Although Blur had long been recognised as one of the premier bands responsible for the reinvigoration of Britpop in the 1990s, it's 1994's Parklife that truly provided the template for the entire movement. At a time when Oasis were aping the sounds of their pub-rock heroes on Definitely Maybe, Blur drew from the legacy of the Kinks and Small Faces to create an album that's as English as a rainy Sunday in front of the gas fire. Parklife is full of songs that, quite frankly, don't make much sense outside of the British Isles, songs that find joy in the mundane, like "Girls & Boys" (a song about working-class holidaymakers in the sun) and "Parklife" (a day in the life of a cheeky, unemployed bench-sitter). Witty, ironic and irreverent, Parklife remains one of those rare albums that sum up a specific place and time (Britain in the mid-1990s). For that reason alone, it can be considered one of Blur's finest albums. -Robert Burrow.

By the release of 1998's Mezzanine, critics were suddenly of the understanding that Massive Attack were one of the most important bands in the world. Bristol's original trip-hop pioneers had, on previous albums Blue Lines and Protection, fused turntable wizardry to the warmest of soul. With Mezzanine, however, the party had ended; revisiting the murky soundscapes so favoured by former partner and fellow Bristolian Tricky, the comeback single "Rising Son" muttering edgily about "cheap beer filled with crocodile tears", over the deepest bass. Tensions were heightened by the news that the making of Mezzanine was riven by inter-band rifts. The friction, though, seems to have create some gems; "Inertia Creeps" is drenched in menace, and "Teardrop" features the ethereal vocals of Liz Fraser of the Cocteau Twins-both of these a benchmark not just for the band, but for the trip-hop genre. Bleak, but powerfully beautiful. -Louis Pattison.

Possibly the kitschiest band of the 1980s (as Joy Division was for the 1970s), Tears for Fears turned out a small treasury of well-crafted songs during their heyday and helped to define a genre that everybody recognises, but nobody can name. "John Hughes movie pop" comes close, but somebody should find something more apt. Tears Fall Down collects all their best and adds a scattering of good album cuts. The original albums will still hold some delights after this, but they won't be required listening. If you want more Tears for Fears, check out their strong, though under-appreciated, later work like 1996's Saturnine Martial & Lunatic. -Gavin McNett.

More prolific than D'Angelo and Terence Trent D'Arby combined, one-man rock & soul revivalist Lenny Kravitz kept traditional pop values alive through much of the 1990s. From the Motown-perfect "It Ain't Over Til It's Over" to the Beatlesque "Let Love Rule", Kravitz has always inhabited his influences with a genuine spirit that transcends imitation. The 15 tracks found on Greatest Hits provide a surprisingly coherent reminder of just how much the artist has accomplished in a relatively short time. And even if "Are You Gonna Go My Way" falls short of its Hendrix target, Kravitz's cover of the Guess Who's "American Woman" still rocks in a pleasingly Neanderthal way. An infectious new cut, "Again", fits neatly alongside sturdy Kravitz originals like "Fly Away", "Mr. Cab Driver" and "Black Velveteen", showcasing a talent whose post-modern pop should play well into the new century. -Bill Forman.

Must I Paint You a Picture is a generous, two-disc, 40-track survey of Bragg's career to date. The tracklisting was apparently assembled with the help of Bragg's fans, who were asked to vote for their favourites on Bragg's website, but this democratic initiative has only been taken so far: while "Little Time Bomb", for example, was a more popular choice than, say, "The Boy Done Good", the latter is included and the former isn't. It would, of course, be uncharitable to suggest that this is reflective of the authoritarian instincts that lurk inside most socialists. At any rate, though Bragg has always been chiefly characterised as a political songwriter, his best work has always been that which deals with the politics of the personal: there are few more acute summations of the eternal failure of the male and female to make sense to each other than his "How can you lie there and think of England when you don't even know who's in the team?" Bragg's superb love songs and love-gone-wrong songs are well represented here, from the angry, naive scratchings of "The Milkman of Human Kindness" to such older, if no wiser, musings as "Moving the Goalposts" and "Sulk". Curiously, his older, politically motivated songs now feel like they've reacquired an urgency they lacked during a 1990s largely devoid of stark ideological boundaries, when they sounded rather like quaint period pieces. The so-called war on terror and the increasing discomfort about global trade both have ready made soundtracks in "Between the Wars" and "There is Power in a Union". -Andrew Mueller.

It's amazing the difference a year makes. Upon its release, August and Everything After sounded remarkably fresh, a welcome change from the crunch and screech of grunge. Blending the vocal athleticism of Van Morrison with the moody rock of The Band, the Counting Crows turned on a whole legion of fans turned off by modern rock. But what sounded fresh soon became stale as dozens of bands flocked to the radio with euthanised versions of the Counting Crows' sound. But you shouldn't hold that against the Crow boys. August and Everything After is a fantastic rock album. Though "Mr. Jones" was the money-maker, the disc features such stand-out cuts as the dark lilt of "Anna Begins", the morose "Rain King", and the outstanding U2-meets-Grant Lee Buffalo anthem "Murder of One". Maybe time, and another listen, will heal the damage wrought. -Tod Nelson.

