As wonderful a lyricist as he may be, Cohen’s records over the course of the past two decades or so have suffered somewhat (some might say largely) due to garish production qualities — awkwardly loud, outdated synth keyboards; an over-reliance on misplaced, cheesy backing vocals, etc. None of this detracted from the strength of his lyricism, which has never wavered; he’s one of our finest poets — but the music itself hasn’t been uniformly excellent since perhaps the late ‘70s. And for an artist who has only released 12 studio albums, it means most fans find it easier to agree upon the highlights of his discography, unlike, say, a Dylan, Young, Springsteen or Waits whose quality – and style – of songwriting has fluctuated considerably over the years.

It’s nice to report, then, that Old Ideas is probably Cohen’s finest album since 1988’s I’m Your Man, which is where Cohen’s love for synth effects was perhaps at its most tolerable. Reading a review of Old Ideas on a UK music site, a journalist – whose name I either will not reveal or cannot recall – complained that Cohen never writes memorable melodies, and that the record suffers for it. I disagree. Sure, Cohen isn’t going to be climbing up the pop single charts any time soon, but this batch of songs contains some of his better melodies in many years. I’d say half are memorable, and half simply fit in stride with the rest of the album; you might not immediately go back to them, but thematically and musically they just feel appropriate.

“Going Home” was a great choice for a first single: it’s strangely, beautifully haunting. “Amen,” not unlike “Hallelujah,” appropriates a religious connotation but contains some incredibly dark, cynical lines (“Tell me again when I’m clean and I’m sober / Tell me again when I’ve seen through the horror,” he croaks). The warm orchestration and church organs of “Show Me the Place” support one of the sadder songs I’ve heard lately. On “Darkness,” which musically actually sounds very much like recent Dylan, he sings “The present’s not so pleasant / Just a lot of things to do / I thought the past would last me / But the darkness got that too.” A few verses later he follows this with: “I don’t smoke no cigarette / I don’t drink no alcohol / I ain’t had no loving yet / But that’s always been your call / And nothing but the darkness / Makes any sense to me at all.” There’s bitterness behind his delivery of these lyrics that makes them seem incredibly spiteful rather than sad. In other words: classic Cohen, only maybe just a little darker than usual.

Sparked by something of a pop cultural resurgence in recent years – the documentary and buzzed-about live shows certainly helped – Leonard Cohen is at his most relevant, as a musician, in many years. I began this review by stating that this isn’t the autumnal record its title may imply, and that is partially true: Cohen is certainly aware of his mortality here, but approaches it with his typically sardonic wit. Old Ideas is not the man’s latter-day masterpiece but its title is as bluntly honest as any you’ll see this year, in more ways than one.

Over this span of time, for roughly the past two decades, Common has been putting out rap records; he has often been referred to as a “socially-conscious” rapper – one that never emphasized material wealth as much as some of his peers, and focused heavily on themes of spirituality without being expressly religious. But, since his second album, The Resurrection, he has never been as consistently focused as he should have been; his interests have been scattered between music, fashion, acting and writing, as he’s keen to brag about on his latest record, The Dreamer/ The Believer.

Though by no means his strongest effort, Dreamer/Believer is certainly a step back in the right direction after 2008’s baffling Universal Mind Control, which saw him deliberately abandoning pretty much everything that made people like him in the first place. (Maybe he was too invested in Terminator: Salvation at the time to give a shit.)

Ditching the mainstream-rap mindset prevalent on his last effort – clothes, bankrolls and ho’s got a lot of emphasis on Mind Control – Common has also wisely reconnected with No I.D., who produced some of his most well-regarded albums (and, most importantly, had almost nothing to do with Mind Control). No I.D. excels at making old-school samples sound fresh, and that’s precisely the effect his presence has on Dreamer/Believer.

Not every track is a hit, but there’s good stuff here. “Ghetto Dreams,” featuring a guest spot from Nas, wouldn’t have sounded out of place on either one of the MCs’ older records. They both sound hungry and attack the track in a manner that opens the album on a striking note. “Blue Sky” seems like a sure-fire failure on paper – a re-worked sample of ELO’s “Mr. Blue Sky” is the backbone of the track – but No I.D. and Common pull it off well, making it sound far less obnoxious or ridiculous than expected. “Lovin’ I Lost” contains the sort of neo-soul, retro beat that Common and his producer were once known for working best with, and while it’s no “Used to Love H.E.R.,” it is accordingly one of the more memorable tracks here.

“Sweet” is packed with braggadocio without seeming too arrogant – the MC delivers some of his cleverest verses on the album, while acknowledging his decline right from the start: “You know they be asking ’bout Common, where he at? / What that man doing now?” He goes on to emphasize that he’s back to doing hip-hop and that he’s “the greatest” at it, which is a debatable assertion to be sure. But based on the strengths of The Dreamer/The Believer, it’s simply nice to hear a resurgent Common back on track, doing what he does best, even if he’s not the best.

“Lonesome” is the newest single from their upcoming LP, Be the Void, which is set to be released at the beginning of February. “Oh, what does it take to be lonesome?” Vocalist Scott McMicken wines, in tandem with the tune’s infectious slide-guitar hook. And though the fun, bluesy chorus does tend to repeat itself quite a bit, that’s not really a bad thing. While it’s hardly a throwaway track, it sounds like the band is just having fun.

Over the course of their last two records in particular, Dr. Dog has moved away from their lo-fi, humble beginnings – the songs have sounded a bit more polished and harmonic, which suited the progression of the material itself. But “Lonesome” reminds me of their earlier material – even the band members have previously claimed that the new LP is a return to when they were “fearless weirdoes,” and if this latest track is any indication, they’ve successfully reconnected with their roots.

Of course, let’s not look too much into all this: the album, after all, houses two of the band’s worst songs, “Get in the Ring” and “My World,” not to mention an unnecessary remake of “Don’t Cry” which pales in comparison to the original, if only because the melody is the same and, well, it’s not the original.

But it’s still interesting, in retrospect, to view the album as two distinct parts, and to consider whether the thematic differences in tracklisting were purposeful or incidental. It is easier, too, to perceive the record as a reflection of the band’s state of mind rather than one concerning romantic relations; the music video for “Yesterdays” in particular is eerily prescient, featuring black-and-white clips of the band playing in an abandoned warehouse (a possible homage to “Sweet Child O’ Mine”’s iconic vid) interspersed with photographs of the Appetite for Destruction days. The band members look happy in these pictures, and in the present day seem to just be going through the motions; the change in their appearances is also startling (Axl, dressed simply in jeans and t-shirt, with his hair in a ponytail, has never looked more average or everyman; and while Slash is sporting a hat, it’s not his signature one. Rhythm guitarist Izzy Stradlin is noticeably absent, as by this point he had altogether removed himself from the group).

It’s one of their best songs and one of the few from the Illusions that isn’t vastly over-produced or overlong; at 3 minutes and 16 seconds, it is indeed one of their shortest tracks, and effective as a sort of meta-comment on their break-up before they broke up. At least one of them possibly foresaw the future and ran with it.

But that’s not to say the overproduction on the album is a flaw. Well, it is — but it’s an endearing one. The Illusions are, after all, most fondly (for some) remembered for their excess and self-indulgence, and elsewhere on II we have the Spinal Tap-ish Socially Conscious Rock Star cliché in full effect (evident on “Civil War,” where W. Axl Rose, a man who legally changed his name so that its anagram would spell “WAR,” implores us to consider “what’s so civil about war anyway?”), a 9-minute track inspired by Vanishing Point, and a song that opens with some kind of Middle Eastern-inspired riff, and whose lyrical hook turns out to be, “She’s pretty tied up / Hangin’ upside down / She’s pretty tied up / And you can ride her.” What?!

Though it may, overall, have a couple weaker tracks than its counterpart, Use Your Illusion II is the more cohesive of the two albums and simply more fun to listen to despite a more somber tone. The band took a lot of heat for covering “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door,” with critics citing their increasing number of cover songs as a sign of selling out/losing touch/whatever (a version of Wings’ “Live and Let Die” was featured on UYI I), but the truth is that GN’R had been playing the song live for years – it’s even included on the setlist for their legendary Appetite-era Ritz show from ’88 (definitely worth YouTubing if you want to see the group at their peak). Truth be told, the real sign of their losing touch was the production on the track itself – at one point post-guitar-solo, someone felt it was appropriate to include a bizarre answering machine recording, where someone threatens a mysterious fellow named Jack that he won’t have any more of his “rank subjugation” and chastises him for his “tattered libido.” Huh?! (Also: the alternate version of this song, included in the Tom Cruise movie Days of Thunder, apparently featured dialogue snippets from the movie itself on top of everything else. You’ve gotta love the ‘90s.)

