Destroyed Room doesn't actually sound like those albums. In fact, it sounds more like Sonic Youth than Sonic Youth has recently. The 11 tracks presented here all show a band that's still experimenting and, in many cases, abandoning further development of what could've been some pretty sweet jams. That's not something you've gotten from them lately.

Case in point: "Fire Engine Dream" starts off the album with a 10-minute drone that will have anyone who's not already a fan of the band searching for something else. Like a lot of Sonic Youth's songs, it doesn't really swell or stall, it just lingers like a pleasant haze. The best part? It's no indicator for the rest of the album whatsoever. Only the final song tops out at a longer length (albeit, "The Diamond Sea" is 22 minutes) and while some have structure and form ("Fauxhemian," "Beautiful Plateau"), others are ambiguous: "Campfire" is an ambient noise cut recorded in 1999 that did Black Dice before Black Dice did. "Loop Cat" isn't dissimilar.

The short of it is, The Destroyed Room might be Sonic Youth's most intriguing album in several years. Its unpredictability, its unrefined recording and its erratic nature are what make it so enjoyable to listen to. If just one Sonic Youth purchase a year just isn't doing it for you anymore, ensure The Destroyed Room is on your list of must-haves. P. Masterson

Clipse
Hell Hath No Fury (Re-Up Gang/Zomba)
****

In this fickle rap game, artists are only as big as their last hit. For rap duo Clipse, their last hit came back when Bow Wow was going through puberty. But the brothers from Virginia, Malice and Pusha T, aren’t to blame for their four-year hiatus. They found their careers in quicksand when their recording home, Arista Records, dissolved into Jive Records during the Sony/BMG merger. Label turmoil ensued in a situation Pusha T describes (on their new single, “Mr. Me Too”) as the label powers-that-be “weren’t playing fair at Jive.”

Luckily for Clipse, they managed to stay relevant (by hip-hop standards, anyway) through their critically acclaimed We Got It For Cheap mix tape series. Although it’s been four years since Clipse released their gold-selling debut album Lord Willin’, this mix tape series generated enough buzz to remind rap fans that Clipse were still on top of their game.

Fans weathered years of label drama and pushed-back release dates, but finally, Clipse's highly anticipated Hell Hath No Fury hit shelves. And Clipse did not disappoint. On Hell Hath No Fury, Clipse's articulated, street-savvy lyrics are a perfect match for the Neptunes' exotic production. Even though Clipse's lyrical content is more or less fast-money-fast-cars-fast-women, cocaine innuendos and a slight remorse for their immoral ways, the duo displays a sense of aggressive lyrical prowess that's lacking in much of today's mainstream rap music throughout the album's 12 tracks.

Whether they're patronizing swagger-jackers ("Mr. Me Too"), apologizing for obnoxious behavior ("Momma, I'm So Sorry") or confessing sleepless nights ("Nightmares"), Clipse take listeners back in time to when rhyme skills reigned supreme over corny bubble-gum raps. (Yes, this means "Laffy Taffy.") Clipse are what the game's been missing, and Hell Hath No Fury was well worth the wait. R. Roper

Young Jeezy
The Inspiration (Def Jam)
****

When Young Jeezy speaks, the streets pay attention. And with that said, class is in session. Jeezy's 2005 debut album Let's Get It: Thug Motivation 101, caused a frenzy across American streets last year on its way to selling over 2 million copies. As Jeezy says, "I think we all can agree, last summer was mine." He's right: No newcomer was able to put the streets on lock and capture hip-hop as this Atlanta rapper did. And on Jeezy's sophomore album The Inspiration, the Snowman is back with more street classics to motivate hoods everywhere to get rich or die trying.

Although Jeezy insists he's not a rapper, he still manages to release superb rap albums. While he's never been the best lyricist, Jeezy's rhyme skills emphatically get his point across to the masses; and when his rhymes are coupled with the best adlibs in the business (to wit: "ha, ha", "yeeeaaah," "let's get it," and "that's riiiight") and quality production, Jeezy consistently crafts commercially relevant music without compromising his street credibility. The Inspiration follows this exact formula ‹ hey, if it ain't broke, why fix it?

This album features certified club bangers such as "I Luv It" and "The Realest," vivid street tales such as "Bury Me A G" and bona fide hood classics such as "J.E.E.Z.Y." and "U Know What It Is." But this time around, the Snowman steps outside of his drug-dealing persona and delivers two dynamically touching tracks: "Dreamin'" (featuring Keyshia Cole) and "The Inspiration [Follow Me]," both of which display a thought-provoking dimension to the trap star that many critics felt the rapper (or non-rapper) lacked.

Whether you classify him as a rapper or thug motivational speaker, a gangster or a product of his environment, Jeezy is good at what he does. As Jeezy would put it, this album is "the best gangsta s#!t that you've heard in years." Yeeeeaaah! R. Roper

Jay-Z
Kingdom Come (Roc-A-Fella)
***

When Jay-Z announced his retirement in 2003, I hope you didn't believe The Black Album would truly be the prolific rapper's last. If you did, the next time an artist vows retirement, don't be so naive.

Although Jay-Z was retired, he remained in the limelight after taking over as president of Def Jam Records, where he oversees the careers of Ludacris, Kanye West, Rihanna and many others. He made guest appearances on numerous songs, including collaborations with Mariah Carey and Kanye West. And he's been a fixture in the tabloids and gossip web sites, where he's often caught mingling with his girlfriend, R&B sensation Beyoncé Knowles. To say the least, hip-hop didn't necessarily miss him.

In the back of many critics' minds, Jay-Z's return was imminent. But on Kingdom Come, the Michael Jordan of hip-hop comes off as Jordan donning a Washington Wizards jersey as opposed to the Chicago Bulls Jordan in his prime.

During Jay-Z's time away from hip-hop, it's apparent he got rusty. The album's lead single, "Show Me What You Got," didn't exactly cause Jay-Z hysteria. "Anything," featuring Usher and Pharrell, is a contrived pop farce that adds nothing to the comeback. "Hollywood" (featuring Beyoncé) is an utter earache.

