Thanks to a fortuitous intersection of talent and fate, 22-year-old Josh Groban hasn't finished his senior year in performing arts school but has already released Closer, his sophomore effort on a major label. Fans of the young vocal phenomenon's debut will find much to enthral them here, even if it nudges the singer closer to the centre of producer/mentor David Foster's MOR pop sensibilities. Eschewing much of its predecessors more overt classic-lite pretensions and pop-rock covers for a slate of dramatic, Eurocentric ballads that serve as a showcase for the singer's inviting baritone, Groban shrewdly positions himself as the American alternative to the Bocelli-Watson crossover axis. "Caruso" may find the singer falling short of its operatic inspiration, but "Oceano" and "My Confession" quickly showcase the singer's true dramatic range (which seems to all but yearn for a bona fide Broadway musical challenge), while a vocal take of Bacalov's graceful "Il Postino" theme uses classical virtuoso Joshua Bell's violin flourishes to good effect. To his credit, Groban displays some promising efforts at songwriting collaboration on the bittersweet "Per Te" and "Remember When It Rains", while the ambient/ethnic soundscape of Deep Forest's "Never Let Go" offers a teasing alternative to the record's otherwise melodramatic production formula. Groban has found commercial triumph via Foster's mentoring, but there remains a nagging sense here that he hasn't truly pushed himself as an artist-yet. -Jerry McCulley.

It's often the way of rock & roll-the accidental stuff you don't sweat over often turns out to be better than the supposedly generation-defining monolith you rupture your life to expel. So it was with Oasis and their third album, Be Here Now-soaked with sweat, it left Noel and Liam purple-faced with effort and stank like old egg sandwiches in a sock. Meanwhile The Masterplan-b-sides and live tracks-came out a year later and effortlessly reminded everyone why they'd liked the hairy brothers in the first place. "Acquiesce"-don't worry, they admitted they didn't know what the word meant, they just liked the sound of it-was the greatest single they never released: a huge, affirmative sibling bellow-fest that makes "D'You Know What I Mean?" sound like a polite old grandma coughing in comparison. The mournful "Rockin' Chair"-another "lost" Oasis classic, makes it onto here, along with a truly execrable live version of the Beatles' "I Am The Walrus", which actually sounds like they got a walrus to sing it, but no matter. The magic, so latterly absent in Oasis's career, is here in spades. -Caitlin Moran.

The last of the truly classic first four Steely Dan albums, the 1975 Katy Lied also sounds like the best. While retaining a solid rock foundation, the music finds Walter Becker and Donald Fagen engaging their jazz influences more successfully than ever; Fagen's piano fills alone are some of the most impressive music laid to tape in the 1970s. The songs, too, rate with the team's very best, whether coolly anticipating global financial collapse ("Black Friday"), celebrating the legacy of a mob-hit victim ("Daddy Don't Live in That New York City No More"), or letting the Dan's guard down with a pained three-minute survey of life on Earth ("Any World [That I'm Welcome To]"). -Rickey Wright.

By the time Hotter Than July was released, in 1980, Stevie Wonder's most fertile period was already over. The smash run that began 1972 (Music of My Mind and Talking Book) and ran through Innervisions (1973), Fulfullingness' First Finale (1974) and 1976's Songs in the Key of Life was winding down. There was still enough magic left in Wonder for one last hurrah, however-and while July isn't its forerunner's equal in the heights it scales or consistency, it's still bears the marks of Wonder's best work: there's the regretful "I Ain't Gonna Stand For It", the reggae-crossover "Master Blaster (Jammin')", an oft-imitated classic (see Elvis Costello's "Watching the Detectives", for one); and the enormously successful paean to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. , "Happy Birthday". -Randy Silver.