But, it’s awesome. Broad, bombastic, anthemic. When you think of GN’R at their most popular, this is the exact kind of sprawling song that comes to mind, for better or worse.

“Get in the Ring” and “Shotgun Blues” are back-to-back on the tracklisting, which is nice, because it makes them so much easier to skip. To be fair, the former of the two at least has a nice melody – and pretty solid little riffs and basslines by Slash and Duff McKagan respectively – but it’s ruined by Axl’s ego at its worst, chastising irrelevant music publications and record execs and inviting them to “suck his fucking dick.” “Shotgun Blues,” on the other hand, is mediocre at best on a musical level, and abhorrent in its lyrics; written in response to a feud with Vince Neil, Axl invites the Motley Crue singer to “suck his ass,” which continues his odd fascination with the idea of other men sucking questionable areas of his body.

“Breakdown” is the sort of track that an average fan probably wouldn’t appreciate, but has been singled out as a fan favourite by many over the years – it’s too long, sure, but at this point, criticizing a song on these albums for being “too long” almost seems redundant. The whole Vanishing Point thing was apparently tacked on to the end because Axl had seen the movie on TV one day during the recording sessions and thought it was cool; 20 years later it’s hilariously misguided and amazing at the same time.

Another fan favourite, “Estranged,” is a song that should have been the album’s closer; a nine-minute ballad that might not be stuck in your head as easily as, say, “Don’t Cry” or “November Rain” (the supposed prequels to a trilogy of thematically-linked songs), but is probably one of the most emotionally draining and musically heavy pieces the group has written; it is, once again, very much an Axl Rose song, and he is the sole credit for its lyrics, but Slash has two of his best solos here – so good that Axl went out of his way to thank the lead guitarist for his work on the song in the record’s liner notes. It would be more logical to compare “Estranged” to “Coma,” from UYI I, in terms of how it is structured: it’s the sort of track that won’t be on any Greatest Hits compilations but would probably be on most fans’ Best-Of lists.

Considered wholly two decades later, the Use Your Illusions represent many things, but mostly these: a band given free reign and a music industry at its height. As mentioned in the Use Your Illusion I retrospective: this type of record really wouldn’t be possible today. The double LP is essentially dead as we delve deeper into the digital download era, and the fleeting nature of the modern pop star has rendered such excess and self-indulgence as seen on display here extinct – Donald Trump even lined up outside Tower Records to purchase these discs back in ’91, to give you an idea of how universally-anticipated they were.

Use Your Illusion I and II have been heavily criticized, from the day of their release to the present; however, over time, some of these criticisms have become strengths, and as a whole they represent a compelling encapsulation of a band at their peak, never failing to bore even at their most bloated. Keith Richards, a man all too familiar with the excess of records such as Exile On Main Street, once said that Guns N’ Roses could have been the next Rolling Stones. He wasn’t too far off.

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Read John Ulmer’s Second Look at Use Your Illusion I here.

Of course, much has been written of Kurt Cobain over the years since his suicide, and an understandable emphasis has been placed on how disenfranchised he was by the band’s success – that he had always idolized underground punk bands and their commitment to anonymity – but this was hardly the first time an artist had disowned his largest success. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was surely tiresome to play time and again, but just imagine being the guys who wrote “Free Bird.”

Cobain’s inner turmoil is indeed a large part of what made the music connect with a generation born of cynicism. The ‘80s had provided a nonstop party and the music had been its soundtrack, but by the end of the decade it had all come crashing down; that’s why the grunge revolution hit as hard and as suddenly as it did. And though the music tended to express feelings of alienation and loneliness and suppressed rage, Cobain was the first of the grunge singers to marry that with innate pop sensibilities (whether he realized it or not). A song like “In Bloom,” in spite of its snarling riff and screaming chorus, is – suitably, given its lyrics – impossible not to sing along to, even if you don’t know what the hell he’s saying.

It’s difficult to write about an album this immense, this respected, this canonized by pop culture and even attempt to bring anything new to the table. What is there to say that hasn’t been said already, and by better writers? “It changed everything.” Well, no, not quite; but it certainly ushered in a whole new era of music, and with that came an influx of imitators, none of them able to come close to the cultural behemoth that the band had transformed into. And Cobain’s unfortunate passing in 1994 only helped solidify the group and this particular record as pop culture staples, images of both forever destined to adorn dorm rooms worldwide.

The new 20th anniversary reissue of the album comes in various forms. The standard two-disc set is the best bet for casual fans – the extra disc contains various demos and b-sides, as well as recordings from the band’s BBC sessions. It has been reported that the “Boombox Rehearsals” included here have been available in the past, released on the With the Lights Out box set. Indeed, much of this material might have been previously devoured by the band’s die-hard fans – and, unfortunately, a large portion of it is just that: material reserved for the obsessed. The most interesting bonus material may well be the Butch Vig recordings; lacking the “slick” aesthetic of Andy Wallace’s work that made its way to the final version of the album, Vig’s work is closer to the sound of the group’s first record: less polished and, as some might say, less mainstream. Nevertheless, it’s not drastically different from what you’re used to – unlike the remarkable changes between The Cult’s original Electric sessions and the final LP, Nirvana’s tracks never changed much from a songwriting standpoint; just the production values. Nothing here will blow you away, but it’s worth listening to as a curiosity if you are a fan.

What should be noted is the record’s remastering, which is both a blessing and a curse. Those listening through standard earbuds or speakers will probably enjoy the louder sound, and on that level the record definitely sounds more clean and polished than ever before and may hold some appeal; but for others, the quality is lacking: the songs have become a victim of the so-called “Loudness War,” which is ironic considering the remastering was engineered by Bob Ludwig, who, in 2009, publicly condemned the Loudness War as being one of the primary issues negatively affecting the music industry.

What happens by jacking up the volume on these songs is that you lose dynamics, which were particularly integral to Nirvana. Cobain was a fan of soft verses and loud choruses; it reflected the emotional rollercoaster of the lyrics, and you could feel the rage when Dave Grohl’s drums kicked in. The remastering on this album essentially removes those dynamics, so that the listener is left with a song of equal volume from beginning to end. When the album finishes, you feel battered and thrashed about, and not in the way the band intended. Of course, if you’re inclined to believe Lars Ulrich, most people “don’t give a shit” about this phenomenon, and if you’re one of those people, then you’re in luck. And if not, well… ready the Advil.

The ultimate consensus on the 20th anniversary re-release of Nevermind is that the album you know and love is still the album you know and love, and it goes without saying that the music contained here is both legendary and essential: one of those rare, near-flawless works of art that only grows finer with age. The bonus material is interesting, but not something a casual fan might be inclined to revisit; and while the poor job on the remastering will not perturb the average listener, die-hards and audiophiles should hold on to their original discs just in case.

This warning from Axl Rose, lead singer of Guns N’ Roses, preceded the first-ever live performance in 1991 of “November Rain,” a track that became a chart-topping single later that same year. (You know this song: it broke both production budgets and MTV viewing ratings for its time, and even today, in the Bieber era, it has 50 million views on YouTube alone.)

Rose’s words back then said a lot. When he declares that he, specifically, had added a symphony to the studio version of the track, and that he would be lucky to remember the words, it isn’t incidental; by this point in time, the band, for all practical purposes – at least in Rose’s eyes – belonged to him. The rest of the group was too drugged-up and complacent to realize what was happening until it was too late, musically and legally. And that distanced, fragmented nature is part of what makes the Illusion records so great: everyone’s functioning on their own level, in their own world, some of them barely hanging on. The result isn’t remotely cohesive, but it’s never boring.

Of course, it’s no wonder why the group members were doing their own thing: In 1986, on the cusp of their historic debut album, the band all lived together in a squalid townhouse. By the turn of that decade, they were featured on every magazine cover, their lives under a microscope. As bassist Duff McKagan later remarked, they went from existing as a family to suddenly having their own mansions, their own limos and their own lives.