While the album has many blemishes, it's not a complete disaster. "30 Something" displays a mature Jay-Z making it cool to be all grown up with good credit. And the title track is vintage Jay-Z, wherein the Brooklyn emcee references superheroes like Flash Gordon and Spiderman to describe his comeback to rap as a hip-hop's savior.

With Kingdom Come, Jay-Z intended to save hip-hop, but Superman forgot his cape. Even the album's A-list producers ‹ Dr. Dre, Swizz Beats, Just Blaze, Kanye West and The Neptunes ‹ uncharacteristically struggle to contribute their best work. The album has scattered bright spots, but as Jay-Z's previous albums raised the bar so high, this album fails to live up to the hype. R. Roper

The Mars Volta
Amputechture (GSL/Universal)
**

Despite its post-punk pedigree, it's hard to imagine The Mars Volta sharing many fans with today's typical indie kid. You know, the type cuddled up with his Sufjan Stevens records, wearing a nondescript striped sweater, faux frames and sporting spotty facial hair. That kid hates The Mars Volta and all of its pretentious, prog-rock ambitions.

The Mars Volta appeals more to that guy who defends Faith No More because Mike Patton was in it, declaring Patton's ability to turn scatological humor into experimental nightmares without using anything but his voice exempts him from judgment for his embarrassing rap-funk beginnings. And because he was in Bungle, dude. Yeah, that guy worships The Mars Volta.

If you don't fall into either ridiculously narrow or caricatured camp, that doesn't mean you're out of the loop. It's just one way of demonstrating how polarizing The Mars Volta's music is. Not too many people are on the fence ‹ you either love this stuff or you hate it.

I'll admit to being intrigued to the point of being impressed by the band's debut, the Tremulant EP, and even most of De-Loused in the Comatorium for its pummeling fits of Led Zeppelin progged-out in space. The Santana-style solos were forgivable because they were far outnumbered by hooks and impossibly technical aggression. The same can't be said for Frances The Mute, a sprawling, stream-of-consciousness set of heavy-lidded space rock, world-fusion eccentricity and jazzy discombobulation.

The band's third full-length, Amputechture, continues on a fans-be-damned journey to the center of nonsense, with layers upon layers of harmonized, processed vocals, scaling guitar wankery and lush, atmospheric passages interrupted by extreme jolts of pistol-fire percussion. Cedric Bixler-Zavala's voice can knock you on your ass just as easily as Omar Rodriguez-Lopez's solos can numb your face.

Musically, it's mind-blowing in both execution and creativity, but it's a masturbatory nightmare to sit through in one listen. E. Greenwood

Lily Allen
Alright, Still (Regal)
****

I was a fan of Lily Allen's long before I even heard a note of her music. Her reputation for trashing her peers and calling bulls#!t on the hypocrisy of the rock star lifestyle preceded her. On Pete Doherty: "I do think he needs to be exterminated." On Madonna: "She might have meant something once, but I don't know anyone my age who cares." She can mouth off because she has the musical prowess to get away with it. And she's ridiculously cute.

Allen might be the daughter of a famous comedian (Keith Allen), but she feels no sense of entitlement for success of any kind. Her street-level wit and unforgiving observational skills pepper her eclectic music with a strange mix of worldly authenticity and girlish charm. I approached her album with trepidation, though, because I didn't want to be let down.

Just like every other aspiring musician on the planet, Allen started a MySpace page, which unpredictably catapulted her to stardom in England in late 2005. Posting her demos and blogs filled with biting rants started a frenzy of friend requests, and, although she says her record deal happened prior to her MySpace phenomenon, her success has been married to it ever since.

I bought her album based solely on her trash-talking skills. I knew going in that it was pop music, but I figured she must do something right to be able to call out the crap so consistently. And she does. Her voice is infectiously charming. Her thick British accent wraps around each syllable so effortlessly. She sounds like a female version of The Streets, except that she can sing as well as rap. It's ironic that such acerbic wit comes with such a little-girl voice.

The production couldn't be more saccharine, but what sets Allen apart from the dregs of auto-tuned pop is her knack for lyrical revenge, which she floats over sunny choruses, ska-tinged pop and street-beat grime. It's endlessly entertaining to listen to such an effortlessly charismatic girl talk so much smack, while making it so catchy you can't stop thinking about it. E. Greenwood

The Game
Doctor's Advocate (Geffen)
****

No other rapper has been more controversial in the last couple of years than Jayceon "The Game" Taylor. Since the release of The Game's five-times platinum debut, The Documentary, the West Coast rapper has spawned an ongoing feud with former executive producer 50 Cent and his G-Unit clique, had a falling out with half-brother and manager Big Fase, left mentor Dr. Dre's Aftermath Records for Geffen to avoid contractual obligations to G-Unit, taken subliminal shots at Jay-Z, physically confronted California rapper Rass Kass ‹ and that's before breakfast. Makes one wonder when The Game has time to record.

With all the controversy surrounding The Game, his second album, Doctor's Advocate, has more perplexing questions than the SAT. Can The Game hold his own without the musical genius of Dr. Dre? Can he make hit singles without the songwriting expertise of his comrade-turned-arch-nemesis 50 Cent? Or will The Game be a victim of the proverbial sophomore jinx?

On this album, The Game addresses all these issues and many more that have plagued his psyche since his last album. Standout songs like "One Night" and "One Blood" allow The Game a chance to vent and air out his doubters. On the title track, The Game all but grovels at Dre's feet to show gratitude for ushering him into the game.

The Game's development as an artist is noticeable throughout the album, as his rhyme skills are much improved and his delivery evidently more precise (although he still has the annoying tendency to excessively namedrop on every track).

A host of A-list hip-hop producers ‹ Kanye West, Just Blaze, Scott Storch, will.i.am and Swizz Beatz ‹ assist with the album's production, making Dre's absence an afterthought. And guest appearances from Kanye, Snoop Dogg, Nas and Jamie Foxx, among others, give Doctor's Advocate plenty of star power.

No sophomore slump here ‹ Doctor's Advocate solidifies The Game as a rap superstar. R. Roper

…And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead
So Divided, Interscope
****

If Source Tags & Codes was its critical zenith and Worlds Apart its commercial one, where does that put Trail of Dead's latest, So Divided? Delayed again and again by Interscope's harebrained release-date marketing scheme, the Austin noisemakers have emerged from their early hardcore and punk roots to become a generation's opulent pop gods.