Nothing changes folks like babies and war, and since the release of their last album, 2002's Home, the Dixie Chicks have been forever altered by both. If that album showcased the trio as precocious young adults, Taking the Long Way finds them sobered and matured, and in a grown-up state of mind. Produced by the celebrated Rick Rubin (Johnny Cash, Red Hot Chili Peppers), who saw the Chicks as "a great rock act making a country album, not a country act making a rock album," their new record impresses both as beautiful sonic tapestry (peppered with myriad Beatlesque hallmarks) and forthright yet vulnerable portrait of three women shaken by the personal and political events of the past few years. As they make clear in the defiant "Not Ready to Make Nice," they still smart over the backlash from their 2003 Bushwhacking. But as they assert on the equally autobiographical "The Long Way Around," they could never "kiss all the asses that they told me to" and just follow others aimlessly-and silently-through life. This means that the Chicks are simultaneously prideful and scornful of celebrity ("Everybody Knows"), and that as new mothers they increasingly treasure the refuge they find in life with their families, out of the spotlight ("Easy Silence," "Lullaby," "Baby Hold On"). The push and pull of both passions drive this record, which also touches on the personal issues of infertility (with which sisters Martie Maguire and Emily Robison both dealt) and Alzheimer's (from which Natalie Maines's grandmother suffers). The trio crafted all 14 cuts with the help of such writers as Sheryl Crow, Gary Louris, Mike Campbell, and Keb' Mo', laying out their lives as honestly and intimately as they might in their diaries. For that reason, on first listen, Taking the Long Way seems too somber-in need of a bit of levity and more than a couple of uptempo songs (like the sexy, '60s-flavored "I Like It") to resonate for the long haul. It also seems to lack the writing quality that Darrell Scott, Patty Griffin, and Bruce Robison brought to Home. [+]

The surprise success story of the "Scousadelic" Liverpool scene, on Tired Of Hangin' Around The Zutons trump their debut with an assured, confident collection of songs that accentuate their skill for vintage R&B, white-man soul, and some of the best rowdy sax since The Specials strode the earth. Perhaps in retrospect it's easy to see why this band have struck the public nerve in the way The Coral and The Bandits never quite could. No spooked, surrealist pirate swashbucklers here-The Zutons' songs are grounded in the here and now, numbers like "It's The Little Things We Do", the sound of frontman Dave McCabe weaving an unsteady path from barstool to barstool with dwindling pay-cheque clutched in fist, or "Valerie"-a message to an ex-lover reminiscent of the tattered majesty of The Faces in their garrulous heyday. Much improved is Abi Harding's saxophone work, now capable of sensitive, jazzy undertones ("You've Got A Friend In Me") or sudden bursts of nutty, bandy-legged strut, and McCabe's soulful vocal is neatly bolstered by full-band backing vocals that add an enjoyably cabaret sense of drama to even the twitchiest blast of skiffle-punk. The sound of a band coming on in leaps and bounds. -Louis Pattison.

There's a cynical adage that argues if you stand still long enough, history will eventually catch up with you. It's tempting to say that about Barry Manilow, an artist whose stubborn, quarter-century dedication to old-fashioned songcraft and musical melodrama has earned him few critical praises but a loyal worldwide following in the millions. When a cult of 20-something would-be lounge lizards tried to cash in on Manilow's shtick in the 1990s, they distanced themselves from its emotional potency with telling dollops of irony and retro-hip cynicism-anything to keep from looking too sincere. This album serves up the high points of Manilow's long, successful career, rightly focusing on the long string of 70s hits that built both his legend and record label. They're a body of songs whose solid craftsmanship is undeniable, but it's Manilow's sincerity that crucially sells them-indeed, he didn't write "I Write the Songs", but who could doubt him? It's an odd tribute that much here-"Mandy", "Looks Like We Made It", "Copacabana", et al-has become the palette for a popular entertainment spectrum that somehow encompasses endless hotel piano bars on one flank and TV sketch-com parody on the other. Good to remember that kitsch, by definition, requires a deep and lasting impact on the culture. Manilow hasn't just embraced the "K" word; he's revelled in it with a smile-how could one frown through "Bandstand Boogie" and "Copa" anyway?-and elevated it to something approaching the transcendental through his sheer, joyous force of will. And if his latter work has been unabashedly nostalgic, how could anyone be surprised? -Jerry McCulley.