But it was Rose, in particular – perhaps due to his overtly rebel image, or maybe just because he was the singer – who was most immediately established within the music industry, flying the world by private jet (even when the rest of the group flew together) and adorning the cover of Rolling Stone.

The yes-men were already surrounding him, whether it was wannabe writer Del James (whose short novella was a supposed inspiration for “November Rain”) or the greedy record label executives (probably the same responsible for allowing Chinese Democracy to gestate for nearly two decades). So that little seed of excess that could be heard in bloom on Appetite for Destruction (the synth keyboards on “Paradise City,” for example, which Rose added unbeknownst to his bandmembers) soon blossomed into completely overblown theatrics – inspired in part (ironically enough for an alleged homophobe) by Elton John and Queen.

Conceived wholly as a double album but released as two separate volumes, the Illusions’ first chapter is its angriest. The record begins with the blistering “Right Next Door to Hell,” the lyrics written by Rose in response to his then-neighbor’s accusations of assault.

It’s that intrinsically personal ranting that makes Use Your Illusion so memorable. Yet Rose also has a penchant for writing in ambiguities – he obviously has specific targets in mind for some songs, but as on tracks such as “November Rain,” the general themes can be applied to anyone: unrequited love, bitterness, envy, hate, despair, loneliness, addiction. (And, conversely, that’s precisely why “Get in the Ring,” from this album’s sequel, turns into such an awful track: built upon a promising, boozy blues-riff by Slash, the song leads into an embarrassing bridge where Axl, shrouding his lead guitarist’s solo, begins rambling off a list of names: magazines, pop culture figures. Listen to this in 2011 and none of it matters; most of the people/publications named aren’t even relevant anymore. For the most part, however, UYI I is thankfully spared these embarrassing moments.)

Other bandmembers manage to take the spotlight at times. “Dust N’ Bones” features the underrated Izzy Stradlin on vocals, but the song itself is ultimately one of the less memorable here. (For what it’s worth, his solo albums have been generally solid.) Stradlin takes over vocal duties again (with Axl in tow) for “You Ain’t the First,” a tongue-in-cheek (maybe?) ballad that sounds like something cowboys would sing around a campfire. A fun track, but not really substantial enough to stand ground against some of the other material.

“Don’t Cry” achieved notoriety not just because it’s a great ballad, but because of the death of Shannon Hoon, the singer of Blind Melon. Rose and he were close friends; Hoon was invited to record backing vocals for multiple tracks on the Illusion albums, and Rose, in return, helped him achieve more mainstream recognition. The song is one of the band’s best, if you can appreciate their ballads. (It’s also worth noting that it was during the music video shoot for “Don’t Cry” that Stradlin, who bailed prior to Guns’ Use Your Illusion World Tour, first abandoned the rest of his band, declining to appear on set and instead sending along a brisk note informing Rose that he was unwilling to further cooperate unless certain terms were met. They weren’t, and so he is absent from the video.)

Then, of course, there is “November Rain.” The music video was the most expensive of all time; it hit the top of the charts and stayed there for ages, and – over the years – almost became symbolic of the band’s peak and subsequent demise. It represented the furthest removal from their Appetite for Destruction style, and is often the punchline to jokes about the group (or, more specifically, Axl – perhaps because he linked the music video so inherently to his personal life, even going so far as to cast then-girlfriend Stephanie Seymour as the bride-to-be).

But the song is simply great. For all its excess, it’s bold and beautiful and has a couple absolutely killer guitar solos. It’s been favorably compared over the years to epic rock ballads like “Stairway to Heaven” and “Layla,” and can comfortably share the same space with them on best-of lists. And Slash has pretty much built his entire brand around his iconic image from this video; it wasn’t long after this that he basically refused to ever remove his top hat.

Despite a couple softer ballads, Use Your Illusion I is, as has been mentioned, the harder, angrier and more vitriolic of the two Illusions. You have dirty, uncomfortably catchy tracks like “Back off Bitch”: originally recorded for Appetite, re-recorded here, and backed by the band’s most Stonesy riff, there’s nevertheless something both nastier and more abrasive about it than any of the spiteful or misogynistic lyrics on Appetite (but maybe that’s just because the polished production qualities clash against what should instinctively sound rawer and grittier). You also have tracks like “Don’t Damn Me,” which once again reflect the paranoid mindset of a singer who previously railed that the world was out ta get him.

And that’s Use Your Illusion in a nutshell: frustratingly brilliant. Flawed. Sprawling. Grandiose. Self-indulgent. Indecisive. Songs veer between near-perfection and utter disaster. There is not a single album in existence that perhaps sums up the perils of rock n’ roll decadence as these two volumes ­– you can practically hear the band rising and falling, exploding and imploding, coming dangerously close to a parody of the rock n’ roll cliché without ever fully embracing it. And with the traditional music industry dead and music stars as fleeting as the headlines they’re courted by, there will probably never be another album like it, because very few artists will be afforded the opportunity to achieve such excess.

(The review should close there. But one thing must be noted: the album’s final track, “Coma,” is also one of the band’s most underrated cuts – ever. It is both the signature sound of the Illusion records – sprawling, over-produced, overlong, bombastic – and the signature sound of its authors, Rose and Slash. Rose’s lyrics – wordy, ambivalent, vague, and borderline nonsensical in their phrasing at times – are at their most pained and introspective, and the verses after the last guitar solo are some of the most powerful he’s written. And Slash’s solos are two of his most creative and emotive. The song is a monster, perhaps not as well-regarded as it should be simply because of its long running time.)

When I read this as a young teen after purchasing the CD, I wondered how it hadn’t hit me before: the great albums, the ones that stand the test of time, aren’t just those that are objectively “classic.” They’re the ones that connect with us. The ones that came into our lives at a certain time and take us back to that place again when we listen to them; the ones that remind us of a mood or an emotional experience or a relationship that is long gone. Everyone has his or her own life’s soundtrack.

I was fourteen years old when I heard a Guns N’ Roses song for the first time. This was just before the dawn of high-speed Internet and YouTube, when downloading video files was a matter of leaving the connection active overnight and tying up the phone line (much to the irritation of one’s parents). So there was some effort that had to be made, and thus an appreciation for the final product, which perhaps eludes some in the broadband era.

I had decided to check out one of the band’s videos after hearing a song I liked on my older sister’s laptop. “Sweet Child O’ Mine” was the first that popped up when I searched, and when it finally finished downloading, I initially found humor in the video’s dated approach: the ‘80s MTV logo, the leather pants, the frizzy hair and generally amusing fashion styles. This was not quite what I expected after hearing “Patience,” whose laidback acoustics had been appealing.

But not even midway through, I was unexpectedly struck by something I couldn’t quite place. There was something real and raw about the music, and goddamn, that guy could hit the high notes, and shit, who was this guy in the top hat going wild on guitar?

Indeed, one of the largest misconceptions that has pervaded over the years is that Appetite for Destruction is a “hair metal” album. That the band arose during the era of Motley Crue, Ratt and Poison is not incidental – they started out playing the grimy clubs of the Sunset Strip alongside those very groups – but the album was a decidedly more self-loathing creature. Crue sang about girls, girls, girls and partying all day; GN’R partook in such debauchery but didn’t seem to enjoy it much, whether evidenced by the pining for home in “Paradise City” or the general excoriation of the hedonistic lifestyle that permeates the entire album.

And while it’s easy today to criticize Axl Rose, the sole survivor of the original lineup, it seems he and Izzy Stradlin might have been the only ones who really understood that element of the music. Rose’s lyrics were at once angry, spiteful, misogynistic, confused, lonely, tender and heartfelt. Steven Adler happily pounded away at his drumset with a big grin on his face, but did he even really understand that “Welcome to the Jungle” was the anti-L.A. anthem? That “Paradise City” is about wanting to escape the sleaze of the big city and return home to “where the grass is green and the girls are pretty”? (That he ended up on “Celebrity Rehab” with Dr. Drew speaks for itself.)

This, of course, is not an attempt to undermine the contributions of the other bandmates, nor a mockery of Adler’s addictions. That’s what made this band so great, after all: its chemistry. Each member contributed something integral and unique to the recording process, and that one-in-a-million combination resulted in a masterpiece. When the lineup became fragmented, and when the egos began to run out of control, the balance was upset and that all began to change. But for a moment in time, Guns N’ Roses was that rarity: a near-perfect union of musicians whose talents created a near-perfect work of art.