It's not a total blindside to see its love for melody manifested on So Divided given its recent history, but it's still a hard pill to swallow for fans of Madonna or their debut. If you're looking for caterwauling catharsis or anarchic guitars and drums in the modern Trail of Dead, experience the live shows instead. The youthful angst and punk-rock swagger of old has been replaced by a wiser band that's matured beyond its formative sound, and perhaps its core audience as well.

So So Divided sounds like the logical departure from the big-budget Worlds Apart that it is. But the real magic comes in how the band veers melodically: "Naked Sun" is an honest-to-god alt-country number; "Eight Days of Hell" is a lost Beatles cut; and "Witch's Web" would fit in on the Smashing Pumpkins' Adore. Not quite "A Perfect Teenhood" territory anymore, that's for sure.

If you stay with it long enough, So Divided will eventually sell you on saving face after Worlds Apart. The problem is, Trail of Dead's saving face in front of an alienated audience. Its label doesn't know what to do with them, its early fans are confused or embittered, and Worlds Apart's audience suffers from a short attention span. Who will follow the Trail now? Here's one guess: People that never get tired of endlessly creative artists and albums. Count me in. P. Masterson

Beck
The Information, Interscope
****

Mr. Hansen, there is a musician out there named Christopher Fazi who sounds freakishly like you. I'd been hearing this bouncy country ditty that reminded me a little of "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" on a Visa commercial and just knew it was a cut from The Information, which I'd not yet heard.

I was a little surprised when I couldn't find it on your ninth record, but was even more surprised when a little Internet research revealed this fragment from an unfinished song wasn't even yours. Maybe it's because I knew The Information was your third collaboration with producer Nigel Godrich, who has nurtured your most mellow and sublime records, Mutations and Sea Change, which are largely acoustic-based frolics into your pop-chameleon playground. That is to blame for that assumption, but it took me a few listens before I stopped missing that Visa jingle.

The Information is your busiest sounding record with Godrich at the helm, juxtaposing the sonic chaos of Dust Brothers projects Odelay and Midnite Vultures with the vulnerability that characterized much of Sea Change and Mutations. At times, the audio orgy makes me wish I had more than two ears to hear it all. At the same time, however, there is a unifying undercurrent of paranoia on this quasi-concept album that addresses the technological flood that has drowned much of our society in sterile ubiquity. It's a universal depth that you've rarely revealed on songs that sound this claustrophobic, but I think the contrast is intentional.

I consider Odelay to be a most apt embodiment of the thrift-store culture that defined the '90s, and hindsight might render The Information that same kind of encapsulation of the '00s, a decade distinguished by virtual vicariousness. Mr. Hansen, you might feel alone in that new pollution, but I'm right there with you. K. Langston

The Lemonheads
The Lemonheads, Vagrant
**

Mastering slacker ennui just before Pavement made it trendy, Evan Dando forged a career out of backhanded compliments and unabashed, dopey sincerity. While the name The Lemonheads denotes a band, it's been Dando's show from the beginning. With a revolving cast of part-time members, Dando swindled his way onto a major label via too-clever-by-half covers of Suzanne Vega's "Luka" and Mike Nesmith's "Different Drum," which served as tongue-in-cheek diversions from his punk-ish roots.

With his teeny-bopper good looks and his knack for cheap melodies, Dando embodied the part of an MTV darling by the time yet another cover made him famous ‹ the atrocious misappropriation of Simon and Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson," which even Dando himself despises to this day. But the album that preceded that commercial faux pas remains the finest achievement of his strikingly uneven career.

At the time, It's A Shame About Ray sounded like more heart-on-your-sleeve folk-punk from a guy you'd just as soon beat up as listen to, but, putting aside any knee-jerk reaction to Dando's fame-whore tendencies, the album boasted an impressive arsenal of hooks and undeniably memorable songs, making it a hands-down classic. Dando's bored and detached voice slipped seamlessly into Elvis Costello-style brashness on perfect pop gems like "Rudderless" and "Ceiling Fan in My Spoon."

It's that sense of brashness that Dando is trying recapture on this self-titled return from obscurity. With two former Descendents as his bandmates this go-round, Dando leans more towards his poppier-punk side. Though the songs lack the immediacy and built-in nostalgia of anything off It's A Shame About Ray, they do showcase the fact that Dando's unfettered sense of melody is still intact. At times endearing but also hokey and indulgent with way too many misplaced lead guitar squawks (courtesy of J. Mascis), The Lemonheads actually sounds like The Lemonheads ‹ just before they got good. E. Greenwood

Annuals
Be He Me (Ace Fu)
*****

Every once and a while, an album comes along that defies definition. The mix of genres, influences and experimentation leaves listeners scrambling to pin the music down ‹ a music critic's wet dream and nightmare at the same time. Be He Me is such an album. The young ‹ no one is over 22 ‹ members of Annuals have formed a musical collective that has seemingly unlimited potential for greatness.

The obvious Arcade Fire comparison has to be made right off the bat. They are the first thing you think of when the sprawling guitar, concussive percussion, and blithesome shouting burst through the quiet strings and cricket noises halfway through the amazing opener, "Brother." However, the second thing you think is how Annuals just outdid Arcade Fire ‹ and it's only the first track. A wider range of influences open up after that. While they have the instrumentation of Arcade Fire or Broken Social Scene, Be He Me also features Mike Patton-esque production, moments of psychedelia that sound like old Smile-era Brian Wilson and the electronic tinkering of Thom Yorke. The end result is a dense, majestic epic that carries listeners through a gauntlet of emotions and looks towards what music may one day sound like.

Lead singer/multi-instrumentalist Adam Baker is mostly to blame for this magnificent opus, and the sickening part is that he was only 19 when he laid out the album's complex arrangements. However, the six-member band's dramatic performances, featuring multiple instrument switcheroos, will no doubt help Annuals become one of those bands that you get sick of hearing about. Their collective approach harkens back to the days of Elephant 6 and also recalls modern contemporaries like Islands and Animal Collective, yet Be He Me still stands on its own as an estimable masterpiece. T. Baker

R.E.M.
And I Feel Fine: The Best of the I.R.S. Years 1982-1987, Capitol
****

I used to adorn my apartments and dorm rooms with the innumerable posters I'd accumulated in my most aggressive years of music collecting (read: college), but only a select few have remained part of a décor that now includes color-coordinated bedrooms and a coffee table that wasn't found on the side of the road.