Four years is a dreadfully long time to wait for an album from anyone, let alone a man renowned for his fierce independence, who could no doubt make an acoustic guitar weep merely by stepping into an adjoining room. But finally, the long-awaited follow up to the quietly inventive and universally-acclaimed O arrives. And those who have followed the evolutions in his live act since 2002 may be surprised to hear that there is such a seamless transition between that album and 9. His sophomore record offers affirmation rather than progression, but what a rewarding set it is regardless; gradual and accomplished. It's hard to contrast too intently with past work when each song demands such focused immersion from the listener. Full band pieces such as the perky and most conventional "Rootless Tree", the rattled Jeff Buckley-esque riffing of "Me, My Yoke & I" and the eventual explosive climax of the brilliant Radiohead style ballad "Elephant" are noticeably cohesive, but his real strength remains alone with his broken, weighty voice and soft, tentative steps down his piano keyboard. "9 Crimes" and "Sleep Don't Weep", both enhanced by the angelic fortitude of vocalist Lisa Hannigan, are immediate highlights. And "Accidental Babies" is heartbeat-stealing in its lonely beauty, the kind of private counsel you would happily wait years for. -James Berry.

Throughout his 30-year-plus career, Scottish musician John Martyn had touched on an eclectic range of sounds and styles. His continuous work in the jazz, blues, folk and rock fields has resulted in some fantastic music though, somehow, Martyn never really got his full props. The title track on Solid Air is a tribute song to his then depressed friend Nick Drake, which immediately lends a sentimental streak to the LP. The rest of the album reveals its charms in a respectful manner, slowly but surely crystallising much of his earlier work into a coherent yet diverse whole. Using his soft, almost whispery vocal style and gifted guitar phrasing as connecting threads throughout the LP, Martyn offers up a sprawling mesh of dark blues, progressive electric guitar, deep, tribal rock and lighter jazz to make what was one of the biggest benchmark albums of his career. -Paul Sullivan.

Despite that unwieldy, rather craven title (a coy `@#%&!' precedes the title, in lieu of proper swearing), Smilers has already been acclaimed by some critics as the best record in Aimee Mann's long career. Few fans will be disappointed. The opening "Freeway" may be built around a fairly slight play on words ("you got a lot of money but you can't afford the freeway" goes the chorus) but the nagging melody and expansive synth-laden arrangement, reminiscent of her East Coast counterparts and suburban critics Fountains of Wayne, is nigh on irresistible. "Stranger Into Starman" is a mere snippet, and all the better for its brevity, while "Looking For Nothing" is a perfect example of the southern Californian blankness Mann has captured for years now. The lush, orchestrated country-rock of "Phoenix" rhymes the title with `kleenex' and truly captures the mood of someone leaving for good. Sean Hayes sounds uncannily like a boozy Antony Hegarty on the deceptively jolly closer "Ballantines", named for a whisky, while author Dave Eggers picks up a credit for his rather good `whistling' on the gloomy, undeniably pretty "Little Tornado". The painfully detailed "Thirty One Today", a distant memory for Mann, is another successful attempt to voice dissatisfaction. Only the chirpy horns on the admonishing "Borrowing Time" actually lighten the mood. Smilers is an excellent record, cleverly thought out throughout. But the smiles here are rueful at best. [+]

The middle album of the trilogy that includes Swordfishtrombones and Franks Wild Years, Rain Dogs is Waits's best overall effort. The songs are first-rate, and there are a lot of them-19 in all, ranging from grim nightlife memoirs ("9th and Hennepin," "Singapore") to portraits of small-time hustlers ("Gun Street Girl", "Union Square") to bursts of street- corner philosophy ("Blind Love", "Time"). The album also contains the original version of "Downtown Train", which Rod Stewart turned into a smash hit. The image of "rain dogs"-animals who've lost their way home because the rain has washed away their scent-is an appropriate symbol for the entire cast of characters Waits has brought to life over the years, and this album has thus far proved to be his most enduring effort. -Daniel Durchholz.