Some will roll their eyes at the words “Guns N’ Roses” and “art” existing in the same sentence. These are probably the sort of people who judge a book by its cover – or, in this case, an album on its image. It’s easy to laugh at the hair-sprayed Rose, clad in leather and makeup, as he struts around onstage for the music video to “Welcome to the Jungle.” But it says something that by their next album proper the band had already killed off glam and helped usher in the alternative rock image (Rose often in torn jeans or shorts, Slash in plaid t-shirts).

Every song here is very good, 11 of the 12 tracks great, and 10 of the 12 nearly flawless. The worst song is “Anything Goes” – a modified carry-over from Rose’s previous band, Hollywood Rose – which is the emptiest song on the album, a sleazy portrait of dirty sex, but even here you can sense a kind of spite and vileness to the delivery of the lyrics: if Crue had sung this it would have sounded celebratory, but instead, you get the feeling that Axl’s just going through the motions and sick of it – utterly disgusted by sex. (A theme that would pop up repeatedly throughout his career as a musician.)

“Think About You” is the other track that isn’t quite great enough to stand out amongst the rest of playlist, but it is admittedly overlooked by many fans. The live performances over the years have particularly highlighted the song’s strengths, some of which, for whatever reason, aren’t immediately apparent during the studio cut. The chorus grows more infectious with time.

Everything else is fantastic. “Welcome to the Jungle,” “Sweet Child” and “Paradise City” need no introduction – you’ve heard them at just about any sports event you’ve been to, and we all know how fantastic the lead guitar solos are – but the lyrics and more subtle interplay between Slash and Izzy Stradlin are far too often ignored. Slash, an accomplished blues-rock-based guitarist, had far more in common with the boozy sleaze-riffs of Keith Richards, Joe Perry and Angus Young than Mick Mars or whoever the dude from Winger was; Stradlin, then, was his perfect counterpart, a man who knew his way around a guitar neck and had the musical chops that so many other rhythm guitarists sorely lack.

And, as aforementioned, these ostensible party songs are anything but; coming back to Springsteen again, it’s analogous to how “Born in the USA” was used as Reagan’s campaign theme. That song criticized the Vietnam War but was chosen merely for its anthemic chorus; similarly, GN’R was savagely attacking the Los Angeles lifestyle through their music while being rotated on the city’s most popular radio stations.

And that, perhaps, is why this record tends to connect with so many teenage males. (It still sells over 2,000 copies per week.) Sure, a lot of the content here is misogynistic and confused and hypocritical, but that’s part of the appeal, in a way: it’s a painfully honest album. The anger – some of it pointed, some of it aimless – and frustration and passion and naivety sums up the male experience. “It’s So Easy” is the sound of your balls dropping, while “Sweet Child O’ Mine” is your first tumultuous love. (As is now an E! True Hollywood Story staple, the song was written about Axl’s then-girlfriend, Erin Everly, the daughter of Don. Their relationship, by almost all accounts, was far from ideal; but the song captured the high points of a sour relationship in a way that a track such as “Love the Way You Lie” can only attempt to convey.)

The album concludes with one of the best closers in rock n’ roll history, “Rocket Queen.” The first half of the song in itself is great – but it’s after the (literally) orgasmic solo that the pace completely changes, as if it has transformed into an entirely different song altogether. In a way, it channels the experience of angry sex – aggressive and rough until the climax, then the come-down.

The outro features some of the most desperate and honest lyrics of Rose’s career. After bragging about his “tongue like a razor” and sexual experience, he basically tells the object of his affection that if she sticks with him, even though he’ll screw her up and leave her strung out, he’ll never leave her side. She’s probably not buying it, though, because he’s forced to plead: “Don’t ever leave me / Say you’ll always be there / All I ever wanted was for you to know that I care.” The lyric itself isn’t particularly deep or awe-inspiring on paper, but the earnestness and desperation in its delivery is something no artist could ever replicate on a cover version.

Rose and his crew of misfits might not have fully realized what they were creating in 1987, but Appetite for Destruction is one of the best and most emotionally forthright albums ever recorded. The title, accurate as it is, doesn’t refer to physical violence – as is still the case with Axl Rose today, the songs all come down to the emotional experience. Listening to Appetite today still brings me back to when these tracks cut the deepest: as a teenager, filled with all that typical hormonal rage and confusion, angry for no reason — and with no clue just how much this record would still mean to me a decade later.

Once the group finally began work on a fourth album, prospects were still looking dim: scrapped sessions with a former producer and a year-and-a-half gestation period with little news. And then came word that the band was trying something new, with each member contributing the same amount to the creation process; working — for perhaps the first time in their history — as equals. And their sound, the very thing that placed them at the center of attention at the start of the last decade? Oh, that would change, too: a 2011 write-up in NME described tracks as being influenced by “80s new wave, specifically The Cars.”

So the big question seems to be: are The Strokes back? Have they finally recaptured the pop culture zeitgeist of Is This It? Has working as a single unit brought them back from the edge? And, perhaps most importantly, will Angles do for new wave what Is This It did for garage rock revival?

Well, the good news is that The Strokes have delivered a good album. The bad news is that for all its throwback production, it doesn’t really sound much like The Strokes, and many of their longtime fans are probably going to be disappointed in an album that doesn’t retreat to the sound of the band’s glory days with its tail between its legs. Of course, it may seem redundant to mention that the band has changed its sound and then cite that as a criticism, but at times — as with their last album — the band places style over substance. Experimentation is one thing; sacrificing melodies in pursuit of this is another.

The album opens solidly with the cheeky “Machu Picchu.” “I’m putting your patience to the test,” teases Casablancas over a Graceland-style percussion; a self-deprecating nod to the long wait for new material. Lead single “Under Cover of Darkness” comes next, and it’s a ridiculously catchy song — probably the one here that sounds most like old-school Strokes — with Casablancas even throwing in a reference to “Last Nite” for good measure.

But the album isn’t entirely consistent — “You’re So Right,” one of the record’s more experimental tracks, is also one of its worst; the band’s attempt at dressing up as Radiohead falls a bit flat. “Taken for a Fool” has its production in the right place but suffers from a rather weak hook. “Games” isn’t much better; Casablancas’ voice wailing violently over the outro is a high point, but the song doesn’t really go anywhere. The following track, “Call Me Back” is, by contrast, quite nice — a ballad with hushed vocals in the chorus and staccato guitar-work that slowly builds in cadence. And “Gratisfaction” is as awesome as its title might imply: a gleefully relaxed and poppy tune in the vein of “Someday” or “Barely Legal.”

“Metabolism” sounds like a cut from First Impressions, bearing a resemblance to that album’s “Electricityscape.” The chorus features Casablancas in full-on croon-mode, the oft-unintelligible lyrics failing to detract from the desperation in his voice. “I wanna be somebody like you,” he mumbles at one point, before a burst of guitars drown his voice out. The Strokes are often at their best when bemoaning their hedonistic lifestyle and this track is no exception.

Angles closes with the melancholy “Life is Simple in the Moonlight,” with Casablancas informing a former fling that he’s jealous and alone, trying to forget the love they never had. It’s an interesting paradox: if there were never any feelings, why can’t he get the relationship out of his head? It’s this curiously apathetic outlook on decidedly emotional experiences that made songs like “Last Nite” so compelling a decade ago. The Strokes might have changed their sound, but when it comes to anger and regret, they’ve still got something to say.

Though some songs do wander and suffer from being self-indulgent, The Strokes have taken a step back in the right direction with this record, from the tightened rhythm section right down to the ten-track, 40-minute runtime. In a newly-published career retrospective on Pitchfork, the band criticized the recording process of Angles, and said they feel their next album might be better. That’s probably true enough — Angles was self-produced by the group in Albert Hammond, Jr.’s studio, which, quite frankly, was a poor decision; and Casablancas’ method of recording his vocals apart from the band results in a noticeable disconnect — but this is still an admirable effort.