I guess what I'm saying is I've grown up. It's an inevitability that we all encounter ‹ like horseshoes, taxes and hand grenades, right?

Apply this inevitability to music, and you begin to understand how Metallica went from Master of Puppets to Reload, how David Johansen went from the New York Dolls to Buster Poindexter and how the Rolling Stones have been steadily releasing crap for the past quarter-century. Apply this inevitability to R.E.M. and you begin to understand why And I Feel Fine is far more rewarding a listen than its Warner Brothers counterpart, In Time.

With every succeeding album under their Warner Brothers contract, R.E.M. has moved further away from what made them such a remarkable band in the '80s. This is the same band whose full-length debut, Murmur, bested a little known record called Thriller in Rolling Stone's Best Of list for 1983. At a time when practically everyone owned a copy of Thriller and lifted seven of its nine tracks into the Top 10 of the Billboard singles chart, Rolling Stone had the foresight (and chutzpah) to praise a record that was made when independent albums were practically unheard of.

And I Feel Fine greatly improves upon 1988's Eponymous ‹ the only other domestic compilation that surveys R.E.M.'s tenure with I.R.S. Records. Its song distribution is quite diplomatic, devoting four apiece to Murmur, Reckoning, Fables of the Reconstruction, Life's Rich Pageant and Document, but leaving just one to the early Chronic Town EP. That diplomacy, however, is a weakness. It's criminal to allow only "Gardening at Night" represent a landmark EP that has historically been given the shaft. (Its only appearance on CD form is at the end of the odds and sods collection, Dead Letter Office.)

Another misstep on the part of the compilers was foregoing the chronological treatment. I know it's obvious to start with "Begin the Begin" from 1986's Life Rich Pageant, but it plants us in the middle of the story: Life's Rich Pageant found Michael Stipe breaking out of the shell that characterized his vocals on previous recordings and blossoming into the confident frontman he remains today. This contrast is made blatant when the CD segues into 1983's "Radio Free Europe." It isn't so much that the band were better performers in 1986 vs. 1983; they were just different performers, and the listener would've been given keen insight into that transformation through a chronological arrangement.

Beyond these nitpicking observations, it's hard to ask for more from a survey of R.E.M.'s salad days. The casual listener will find all the songs they're looking for save one or two (the cover of The Clique's "Superman" comes to mind) and a handful of others that give perspective to that mystique that lured in so many devotees way back when.

R.E.M. used to be a mystery. Now they're a commodity. I'll still put Automatic for the People and New Adventures in Hi-Fi among their finest hours, but the lion's share of their post-I.R.S. output is conservative, safe and soundtrack fodder. In a sense, they've torn down their posters and bought duvets. — Kevin Langston

DJ Shadow
The Outsider, Universal Motown
***

Josh Davis cares little for the outside world's opinion of him. Or, at the very least, he cares little for expectations of his work. That's part of the beauty of his career arc since 1996's þEndtroducing made it into the Guinness Book of Records for being the first album to be composed entirely of samples. Unfortunately, the sounds he's found for The Outsider don't gel in a way that's conducive to ... um ... actually listening to albums.

Davis made it abundantly clear in press interviews that he wanted to explore sounds that interested him for his third proper album, no matter how disparate they might have been. The problem is that, instead of incorporating elements of San Francisco hyphy or Britrock, DJ Shadow created full songs of each genre and threw them together. Shadow's a sound chemist of the most sterling order, but his creativity has worked against him.

It starts off promisingly enough, with the first half of the album devoted almost exclusively to hip-hop. His producing reputation is unrivaled, mostly because of tracks like "Turf Dancing." He taps E-40, David Banner and Keak Da Sneak over the course of the album. Through six songs or so, Davis has made the hip-hop album of the year.

It's when instrumental guitar cut "Broken Levee Blues" comes in that you begin to wonder what's happening here. Happy-hardcore instrumental "Artifact" segues back to hip-hop for Phonte Coleman's "Backstage Girl" and then back to rock for Kasabian's Sergio Pizzorno and Christopher Karloff's appearance on "The Tiger." Cohesion is sacrificed for creative ADD.

The idea was supposed to be that you got all of DJ Shadow's recent favored flavors. But the execution is the problem ‹ because it's scatterbrained, we won't be talking about how great The Outsider was in a decade. Tragically, we'll only be talking about which tracks we picked out that survived the transfer to our iPods. But those good ones sure were hot, weren't they? P. Masterson

Mastodon
Blood Mountain, Warner Bros.
*****

One of the delicate balances an underground act must consider when signing to a major label is how to appeal to new fans without alienating old ones. For Atlanta metal band Mastodon, the time has come for Blood Mountain, their third LP, to sink or swim. Anyone concerned about over-produced drivel and prog-rock wankery can check their pretension at the door; these guys have found a loophole in that elusive liminal space that has allowed them to create what might be their best album yet.

Devoted fans worried that this was going to be even further removed from 2002's brutal Remission and 2004's more (but not entirely) accessible Leviathan. Less growling, more singing, ambitious concepts and the inevitably distinctive artwork courtesy of Paul Romano: Blood Mountain wasn't looking good for the metal purists.

But Mastodon have mastered the art of paying homage to their forbearers (Metallica and Slayer, for example) while still adding elements to a sound any genuine rock fan would pay to play (Queens of the Stone Age's Josh Homme and The Mars Volta's Cedric Bixler both have guest vocals, while prog- and Southern-rock interludes slow the pace at all the right times). The names might be familiar and the budget might be larger, but the result isn't much different: Mastodon still know how to rock. Warner Brothers never looked so smart.