In 2006, Danger Mouse is King Midas of the music world. He has an uncanny knack for creating jagged, dense, frenzied beats and odd, eerie, vivid soundscapes that never compromise the music's natural flow. Meanwhile, rapper and singer Cee-Lo, a veteran of Atlanta's Dirty South scene, has never been one to be constrained by hip-hop conventions, and is a willing partner in adventure. The result is an intrepid psychedelic blend of pop, hip-hop, soul, and rock that consistently challenges and delights. It's no wonder that "Crazy," with its modest riff, irresistible hook, and disarming opening line ("I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind") became a worldwide Internet sensation a full six months before the official release of St. Elsewhere. But that relatively simple soul-pop gem is the tamest track on this wide-ranging, often dark and introspective collaboration. (In fact, the duo considers Gnarls Barkley to be a wholly new creation, as opposed to a collaboration of existing artists. ) "Everybody is somebody, but nobody wants to be themselves," Cee-Lo croons on "Who Cares?" He and Danger Mouse try very hard not to be their old selves as they creatively and confidently break down boundaries, but the brilliant cores of their musical personae-Cee-Lo's eccentric spiritual soul man and Danger's bold sonic explorer-remain. -Marc Greilsamer.

In retrospect, it's hard to see how Oasis could have possibly equalled the hype surrounding the release of this, their third album. Arriving as their popularity was at its peak, it's a confusing, faintly self-indulgent collection. The first single, the wryly-titled "D'You Know What I Mean?", had a monolithic sort of grandeur, taking Noel Gallagher's fondness for overdubbed, wall-of-sound guitars to some new peak, but also seemed a little over-extended-as did its follow-up, "All Around The World", a slab of Beatles-esque, sing-along pop that seemed to last longer than the entire White Album. Then again, it made a kind of sense: nothing if not mindful of rock tradition, Oasis's quest to be the World's Greatest Rock & Roll Band meant that they were obliged-like the Stones before them-to make their own mid-1970s album (albeit, two decades too late). And from its Caribbean origins, to its raucous, bloated, "cocained-out" sound, this is it: a triumph of arrogance over ambition. Maybe next time they'll go punk. -Andrew McGuire.

Though R. E. M. titled a later album Monster, this 1991 smash was the true monster, with the little Athens, Georgia, quartet graduating once and for all from its jangling independent-rock roots. The confusion Michael Stipe communicates in the catchy "Losing My Religion" and the dark-and-dreamy "Low" hit the mainstream-rock audience when it was most primed for uneasy angst. (Nirvana's Nevermind was released a few months later. ) There are also odd but successful experiments, such as ceding the opening "Radio Song" to rapper KRS-One (with Stipe playing the moaning straight man) and going peppy for the surprisingly non-sarcastic "Shiny Happy People". -Steve Knopper.

Written as the score for a never-aired BBC television drama, Arthur is the story of late-'60s English working-class exhaustion. Perhaps not the most attention-grabbing subject for a rock album, but in Ray Davies's hands it's rich in texture and stylistic possibility. From the rousing ode to Britain's glorious past ("Victoria") to its less-than-glamorous present (that being the late '60s), Davies portrays a life of cautiously reduced expectations. Arthur once dreamed of owning his own business but has settled for a car and an indoor bathroom ("Shangri-La"). One of his sons spends his time complaining about the system ("Brainwashed"), the other dreams of moving to a new land of opportunity ("Australia"), and when they get together for Sunday dinner there's simply "Nothing to Say. " The Kinks at their mighty and surprisingly tender best. -Percy Keegan.

If you want to plot a classic rise and fall pattern in the career of a band, look no further than the Pixies. This middle album, third of five, is the pinnacle of their noise equation: taut, terrifying and tightly edited, these 15 tracks (best known: "Monkey Gone To Heaven"; best quality, the insane "Debaser"; or the predatory "Hey") have the confidence that was missing from Come On Pilgrim and Surfer Rosa, but without the bloated pomp of Bossanova or Trompe Le Monde. Black Francis, as Charles Thompson IV was known then, surfs fast with his and Joey Santiago's guitars, tempered by the groundswell of Kim Deal's fine bass and counter vocals. It is like the last stand of US indie-dom: intelligent music encased in its precious, intricate and trademark Vaughn Oliver sleeve. Charlie Porter.

This is the re-issued SACD version of Brothers in Arms. Dire Straits' fifth album will probably be remembered as the record that ushered in the CD generation, and therefore (depending on your affiliations) a work of extreme evil or an object lesson in craftsmanship. In truth though, it's neither. Inevitably, some moments haven't dated so well. "Money For Nothing", Mark Knopfler's satire of the MTV generation, seems as vacant as its target; while the jukebox jive of "Walk Of Life" could have used a little roughing up. In fairness though, such low points constitute a minority. In latter years, indie bands such as Gomez and Spiritualized have eagerly cited JJ Cale and Dr John as pivotal influences on their work. Perhaps so, but it's the less fashionable Knopfler and his intuitive feel for the fretboard who comes closer. You needn't dig too deep to identify the roots of beauties such as "So Far Away" and "Why Worry". -Peter Paphides.

Thanks to the long shadow cast by the group's blockbuster Rumours, this 1987 effort was inevitably regarded as something of a letdown. That's too bad, since it's an underrated set that contains plenty of inventively catchy tunes, with a quirky sonic edge that gives the songs added sonic and emotional depth. Lindsey Buckingham's eccentric, vaguely menacing "Big Love" is a standout, as is Christine McVie's brightly bittersweet "Little Lies", along with such dark-horse winners as "Seven Wonders", "Caroline", "Mystified", and Stevie Nicks's typically mystical "Welcome to the Room. Sara". -Scott Schinder.