A sonic blend of their previous albums, “Darkness” features the jangly garage-rock-pop rhythms of Is This It and Room On Fire combined with the cleaner production values of First Impressions of Earth. Singer Julian Casablancas – who reportedly recorded his vocal tracks separate from the rest of the band—isn’t as distorted in the mix as once was common, but it’s unmistakably a Strokes song through-and-through. When he croons that everyone in town has been singing the same song for ten years, it’s more than just a clever nod to “Last Nite”: they’re well aware that the song remains their calling card ten years later, and they’re here to make up for lost time.

Anchored by a ridiculously catchy chorus, it’s true that “Under Cover of Darkness” lacks the fresh impact of the band’s early singles—and isn’t quite as shocking a departure in sound as the ambitious “You Only Live Once” was five years ago—but it’s pretty much what you’d expect from a solid Strokes tune. And after such a long hiatus, fueled by rumors of internal strife amongst bandmembers and scrapped recording sessions, it’s also a lot better than many people might have been expecting it to be.

[Off of Angles, due out March 18th]

Deerhoof fit that niche nicely because you never quite know what to expect from them. They consistently switch up their sound, yet, unlike, say, The Flaming Lips, they haven’t managed to break through beyond a cult following – no equivalent of “Do You Realize??” to entice pop radio or help them circle the mainstream.

So the band’s move from the Kill Rock Stars label to Polyvinyl can’t be as much of a big deal for hipsters on Internet message boards as, say, Iron and Wine transferring to Warner Bros. (which seemed to elicit a minor crisis of faith for some). But even if Deerhoof’s label transfer did worry some minute selection of fans out there, fear not: on Deerhoof vs. Evil, their tenth studio album, the band is just as blissfully bizarre as ever.

While there is much repetition in the lyrics, there are no discernible hooks. One track is sung entirely in Catalan. Song structures seem to change midstream: heavy guitar rockers suddenly becoming synth-dominated pieces of whimsy. Vocalist Satomi Matsuzaki disappears during instrumental breakdowns only to return with unintelligible nonsense.

And, perhaps because of this, Deerhoof vs. Evil remains consistently engaging throughout. It rarely drags. The album, in fact, is quite short—12 tracks, each averaging maybe two and a half minutes at most – and feels even shorter than that. It’s hard not to recommend something so agreeably charming and admirably unique.

Having said that, …vs. Evil is something of a step-down from the band’s 2008 effort, Offend Maggie, which represented a better mix of their eclecticism and clear, strong songwriting. Deerhoof vs. Evil has been described by many critics as being “cute,” an apt enough summary, but the band has proven in the past to be capable of more. Deerhoof vs. Evil is predictably unpredictable and a fun little experiment from a band seemingly incapable of recording a bad album, but it’s hard to imagine returning to this years from now as often as their better work.

Grinderman 2 is every bit as filthy, dirty and fun as the first album was, but it’s perhaps just a bit less raucous: in place of fuzzy-guitar rawkers like “No Pussy Blues” you have darker and more somber tunes, such as the mid-tempo “When My Baby Comes,” which builds slowly into a rather epic and haunting clash of guitars, violins, an eerie choir and Cave’s repetitive chorus — the sort of mumbling, hushed chant he always does so disturbingly well.

That’s not to say that the album’s all serious and mature n’ shit. You’ve still got crude sexual innuendos, including the one that most critics keep citing in reviews of the record: “My baby calls me the Loch Ness Monster/ Two great big humps and then I cum.” Only Cave can really get away with some of this stuff and still maintain that tongue-in-cheek distance.

Warren Ellis, who has helped compose a few great film soundtracks with Cave recently, establishes a sound with his playing that veers wildly between garage rock, blues, psychedelia and who-knows-what. The band’s style is distinct enough that it’s hard to even really compare it to any other group than, well, maybe Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, but that almost seems like a disservice to the style they have established here.

The album closes with the epic “Bellringer Blues,” one of the best songs Cave has recorded in years, and it’s a great way to sign off and leave listeners wanting more. (Grinderman 3? Yes, please.)

Ultimately, Cave and his band of mischievous cretins have proven once again that this is not merely the throwaway side project that it so predictably could have been – Grinderman is a tangible band, and their new album is a fun romp that, while not as musically decisive as the Bad Seeds, is certainly a testament to the fact that some rock stars just keep getting cooler.

But, see, Time Flies… 1994-2009 isn’t really being billed as a best-of (even though that’s essentially what it is) – the official tagline with this compilation is that it’s a “collection of the band’s singles,” most of which were on the last compilation anyway. It’s a clever bit of marketing that is essentially a method of justifying repetitive re-packagings to fulfill contractual obligations (then again, the Brothers Gallagher haven’t sunken to Aerosmith’s depths yet, so I suppose it’s unfair to criticize them too harshly for letting this happen).

The thing is, Oasis does have some actually-pretty-good B-side fan favourites and even unreleased tunes that have leaked in various forms over the years. As a matter of fact, Stop the Clocks was originally meant to include the long-awaited song of the same title, which had been written two years earlier for Don’t Believe the Truth, had only been performed live once or twice, and was supposedly Noel Gallagher’s most personal song. It’s rumoured that he decided to leave it off of both albums at the last moment, rendering the title for the former a bit anti-climactic.

As for Time Flies… Well, you’d think a post-band retrospective with underrated B-sides and unreleased rarities like the aforementioned would have been a wiser choice, and probably even a stronger selling point (because how many average fans who already dished out for Stop the Clocks are really going to be fooled by Time Flies?). Maybe the label has no form of cooperation from Liam or Noel right now and thus can’t acquire the rights to these rarities, but that’s not a valid enough excuse to sell the fans short.

The ultimate point to be made is that, yes, almost all the songs here are representative of the band at its best; and yes, based on the songs alone this would be a very solid album and I’d be inclined to give it a glowing recommendation; but it’s hard listening to this without recognizing its redundancy. Furthermore, the disingenuous approach of it all just leaves a foul aftertaste. It’s an easy cash grab for a label biding time until their golden goose of a band inevitably reunites. If that takes longer than expected, don’t rule out the emergence of another compilation within the next few years. Hopefully that one brings something new to the table.

Their music basically pays homage to that lovably cheesy 1980s soft-rock/jazz hybrid that dominated the airwaves for much of the decade and which you’ve probably heard your parents (or, maybe grandparents) listening to before. That’s really all you need to know in order to place the group’s sound – you should be well aware, going into this, of whether you’ll appreciate it or not.

That being said, it’s striking how earnest Gayngs’ music sounds on Relayted, their debut album. In this glorious age of hipster mentality (I’m being overtly sarcastic here, so I guess I’m a victim of the mindset), I must confess to expecting something a bit more heavy-handed and tongue-in-cheek and perhaps even a little smug. The truth is that these tunes feel pretty organic and lovingly crafted; not ironic or post-ironic or postpartum ironic but genuine.

Which isn’t to say the album is particularly memorable – listen to it in one sitting and it all kind of blends together, songs seamlessly surging forward into other songs like a run-on sentence, and not more than a couple tracks will particularly stand out on their own merits (“Cry” gets the vote for best song). Relayted essentially contains the dynamics of an extended jam session – a bunch of talented and like-minded musicians getting together, having fun, and creating some cool enough melodies with solid production. (And yes, the production is overwrought, the mixing is unsubtle and the ubiquitous saxophone tends to squeal sensuously like something from one of those late-‘80s “erotic thrillers” that weren’t ever quite erotic or thrilling, but always featured plenty of sax). Criticizing the album’s production, in this regard, seems a bit self-defeating; the music sounds exactly how it should.

I’m not well-versed enough in the band’s genre to give you comparisons to other groups from the 1980s. I’m not sure I’d want to or if it would really matter much. What I can tell you is that this is likable enough soft-rock, not nearly as mean-spirited or sarcastic in its delivery as I was expecting it to be, and just enjoyable enough to listen to without necessarily being moved one way or the other.

“Solitude Is Bliss,” the poppy lead single for debut album Innerspeaker, opens with one of those warbling Hendrix riffs before launching headfirst into even hazier atmosphere. Singer Kevin Parker is eerily good at imitating John Lennon, but on this track he sounds more like Clapton, letting his voice glide freely over the harmonies. And yet, perhaps the most impressive thing here is that none of this does sound like an imitation – much like the entire album, “Solitude Is Bliss” sounds like a band working comfortably and organically, never straining to remind us who their influences are. If you were living in a cave for the last 40 years and turned on the radio and heard this track next to any of the aforementioned artists, you probably wouldn’t think it was out of place. “You will never come close to how I feel” is chanted repetitively in the chorus, but that’s just plain wrong – this song transports you right into whatever drug-laden wonderland these guys are living in. Rarely does revivalist rock music feel so natural.