Part of the reason this quartet has done as well as it has is not just because they're metal for people who hate metal. Part of it comes from the sheer enjoyment in what they're doing. There are some formidable rock bands out there right now, but only Mastodon seem to be pulling off ridiculous drum-fills and technically proficient guitar-playing with both a wink of the eye and a devilish grin buried beneath their burly beards and threatening theatrics. Blood Mountain is just one more way to love it all. P. Masterson

Junior Boys
So This Is Goodbye, Domino
*****

In today's gimmicky, instant-gratification-obsessed and overly niche music market, bands that present themselves in vagueness and anti-image often seem married to a sense of bittersweet nostalgia that doesn't have much bite in 2006. However, mystery still has an inexplicable allure, especially when it's cloaked in such sophisticated and streamlined synthetics as what Junior Boys bathe each track in on its phenomenal second album, So This Is Goodbye.

With its striking, unanimously lauded debut, Last Exit, Junior Boys established itself as the thinking man's synth band, excluding the self-deprecating aloofness of The Magnetic Fields. Hooks were neither instant nor easy, allowing the duo to expand upon our preconceived notions of pop's typically narrow scope with layers of syncopated beats and water-ice synthetics. Vocalist Jeremy Greenspan's over-sexed, breathy delivery scooped our expectations for the dry baritone of The Human Leagues, the Depeche Modes, and The Magnetic Fields of the world.

Greenspan's vocals take on an even bigger role now, as original beat stylist Johnny Dark has been replaced by engineer Matthew Didemus. Whereas on Last Exit Greenspan's voice barely rose above the din of frozen palpitations, he now uses his slightly effeminate cadence to drive the melodies with even more yearning and innuendo. The hooks still develop slowly, segregating the thinkers from the dancers, but even the latter should not be disappointed, as beat-driven, driving tracks like "Double Shadow" and "In the Morning" sate both half-hearted and extreme dance tendencies.

The title track is a duplicitous centerpiece. On the surface, its steady beat seems carefree and unfettered, but the eerie synths bubbling underneath mark the sound of a decaying age while Greenspan mourns effortlessly the titular line. It's the most emotionally complex piece on the record, and it showcases Greenspan's total control of his intentions. This is dance music with unquestionable soul. E. Greenwood

The Rapture
Pieces of the People We Love, Universal Motown
***

Has it really been four years since "House of Jealous Lovers" blew up summer dance floors as a 12" and led to the dance-rock ubiquity of Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party,` and The Futureheads to name but a few? Has it really been three since Echoes actually mattered?

More than any other, The Rapture are directly to blame for everything that's happened in not-so-popular rock in the last three years. Echoes was one of 2003's defining musical statements and bands were left with a DFA-produced blueprint to follow. As you probably heard at some point, a handful succeeded and a torrent of them failed. The Rapture did its touring, got its substantial press, and sat on top of the world for a few glorious months.

Then all was silent for three years. Is Pieces of the People We Love even worth it given the expectations of Echoes? The answer: Kind of. At the expense of a timeless masterpiece like "House of Jealous Lovers," The Rapture have traded in erratic brilliance for consistent decency.

Paul "Phones" Epworth and Danger Mouse do the producing. They've lost their lo-fi feel from Mirror and Echoes, which DFA helped cultivate. (Not to mention that "First Gear" sounds exactly like LCD Soundsystem's "Yeah.") Even still, the high-profile production wizardry hasn't stopped The Rapture's most important tool: Cowbell. If you've still somehow got a fever after countless hours spent listening to Blue Oyster Cult, The Rapture have your cure. No band does it better even now.

This isn't the sound of stagnation. If anything, The Rapture understand best what it means to put four to the floor. Pieces of the People We Love isn't a definitive album, but it doesn't need to be. If you just have enough cowbell and Luke Jenner wails, the masses will dance. This is further proof. P. Masterson

Sebadoh
III, Domino
*****

Of all the bands that came out of the final years of the American college rock movement, Sebadoh had one of the most influential releases this side of the Atlantic with 1991's III. Reissued here with a bonus disc featuring previously unreleased material in addition to non-album highlights (including the infamous Gimme Indie Rock EP), Sebadoh's Lou Barlow, Jason Loewenstein and Eric Gaffney have carefully gone about preserving the legacy of what must be their greatest collective achievement.

Ironically, it sounds completely disparate; a hodgepodge of sounds ranging from Barlow's acoustic bedroom numbers to Loewenstein's balance of loud and soft to Gaffney's out-and-out rockers. Part of the thrill of III is never knowing what's up next, an element still integral to the album 15 years on.

Together with Pavement and the Pixies, Sebadoh were the architects of early-90s American indie and III remains one of the critical bridges between the last two decades of the 20th century. Domino couldn't have timed this better. Just think of the countless impressionable young slack-rocker types-to-be in their freshman years who are reading this review right now. Will III be on their iPods tomorrow? P. Masterson

Regina Spektor
Begin to Hope, Sire
****

Regina Spektor isn't just another quirky female singer-songwriter with classical training; she adds "Russian Jew from New York City" to the formula. Her penchant for hyperbolic melancholy and whimsy easily invites comparisons to Fiona Apple and Tori Amos, but she's infinitely more bizarre.

Spektor's last record, Soviet Kitsch, showcased her intimidating talent as a composer as well as her uncanny ability to turn nattering self-deprecation into dramatic bombast without alienating the listener. Her voice trills effortlessly through coos and girlish hiccups and then unexpectedly bursts into sustaining blasts of operatic power.

Begin to Hope leans slightly toward a more pop-oriented domain with radio-accessible songs like "Better" that may offend her fanatic base of fans at first. But the record expands on her growing strength as a composer of idiosyncratic anti-pop with more depth and breadth. Spektor's command of melody is staggering in its ability to lull listeners into her short attention span and spastic synaptic misfires, which make up the foundation of her frighteningly original music.

Having toiled away her early 20s in the New York City café scene with her oddly confessional anti-folk, Spektor is now on the cusp of turning her niche fanbase into something far more secure and lasting. E. Greenwood

What Made Milwaukee Famous
Trying Never to Catch Up, Barsuk
***

According to these four dapper dandies from Austin, Texas, Milwaukee is not famous for its Algonquin name (meaning "the good land"), nor is it renowned for being the only major American city to elect three socialist mayors (sorry, Alice Cooper). In fact, the band plucked the handle from a Jerry Lee Lewis song, and everybody knows Lewis is from Ferriday, near the Mississippi border in Louisiana. So, when we consider their name and its origin, these cats are all over the damn map.

Fitting, then, that their music follows a similar trajectory. Their Barsuk debut opens with "I Decide," a rather industrial-sounding pop ditty that was rather off-putting when we were introduced. (Fortunately, the song gains momentum as more organic elements enter.) "Hello Drama," on the other hand, rips a page from The Cars' playbook, while "The Jeopardy of Contentment" is an arresting chamber-pop number that allows for vocalist Michael Kingcaid to show off.

On some musical stretches, I am reminded of Cheap Trick and even Electric Light Orchestra, which, I confess, was a plus for me. The closers, "Sweet Lady" and "Building a Boat from the Boards in Your Eye," offer some tasty sing-alongs and spare only the kitchen sink in their attempt to win your affections.

At times finicky, Trying to Never Catch Up is an ideal representation of eclecticsm working in a band's favor. K. Langston

OutKast
Idlewild, LaFace
***

The Cliff's Notes version for those not in the know: OutKast's fifth album Speakerboxxx/The Love Below ‹ essentially two solo albums packaged together ‹ was to be the end of their career as a duo. However, its critical and commercial success gave the group enough superstar credit that Hollywood clamored to make their previously snubbed film Idlewild. This album doubles as the film's soundtrack as well as their sixth (and possibly final) album together.

For their return to a duo, though, the album finds them in separate studios quite a lot. Out of 25 tracks, only four have the Andre and Big Boi collaborating (not counting the six "interludes," which are mostly filler). The rest are a mishmash of solo efforts. The collaborative songs are some of the best on the album, but neither artist seems to be putting their best foot forward on them. For example, "Call the Law" is a standout track featuring Big Boi protege Janelle Monae that sounds like what Christina Aguilera's new album was supposed to, but Andre doesn't rap or sing on the track at all. When he does try to rap, the vocals just don't gel. Big Boi is still flowing like a river while Andre sounds like he's slowly struggling upstream.

Big Boi cements his position as the real talent further on the solo tracks. He finds the perfect mix between hip-hop and the Delta blues/Southern soul vibe OutKast try to bring to the album while Andre tosses hip-hop out the window and creates poor caricatures of the other styles. The last track, "A Bad Note," is a bit of self-fulfilling prophecy as it closes an ambitious, but ultimately unmemorable, album that more than likely marks the end of OutKast as a duo ‹ which is probably best for both the artists and the audience. T. Baker

The Sadies
In Concert, Vol. 1, Yep Roc
****

For the uninitiated, The Sadies are a rowdy Canadian bar band that specialize in a combination of surf, punk, bluegrass, country and spaghetti western theme music sped up to proper foot-stomping tempo, all while wearing matching black suits a la Johnny Cash. They have participated in a number of collaborative efforts since forming in 1998, including serving as the backing band on a couple Neko Case albums, and recording albums with John Langford and soul legend Andre Williams. This live album features all of those people and more.

Recorded by Steve Albini over two four-hour shows in Toronto, Ontario, this is as unvarnished and immediate-sounding a live disc as you're likely to hear this side of a bootleg. There are precious few gaps between the songs, lending the disc the feel of a real live Sadies show, where one can barely catch their breath from one raucous barnburner to the next.

The endless parade of guest performers adds variety to the proceedings ‹ Case has several good moments, as do Kelly Hogan, Gary Louris of The Jayhawks (on 'Hawks classic "Tailspin"), members of Canadian favorites Blue Rodeo, and Garth Hudson of The Band. The Good Brothers ‹ featuring Sadies Travis and Dallas Good's father and uncles ‹ deliver some scorching bluegrass breakdowns, while touring friends like Jon Spencer and Heavy Trash add more garage-rock sounds. For rabid Sadies fans, there are three new unreleased songs and two more unreleased songs from their Uninvited side project.

It's a cliché to say that a band is better live than they are on their albums, but this recording drives that point home with conviction, ironically making it The Sadies' best. K. Oliver

Grant Lee Phillips
Nineteeneighties, Zoe
***

If you were the right age to be buying records in the 1980s, chances are pretty good you'd have albums from The Cure, The Smiths, Echo & The Bunnymen, Psychedelic Furs, The Pixies and more in your collection. Former Shiva Burlesque and Grant Lee Buffalo frontman Grant Lee Phillips certainly did, if this new solo disc is any indication. Full of acoustic-centered takes on songs from the aforementioned artists along with songs by R.E.M., Nick Cave, Robyn Hitchcock and New Order, Phillips rearranges these classics into sometimes-unrecognizable forms. His takes on The Pixies' "Wave Of Mutilation" and The Church's "Under The Milky Way" are the best, if only for the fact that even a mellow rearrangement can't mute the power of a good lyric and a great melody.

Phillips sticks with familiar songs from the chosen artists' back catalogs, sticking the "oh, that's what that song is!" recognition a series of pleasant surprises, rather than making the listener re-read the booklet. For fans of the original versions, this is a chance to hear the songs anew; and for fans of Phillips, it is a rare glimpse into an artist's own favorites. Kevin Oliver

Jim Noir
Tower of Love, Barsuk
****

Everything old is new again ‹ at least, in the case of Manchester native Jim Noir. The English performer has mastered indie pop's current fixation with '60s psychedelia and married it with '70s pop and contemporary electronic elements. The opening strains of "My Patch" recall The Beach Boys at their most experimental before the song takes a British psychedelic twist reminiscent of later Beatles records. "I Me You I'm Your," by contrast, is an electronic-infused ode to late '60s acts like The Hollies and The Byrds. The modernist bent of "Computer Song" finds Noir adding a post-punk bass to the mix, while "How to Be So Real" is a mellow, spacey pop tune that sounds like a Donovan tune updated for the 21st century.