Her music is comprised of suites. The EP was the first one; The ArchAndroid is comprised of two more. As for their conceptual angle? Allmusic.com reports that “Monáe was genoraped in the 28th century, sent back to the 21st century, and had her organic compounds cloned and re-purposed for the existence of ArchAndroid Cindi Mayweather, whose directive is to liberate Metropolis from a secret society of oppressors.”

Um, yeah. About that – unless you’re following along with the liner notes and really paying attention to the lyrics and music videos’ storytelling techniques, the Metropolis infatuation – as admirable and intriguing as it may be for film and sci-fi fans – isn’t going to matter much. You can listen to a song like “Tightrope” and take it on its own terms (as a reflection upon the thin line between commercial appeal and obscurity) without asking where the androids fit in.

That’s certainly not to undermine the album’s narrative, because if you really delve into this record, you’ll start wanting to go along with it. Fortunately, then, this is one of the better albums released this year, and the kind you’ll want to revisit quite often.

Monáe has a great, soulful voice, but she’s also capable of adjusting to other styles – whether rapping or rocking out, she never seems strained or uncomfortable. Because the album is seventy minutes long, it does feel a bit like a journey, and not every lunge forward is without its missteps; the of Montreal collaboration, “Make the Bus,” is easily the worst song, both garish and annoying (though, admittedly, it’s more so because of Kevin Barnes’ misplaced vocals than anything Monáe brings to the table).

But, perhaps because the record does feel so overwhelming, the occasional mistake doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. On albums laden with singles and throwaway tracks, this is often quite different – you skip the bad tracks and move on – but, with The ArchAndroid, you’re left with the impression that, in spite of their flaws, the lesser moments are necessary. It’s one of those rare modern concept albums that actually works, and at the risk of sounding clichéd, it’s something you want to start at from the beginning and finish accordingly.

The record’s high points remind you of genre-bending modern pop artists like Prince or Michael Jackson in their prime; Monáe has such a firm grasp of the territories she’s working in that not for one moment do you remember that it’s her first LP, and you never feel like she’s in over her head with any of the artistic choices she makes.

One of the better tracks, “Say You’ll Go,” is a haunting ballad that suddenly introduces a Debussy sample at the end – the sort of confident move that could be a complete misfire for many artists, but which Monáe pulls off entirely. It’s easy to indulge in lazy hyperbole when you’re wowed by the introduction of an impressive new talent, but somehow, it doesn’t seem unfair to assume, based on the merits of her album, that Monáe may be one of the fresh artists to help redefine pop music in the new decade. And even if she doesn’t – even if this album doesn’t sell much and she never quite breaks into the mainstream – at least she’s walking the tightrope and doing her own thing on her own terms.

Of course, these same critics argued that their gradual evolution (if you wish to call it that) was just another sign of their calculated attempts to cash in on whatever the latest fads were – assertions that didn’t make much sense when you considered the alienating Morrison/Bowie vibe going on throughout their last couple records arrived at a time when rap was beginning to dominate the charts, and alt-rock – let alone glam-and-Doors-inspired classic rock – were hardly “in.” I mean, at least Scott Weiland didn’t collaborate with Timbaland, right?

Although I’ve never been a huge fan of the group, there’s no denying their ability to write a great pop tune; their singles compilation from 2003, Thank You, which was (at the time) considered their departing gift to fans as they officially split, really showcased their inherent navigation of pop/rock radio.

So, ten years after their last album of original material, with all the members having since joined and ditched various respective supergroups, STP is back with an eponymous album. The Self-Titled Record used midway through a career is often perceived as a bold statement – whether you’reThe Beatles or Metallica – so it’s just a bit disappointing that Stone Temple Pilots isn’t the most emblematic product of their work together, nor their most interesting. Then again, Weiland and co. have admitted numerous times they only reunited for million-dollar-paychecks, so it could have been much worse.

Most of the songs lean more towards Bowie, Aerosmith and Cheap Trick rather than Nirvana or Soundgarden – Weiland’s voice isn’t notably different from the last time we heard him in this band, and the DeLeo Brothers’ talents are still well on display.

As it stands, Stone Temple Pilots is a solid, fun, passably entertaining record – a strong enough comeback that probably won’t push millions of units or set the airwaves ablaze, but which will, for the most part, connect with their fans. Most of the songs suffer from the same flaw that Weiland’s last album with Velvet Revolver did: overly repetitious choruses. For this very reason, the more you play ‘em, the more endearing these songs become – lead single “Between the Lines” grew on me after about 2 or 3 spins – but at first it can be a tad bit annoying, especially when Scott’s engaging in strange vocal inflections (as on the sticky “Hickory Dichotomy,” which features lyrics as nonsensical as the singer wrote during the prime years of his heroin addictions).

So, there’s sticky pop and choppy rock and serviceable fun to be had here. Nothing mindblowing, but a couple tunes you might hear on alt-rock stations years from now along with “Big Empty” and “Sex Type Thing,” as well as a few eclectic tracks that you might see on obscure-leaning fan lists in the future with the likes of “Atlanta” and “Hello It’s Late.” And if you like any of those songs then you pretty much know what you’re getting here. If you don’t, you probably think they’re bandwagon-jumping imitators. Can’t please everybody.

It’s on the verses that Eminem really lets loose and reminds us why he’s one of the best out there – he doesn’t sound quite as pissed off as he did on “Despicable,” the freestyle released last month, but he does sound pretty passionate about what he’s telling us. He acknowledges that his last album was “meh” and promises to drop the obnoxious accents. (Both of which can only be good signs for Recovery, which tentatively drops June 18th.) It’s a solid single – flawed, maybe, but endearingly so. As an endnote: “Not Afraid” was released as a single and hit #1 on the Billboard charts this week, the second rap song in history to debut at that position. Looks like he has a reason not to be afraid.

JIM, his 2008 effort, may have been a really fun record, but Compass is the superior work; it has been described by some as the album Prince has desperately been trying to make for the last decade, and that’s not nearly as silly a description as you may think.

Lidell doesn’t exactly hide his points of reference—both tracks “Completely Exposed” and “She Needs Me” surge forward with beats and distorted backing vocals straight off of “If I Was Your Girlfriend,” while “I Wanna Be Your Telephone” bears more than a titular reference to “I Wanna Be Your Lover.” Likewise, “The Ring” sounds like the sort of lost rarity from Sign ‘O’ the Times that would surface on some kind of compilation by the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. But Lidell’s clearest influences never quite seem forced or ham-fisted – in fact, more than ever before, Lidell seems to have come into his own, and the music feels natural as a result.

While there’s plenty here to please Motown and James Brown enthusiasts, Lidell has also added thrown some more blues into the mix; “Big Drift” doesn’t sound far from something you’d hear the Black Keys doing, and there are a couple slower, introspective acoustic numbers (like closing track “You See My Light”) that showcase the diversity and intimacy that Lidell can achieve with his vocals when he wants to.

Some of his friends have helped out, too. Beck (whose Record Club series Lidell has contributed to) co-writes and produces a track or two; Feist takes on some backing vocals; numerous members of Grizzly Bear pop up; and so on and so forth. The songs are layered and distorted enough that it’s hard to really pick them out let alone name names, but maybe that’s a good thing, as nothing here really seems too overwrought.

In its essence, Compass is a gleefully weird and off-kilter album by a musician who seems to keep growing stronger and more consistent with every record. The wide array of styles present on the album might make it a bit more difficult for some listeners to get into, but that’s always been the biggest challenge with Lidell. No matter what the reaction may be to Compass, it’ll certainly be interesting to see where he goes from here.

Most people who are specific enough to be looking up reviews of the newly-remastered 2010 edition of the album will presumably be more interested in whether the sound itself is worth upgrading for. And, quite frankly, that boils down entirely to how you like your music – scratchy, hissy and “authentic,” as some people have dubbed the original lo-fi mastering; or cleaned-up and (relatively) smoother, as the new Kill Rock Star release is.