The album's title track alludes to "Theme from A Summer Place" as much as it does to '60s Brit Pop, and "Key of C" employs a synth-pop sound along with a melody worthy of late '70s ELO. "Turbulent Weather" could be a '60s folk masterpiece, while "Eanie Meany, Pt. 2" combines a moseying melody inspired by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young with Beach Boys-esque vocals. In spite of Noir's obvious musical influences, he manages to keep the sound fresh and exciting. Tracy M. Rogers

Cursive
Happy Hollow, Saddle Creek
***

Cursive is a fundamentally flawed band. When Tim Kasher's deeply personal lyrics were splattered all over 2000's Domestica and 2003's The Ugly Organ, the Omaha band took heat for being poster children of (and easy targets for) that dreaded emo label. Now, three years from their last proper full-length, Kasher's hiding behind vignettes of characters in the town he's created, Happy Hollow. The album isn't cohesive as a direct result.

That's not the only thing working against it, though. Another big story behind Cursive's fifth long-player is that cellist Gretta Cohn departed after spending time with them throughout The Ugly Organ and its subsequent touring. Back to a quartet, the band uses added embellishments (horns on first single "Dorothy at Forty," slide guitars and gimmicky synths elsewhere) to hide behind their brand of angst-ridden pop.

That is the great irony of Cursive, of course. Try as they might to be progressive or visionary, Kasher's songwriting and the band's music wind up finding pop moments amidst their Mars Volta-like canoodling. That they try so hard to shun what was embraced so convincingly on Domestica six years ago is both a testament to their ambition and a sad commentary on how they'll fundamentally never be as big as their dreams. Patrick Masterson

Ethan Daniel Davidson Five
Free The Ethan Daniel Davidson Five, Times Beach
*****

There is a dedication inside this album that reveals a great deal about the mindset of Ethan Daniel Davidson. It says that since his last album, "I have lost four heroes and a friend: Joe Strummer, June Carter, Johnny Cash, Edward Said, and Wesley Willis."

Take the politics of Said, the attitude of Strummer, and the authentic honesty of Johnny and June, not to mention Willis' unique worldview, and it might give a clue to appreciating Davidson's remarkable music.

Marked by musical signposts from the '80s like The Pogues, Easterhouse and The Clash, this disc is a near-perfect mixture of the personal and political, set to a raucous rock 'n' roll soundtrack that most often recalls Rattle and Hum-era U2 or some of the more recent Wilco albums in its stylistic breadth.

If that doesn't pique your interest, perhaps song titles like "Drive-By Diplomacy Blues" and "Support the War on Nashville" will. For the more folk-leaning, there is "King Coal Made a Mess of My Old Kentucky Home," and a blistering version of John Prine's "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore." Davidson invests his performances with a passionate, believable delivery ‹ which is perhaps where the Wesley Willis connection comes in. Like Willis, you get the feeling that what you hear is what you get with Davidson, whether it's the semi-desperate love song "I Need You Like a House on Fire," or the WWII-era story behind the closing song's lengthy title, "A German Woman, An Irish Junkie, Their Three-year-old Daughter, and Me." Kevin Oliver

The Old 97's
Hit By A Train: The Best of the Old 97's, Rhino/Elektra
****

Ironic tales and honky-tonk punk swagger dominate Hit By A Train: The Best of the Old 97's, a collection of the Dallas-based band's music from its inception in 1993 through their association with New West Records in 2004. Hit By a Train is filled with drunken anthems that are at once literate and homespun. Opener "Stoned" sets the pace with its moseying rhythm, tongue-in-cheek lyrics and lead singer Rhett Miller's dry vocals. "Cryin' Drunk," by contrast, has a heavier rock rhythm and guitar riffs more reminiscent of Neil Young than honky-tonk pickers. "Time Bomb" comes off as a Replacements-inspired country song, while the sing-along barroom anthem "Niteclub" finds the middle ground between each of these sounds. Most intriguing, however, is the band's take on Marty Robbins' "El Paso," which they turn into a frenzied cowpunk classic. The concluding live track, "Nineteen," is filled with power chords and the wisdom of hindsight. Overall, Hit By a Train is a respectable introduction to the Old 97's. Tracy M. Rogers

M. Ward
Post-War, Merge
****

Matt Ward is one of indie's most acclaimed figures ‹ a famously engaging live show coupled with an excellent back catalog now includes this, his fourth album in five years and follow-up to last year's much praised Transistor Radio.

Ward has always pledged an allegiance to creating music he feels sounds like a time period in the early 20th century; his breezy folk tunes and near-whispered voice have finally clashed with a backing band for this release. Long-time fans, don't worry: Saddle Creek favorite Mike Mogis produced this album and retained Ward's intimacy. Dueling percussionists in Rachel Blumberg and Jordan Hudson give their all on tracks like the Daniel Johnston cover "To Go Home," which features Neko Case. Witnesses of the aforementioned live show know Ward has been playing with this band for the past 18 months anyway.

Post-War might've been created in an attic in Portland over the past two years, but it's sure to reach an even greater audience than usual with its added flourishes and lyrical consistency. If you know Ward, you're going to like this a lot. If you don't, you will soon. Post-War is a great place to start. Patrick Masterson

Sufjan Stevens
The Avalanche: Outtakes and Extras from the Illinois Album, Asthmatic Kitty
***

Sufjan Stevens' Illinois was the most critically acclaimed album of last year, earning the top spot on numerous critics' Best of the Year lists (this critic included), and after listening to The Avalanche, it becomes clear that perhaps what made Illinois so great was Stevens' ability to separate the wheat from the chaff. That's not to say that Avalanche isn't a good album. There are 21 tracks, 75 minutes, and at least 10 moments of brilliance ‹ and that's not a bad ratio at all.

However, nothing here could replace anything on Illinois, so Avalanche's worth as an album comes into question. It really depends on the listener's expectations. Hardcore Stevens fans will no doubt love it simply because it's more of his music. Critics and music aficionados will find it an interesting listen, setting it beside Illinois to get a unique insight into how Stevens works his magic. The unlucky are the people who want another Illinois, and even they will only be slightly disappointed. Now if only he would use that prolificacy for getting out those other 48 state albums he promised. Tug Baker

Danielson
Ships, Secretly Canadian
****

With a shrill, pixie-stick blurt to his uneven and deliberately jagged cadence, Daniel Smith resembles the Pixies' Black Francis on crack ‹ two octaves higher and even more erratic. It's an undeniably acquired vocal style, which, coupled with his penchant for wildly eccentric instrumentation and wide-eyed innocence, can make for very difficult listening. Luckily, Smith possesses an unending wellspring of quirky melodies to make his bombastic musical elasticity more palatable.