You see, to contradict my earlier point of not delving into the record’s history, Roman Candle was originally released in 1994 by indie label Cavity Search, who weren’t exactly titans in the industry, and Smith’s songs – recorded mostly alone on a four-track – were never quite properly mastered to begin with (reportedly due to the fact that he never planned to actually release the record until being urged to by fellow musicians – a theory supported by the fact that four of the songs have no titles).

Of course, over the years, that whole scratchy, hissy, lo-fi sound is part of what endeared since-converted fans to this record – and for those of you who’ve been listening to this album in its original form since the ‘90s, yeah, you might take issue with a few of Larry Crane’s tweaks. But for the average listener, and even for fans who aren’t exactly audiophiles, this will probably sound like an improvement.

Having said that, let’s not pretend this is a vastly different presentation. The songs are still what they always were; they haven’t been remixed or spruced-up beyond recognition. Some of the creases and tears in the sound have merely been glossed over, and you could argue the claim that it’s somewhat more accessible as a result.

And really, let’s be honest: if you’re a so-called “completist,” you’re probably going to buy this anyway. If you’re happy with what you already have, then you should probably sample Crane’s remaster prior to purchasing it and decide for yourself. And if you’ve never heard Roman Candle, then this is the ideal opportunity to change that. At the end of the day, an admirable job has been done here. Crane has tastefully remastered the impressive, now legendary debut album of an artist who sadly left this world far too soon.

This certainly isn’t to take anything away from the man’s playing. It’s just to say he isn’t as much the tortured artist as he is the fun-loving junkie who got high because he liked it. “Give the ghost that hides in your soul rock n’ roll,” intones The Cult’s Ian Astbury on the opening track of the axeman’s self-titled album. And that’s basically the chorus of the song. For the remainder of the record, it doesn’t really get much deeper than that.

Astbury sounds weathered and worn and certainly knows the vices of rock n’ roll all too well – one of the reasons he’d have been a suitable immediate replacement for Scott Weiland in Velvet Revolver – but most of Slash’s best moments come as complete (and giddy) delights: Fergie makes the successful transition from annoying auto-tuning pop tart toward full-on rock duchess. Her collaborative track with the Top-Hatted One, “Beautiful Dangerous,” is silly but impossibly infectious – expect to hear this one all over the radio.

The album’s peak might be the resurrection of Chris Cornell, grunge’s fallen rock god (thanks, Timbaland), who seems to have finally embraced the laidback, soulful vibe he teased us with a decade ago on Euphoria Morning. His “Promise,” a song ostensibly written from the perspective of a father to his child, has a great chorus and a wonderful performance by the singer that makes one wonder what a collaboration between these two men in their prime might have sounded like.

Besides channeling the best from Fergie, Cornell, Kid Rock, and Adam Levine (yes, an accomplishment in itself), Slash also had the wisdom to pay attention to Jimmy Page and enlist former Plant-replacement runner-up Myles Kennedy (the only dude to snatch two spots on the record), a highly talented singer who had the misfortune of being tied to one of those shitty post-rock bands (Alter Bridge: Creed, but with a good singer). “Back to Cali” has the kind of gritty, simplistic blues-riff that Slash built his legacy on, and “Starlight” is appropriately anthemic.

Andrew Stockdale does his best Zeppelin imitation with “By the Sword,” one of the better hard-rockers featured here, and Lemmy Kilmister reminds us with “Doctor Alibi” what chugging whiskey and smoking cigarettes for a few decades will do to your voice – namely, make it sound freakin’ awesome.

For the most part, however, the other rock titans fare less well. Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crucify the Dead” – which the singer wrote as his own take on the breakup of Guns N’ Roses – features a pretty cool solo and decent lyrics, but frankly, Osbourne’s voice is short of self-parody at this point. He mumbles and slurs his way through a song that just never really comes together. Likewise, Iggy Pop really phones it in with “We’re All Gonna Die,” which doesn’t sound unlike anything found on The Stooges’ last abortion of a record. “We’re all gonna die / so let’s get high!” he suggests repeatedly. Then: “We’re all gonna die / So let’s be nice.” Huh?

No one will approach Slash with the lofty expectations that Axl and Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy was saddled with. Nor will people be as eager to hear new material from someone so omnipresent in popular culture. But this album will satisfy people looking for a quick fix – some (mostly) good tunes with (mostly) catchy hooks and a fun vibe. Unexpectedly solid production and the surprising strengths of its typically less reliable guest stars are only bonuses. Anyone expecting something more substantial should take a pass.

Note: Various regional releases of the album contain bonus tracks. One of them, “Mother Maria” (featuring Beth Hart), was originally recorded as part of a Haiti benefit album. It’s better than most of the songs on display here, and definitely worth seeking out.

Luckily for us, Charlotte Gainsbourg decided to follow in the footsteps of her parents, becoming both a successful actress and talented musician. IRM is the second album of her adulthood (following 2006’s 5:55), and to describe it in simple terms would be a disservice to how complex and gripping it really is.

An innately personal work, IRM refers to Gainsbourg’s near-death cerebral hemorrhage in 2007. The track employs actual IRM device noises (the French acronym for what we know as an MRI), replicated on the album’s title track as she heard them during her trips to the hospital. The song is an eerie and haunting trip. Anyone who’s ever been stuck inside one of those behemoths for periods of time will be unnerved.

“Le Chat Du Café Des Artistes,” a version of a Jean-Pierre Ferland song written in 1970, is reminiscent of (believe it or not) Jack White and Alicia Keys’ “Another Way to Die” – which is, as you’ll recall, that disappointingly lackluster Bond theme song from Quantum of Solace. Gainsbourg takes an almost identical riff and works it into a beautiful, textured piece that is at once comforting and disconcerting.

And this is how the majority of the album plays out: you’ll enjoy listening to IRM yet never quite feel complacent with where it is heading. Between the hushed, breathy vocals and evocative melodies, it’s an experience you’ll likely find hard to shake off.

Certainly credit must be given to Beck, who produced the record, and his influence is all but tangible – none of these tracks’ rhythms would sound out of place on one of his (better) albums, and in working with Gainsbourg, he has – in the process – somehow brought out some of his best in years.

IRM closes with “Looking Glass Blues,” a relatively poppy and upbeat tune that finds Gainsbourg’s staccato vocals playing to the strengths of a catchy beat. It’s a sigh of relief at the end of a dark, captivating journey. It presumably opens the doors for what may be a less introspective, more raucous and joyful follow-up album. Yet no matter which direction Gainsbourg ultimately heads, one can’t help but think: It’s gonna be hard to top this one.

So it should be mentioned that Magic Chairs,the latest release by a Danish rock band named Efterklang, is more melodic and pop-oriented than their earlier albums, 2004′s Tripper and 2007′s Parades. The former was essentially an ambient record with singing; indeed, some critics even complained that the singing was intrusive and the album should have been entirely instrumental. Comparatively, the latter was a decisive move towards stickier melodies, with an increased use of vocals and lush arrangements.

Magic Chairs, then, can be seen as a logical extension or evolution of the group’s impressive dynamics, recalling few of the hushed soundscapes of Tripper but welcoming a more expansive variation of chamber pop. Think Grizzly Bear meets Explosions in the Sky. Frankly, it’s rather beautiful stuff.

The band seems to have acknowledged its decision to strive for melodies with song titles such as “Harmonics” and “Natural Tune,” the second of which features a moving vocal duet, accompanied by sparse acoustics and pianos.

And call me crazy, but those warm pulsating synths on “Alike” aren’t far from Book of Love’s “Modigliani.” (I’m not sure I’d have ever listened to Book of Love if it weren’t for John Hughes’ Planes, Trains and Automobiles,which I have probably seen throughout my lifetime more than any other film. I’m not sure if that says more about the film or more about me.) Nor do they avoid a rhythmic parallel to Bruce Springsteen’s “Streets of Philadelphia,” which, incidentally, was also on a popular film soundtrack.

“Raincoats” opens with steady clapping before a guitar riff creeps in, and then maybe some flutes, and suddenly vocalist Casper Clausen chimes in, humming along to the melody, starting to sing: “I begin to fall apart…” And there’s something in there about “fingers falling off again,” and it’s all quite dream-like and haunting and poetic in its unique way.