Smith's idiosyncratic shtick should have grown old after two or three records, but he keeps honing his songwriting skills and pushing his willingness to experiment to unforeseen levels. With help from kindred spirits Sufjan Stevens, Deerhoof and Sareena Maneesh, Danielson has assembled its wildest yet most consistent record to date.

Ships is a kaleidoscopic musical journey through the skewed lens of Smith's informed Christian beliefs that plays like a foot-stomping, sing-along folk extravaganza in some sort of twisted universe, where theatrics and helium squeals are de rigueur.

The music isn't centered on any semblance of traditional song structure. Instead, there are blasts of grating yelps interspersed with unconventional skronks and even hints of '70s cock rock ("Kids Pushing Kids"). It all unfurls more like a musical than an indie rock record, but don't let the dissonance scare you away. Eric Greenwood

Primal Scream
Riot City Blues, Columbia
***

There's no easy way around this: Primal Scream founder and vocalist Bobby Gillespie is a man of extremes. If it's not the glorious Screamadelica or the bulletproof XTRMNTR, it's everything else. The public, much like Gillespie and his band's output, seems to veer in equally radical directions: It's hard to find someone who's just "casually interested" in these guys.

For passionate Primal Scream fans (and foes), Riot City Blues looks like it's already well on its way to being cursed as even more deplorable than 1994's Give Out But Don't Give Up, a total train-wreck of a record that wandered too far into trad-rock territory. The horrid "Country Girl" as sung by a scrawny British post-rave Americana-imitator in his 40s is the first single and it's just the tune to kick off this blues-influenced garage-rock abomination. "Suicide Sally & Johnny Guitar" comments on the whole Kate Moss and Pete Doherty thing, which might be a funny gimmick if it weren't so late. You can see where this is going.

Ironically, it's Gillespie's total lack of musical extremes that causes this record to suffer. Maybe this will bring in the much-sought-after "couldn't care less about this band" demographic Primal Scream have long sought. For everyone else, Riot City Blues will live on as yet another sad chapter in the band's Mr. Hyde alter ego: Primal Scum. Patrick Masterson

Willie Nelson
The Complete Atlantic Sessions, Rhino/Atlantic
*****

Between his years as a singer-songwriter on Nashville's RCA label and his superstar run on Columbia, Willie Nelson recorded two superb releases for Atlantic ‹ Shotgun Willie and Phases and Stages ‹ that laid the groundwork for his outlaw persona. Rhino Records has re-released the original recordings of these albums packaged together with bonus tracks, outtakes and a concert from the same era, Live at the Texas Opry House.
To be certain, the original material is still classic. Including the outlaw title track, the Johnny Bush-penned anthem "Whiskey River" and the bluesy "Devil in a Sleeping Bag," the revamped Shotgun Willie is a mixture of juke joint blues, Texas swing and traditional country that also features 12 bonus tracks and outtakes including an alternate version of "Whiskey River" and two versions of Leon Russell's "My Cricket & Me."
The Phases and Stages remaster follows a similar sequential format. It's a much more mellow country album than Shotgun Willie ‹ this time featuring alternate takes of "Bloody Mary Morning" and "Sister's Coming Home/Down at the Corner Beer Joint."
Live at the Texas Opry House, by contrast, is a stunning live set that encompasses such Nelson songwriting gems at "Crazy" and "Funny How Time Slips Away," as well as songs from both Atlantic records.
The Complete Atlantic Sessions is a must-have for fans of Nelson's early '70s recordings, as well as those looking for a starting point to dig into his back catalog. Tracy M. Rogers

The Knife
Silent Shout, Rabid
****

As far as dance albums go, it's rare to find a record that will speak both to electro-heads and fans of straightforward pop. The key always seems to lie in how the vocals are treated. Stop me if you've heard this one before: Karin Dreijer Andersson single-handedly makes "Silent Shout" one of the most worthwhile listens of any genre this year.
Andersson has a unique vocal presence best exhibited on The Knife's last album (2004's Deep Cuts) and on what may ironically be her best known song, Röyksopp's "What Else is There?" from 2005. Up to that point, Andersson coupled her Björk impersonations with brother Olaf Dreijer's unremarkable arrangements to steadily move through the electro-pop stratosphere, eternally doomed to second stages supporting legacy acts like Goldfrapp and the like.
That ends here. "We Share Our Mother's Health" is a demented pogo-stick pop number that, like many of the songs here, also glides along with a sinister air Radiohead would be proud of. Andersson's distorted vox never intrude upon Dreijer's ever-improving beats, and instrumentals share space with voiced numbers in a seamless fashion. It's an alienated sound, but it's far from alienating. That's what makes Silent Shout one of the year's most intriguing releases. Patrick Masterson

Tom Petty
Highway Companion, American Recordings
****

The aptly titled Highway Companion ‹ Tom Petty's first solo CD since 1994's Wildflowers ‹ is a rousing, expansive collection of road anthems and ruminations that finds Petty exploring various aspects of Americana and roots music. Highway Companion opens with the bluesy roots-rocker "Saving Grace," in which Petty ponders both life on the road and salvation. The largely acoustic "Square One" is a tender introspection on age and wisdom. "Flirting With Time" also tackles the problems of age and mortality, this time to a British Invasion backbeat. "Down South" is a fun, tremolo guitar-infused tribute to Petty's Southern heritage, while "Turn This Car Around" features a sublime Delta blues slide guitar riff courtesy of Heartbreakers guitarist Mike Campbell. "Big Weekend," meanwhile, finds Petty wishing for a diversion. Highway Companion then segues into three mellow '70s pop-inspired songs ‹ the ethereal "Night Driver," the heartbroken "Damaged By Love," and the downtrodden "This Old Town." Jaunty pop-rocker "Ankle Deep" is a marked contrast, while the vibraphone-infused "The Golden Rose" closes the CD with its haunting melody and lyrics of loss and disillusionment. While a bit musically uneven, Highway Companion is filled with meaningful lyrics and catchy melodies that beg for another listen. Tracy M. Rogers