Efterklang have done something remarkable here. This is maybe the first great album of 2010 – which, I suppose, isn’t saying a whole lot considering how early it is, but certainly it is a record that will be deserving of recognition – err, remembrance – at year’s end. Don’t overlook it.

In the past his disaffected mumbling has often given way to a sort of drunken croon or despairing croak, but – as much as I love the Strokes’ first couple albums – I feel like he’s never utilized his voice as much as he could have been outside of the band’s albums.

Phrazes for the Young, then, reasserts Casablancas’ musical persona as something of a space-rock bar singer, sliding his voice around the synth organs of tracks like “Left & Right in the Dark” or breaking out in falsetto (!) on “Glass,” which is one of the best pop songs I’ve heard all year.

The reigning champion of this album, however, is lead single “11th Dimension.” Filled with a euphoric sense of joy, it’s one of those songs that just makes you forget about all your troubles for roughly three and a half minutes. We heard a hint of this melancholy on “You Only Live Once” – the best track from 2006′s First Impressions of Earth – but now he’s gone all out, unafraid to pile on one layer of sound after another until the final chorus sweeps in – and knocks you out.

Casablancas has never been a great lyricist, but there’s something about his simplicity — “Forgive them / Even if they are not sorry” is “Dimension’s” main hook — that just lends itself to the music and, well, feels right. The opening lyric of the album, for example, might give a hint to how he imagines himself to be seen by other members of the Strokes: “Somewhere along the way / My hopefulness turned to sadness / Somewhere along the way / My bitterness turned to anger.”

It’d be nice to get a new Strokes record in 2010, but Phrazes for the Young is that rarest of vanity projects: a successful one. Though it has its share of missteps (the weakest track, “Ludlow St.,” is just a bit too smug for its own good), let’s face it — this could have turned out terrible, but instead we have one of the finest, tautest and most surprising rock albums of 2009. I guess he was right after all.

The thing about grading any Beatles record is that it’s relative — with Please Please Me, you’re contrasting against Sgt. Pepper’s and Revolver: the types of work in a league of their own. Anything will pale in comparison to such output. While most bands would be proud to ever record something as wonderful as Let It Be, the general consensus is that it’s their worst studio album. Thus, you have a tendency to underrate an album that, from another artist’s catalog, you wouldn’t hesitate to praise.

The amazing thing about the band, both then and now, is how quickly and masterfully they covered musical ground – Please Please Me is fairly straightforward by their later standards, but they essentially moved across more genres and boundaries in under a decade than most groups ever do in their entire careers. They established themselves, deconstructed and reconstructed themselves, and imploded in less time than it takes some artists to record a single album.

Please Please Me feels sporadic and loose – probably since it was recorded quickly in a last-ditch effort to capture the sound of the band’s live act and capitalize upon their pending fame – and, as a result, it’s not perfect: there are some songs here that many fans, depending upon which Beatles era they have an inclination towards, may not revisit often. Personally, most of the covers on the record have never done much for me – save “Twist and Shout,” which is one of the band’s early highlights. Recorded last because of the toll it took upon John Lennon’s cold-affected voice, this raucous rocker pretty much defines rock n’ roll. And if you can listen to it without thinking of Ferris Bueller dancing on a parade float, then props to you.

While it may not earn direct comparison to the band’s truest masterpieces, Please Please Me stands as an insightful snapshot of an evolving band at a pivotal moment in time, right before anyone had quite the idea of how big they’d really become.

Bad news, then: Blueprint 3 isn’t nearly as good as American Gangster. The production is more excessive; the lyrics are often derivative; Jay’s rhymes are inconsistent, jumping from hot (”D.O.A.”) to cold (”Hate”). It’s more BP2 than BP1; more Kingdom Come than Reasonable Doubt. But it’s still not the flop that some critics are labeling it as.

The album’s primary fault is its length — at 15 tracks, it’s too damn long, especially since it’s relatively front-loaded — in other words: all the best stuff comes at the beginning. “What We Talkin’ About,” with its warm synths and pounding bass, is a great intro; “Thank You” recalls the neo-soul production of the album’s original predecessor; “Death of Auto-Tune” overcomes its burdensome gimmickry with a stripped-down instrumental section and a take-no-prisoners Hov. (That being said: the problem with placing an anti-auto-tune song on an album featuring songs whose main hooks include obvious usage of auto-tune is notable.)

“Run This Town,” the record’s second (and underrated) single featuring Kanye and Rihanna, works even better within context of the album; but Jay is overshadowed by ‘Ye, and he never quite recovers for the remainder of his album; “Real As It Gets” is good but strangely familiar, and “Empire State of Mind” — while definitely one of the album’s better tracks — is basically a remake of “Brooklyn Go Hard,” featuring the exact same unique vocal inflections on its verses and chorus.

“A Star is Born,” “Venus vs. Mars” and “So Ambitious” are largely forgettable. You’re left wondering why “History,” “Jockin’ Jay-Z” and “Swagga Like Us” (all tracks released since ‘07, before the album got bumped back multiple times) were left on the cutting room floor in favour of these turkeys. Did Jay and his team of producers really think this material was up to par?

Interestingly enough, the impression I was left with after Blueprint 3 was over? Jay has been listening to some indie rock — I’m not sure what happened to that missing MGMT track, but the production as a whole reeks of hipster influence. (Even the album artwork, the first of Jay’s not to feature himself on the front cover, seems unmistakably…indie. Add to the evidence: Jay was spotted moving to the sweet rhythms of Grizzly Bear at a show in NYC last week.)

As interesting a concept as this may be — indie rock hip-hop? — it’s not entirely effective on Blueprint 3, and you’re left wondering how much better this all might have been if we sensed that Jay had a purpose. Jay’s rise to fame has been a blessing and a curse (BP2 pun intended) — it’s enabled him to be the biggest and, for a while, the best; it’s also undermined his outlook. Everything here is far too insulated — as good as “Run This Town” may be, you’re left with the feeling that Jay actually believes those esoteric lyrics. Surrounded by an army of yes-men and enablers, it would be hard for anyone not to buy into their own name — especially when their name is spread across so many ventures — but, you know, the best rap albums — Reasonable Doubt and American Gangster included — usually channel the hunger, strive and purpose of an underdog. Jay doesn’t have that drive anymore because he is on top — and it might take him hitting rock bottom again before we ever hear something as bold and beautiful as the first Blueprint. In the meantime, we’ve got a relatively above-average work from an artist who’s proven himself capable of so much more.

The chief singer and essential mastermind of the project, Dave Longstreth, is a wildly divisive vocalist; he sounds a bit like the lovechild of Freddie Mercury and Antony Hegarty, but the execution is lacking. He’s seemingly incapable of channeling anything beyond frenetic elasticity. His falsetto bends and winds its way around opener “Cannibal Resource,” which sounds a bit like something Prince might have written on a coke and heroin binge in 1986. (The small bass riff surely must be a nod to “Kiss.”) The female choir is eerie and haunting — a recurring theme all through this trip.

What Longstreth is crooning about here or anywhere on Bitte Orca is a bit of a mystery, but it’s equal parts infectious and annoying, which is the simplest way of summarizing the album as a whole. In both tone and substance: it’s bizarre, frustrating, unique, and derivative all at once.

Album’s lead single, “Stillness is the Move,” is arguably the best – and most accessible – tune on display here. Like much of the album, it has a white-boy Afro-Pop stadium-rock edge. Longstreth actually moves aside on this track and lets the girls take over to full effect. “Useful Chamber” opens up with a fuzzy, Black Moth Super Rainbow-like synth riff before opening into a beautiful melody. While revisiting the track, it seemed to linger a bit more than any others, leading me to put it on repeat. “Two Doves” is a ballad that would have been better as a half-assed replication of “When Doves Cry,” especially if it had been recorded in the same manner as Rise Above (the band’s 2007 Black Flag-inspired semi-cover-album). These are the sort of aimless thoughts that Bitte Orca invokes.

Although Bitte Orca has sharply divided the indie community, it is hard to deny that there’s something interesting at work here, though I’m perhaps less inclined to believe its alleged “genius” was calculated. Longstreth is not a brilliant visionary, but he has created a masterpiece to the extent that he is capable. Bitte Orca is either deliberately frustrating or frustratingly deliberate, but in any case, it’s worth a listen. Or two. Or three.