An album entirely created by the drummer of the defunct grunge band whose singer offed himself simply shouldn't be this great. Yeah, it sounds like Nirvana, but Dave Grohl has got a right to sound like Nirvana, and besides, he does it better than Bush or yo mama. Nearly every tune is memorable, the pained vocals and thrashing guitars get the job done, and the drums kick harder than anything this side of the clubland. This is why we still like rock. BARRY WALTERS
Equal parts Bay Area bohemian and dust bowl traditionalist, Richard Buckner writes circles around his peers for one simple reason: He believes in his obsessions so deeply they come out as truths. Like Lucinda Williams, Buckner's a folksinger with country leanings and literary ambitions, and Bloomed, his debut, crackles with the noble pretensions and idiosyncrasies too often left on the cutting-room floor. CRAIG MARKS
Who expected this? With Dave Navarro's guitar (and sex appeal) pumping the Red Hot Chili Peppers into a real band, One Hot Minute crunches, simmers, stretches into big melodies, works over Jimi Hendrix's legacy like that was easy, and just generally revels in music: the kiddie Parliment-Funkadelic chorus of "Aeroplane," the Iggy Pop tribute "Coffee Shop," a "Tearjerker" that might be for Kurt Cobain. 1995's most supple mainstream rock. ERIC WEISBARD
The sound of a fretful, aging B-boy — 30-year-old British graffiti bomber and rave producer Goldie — trying to clear his head of gangsta clatter and envision a soulful refuge where songs mean more than sonic beat-downs. The title track, a 22-minute rhythmic manifesto with mournfully hopeful vocals, captures a grave urban moment like Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On" or Grandmaster Flash's "The Message." Following the unhurried sound-system grooves of Soul II Soul and Massive Attack, Goldie floors it, scattering his conflicted moods to the sea. CHARLES AARON
For me, Alanis Morissette was the artist of the year — you can see how much my opinion counts for around here — and her magnificent album, Jagged Little Pill, did what the few truly great albums do: dwarfed all other recordings around it and transcended its time. That it was a debut album (not counting the records she released when she was, like, six) makes it all the more delicious. She is wrongly compared to Patti Smith; the compliment is sweet but too tiny to contain her. "Hand in My Pocket" and "You Oughta Know" are anthemic in the way Springsteen was at his exuberant best ("Born to Run," "Atlantic City") and sung in a voice as good, powerful, and possessed as Eddie Vedder's. BOB GUCCIONE JR.
The kids are all right after all. Insomniac reiterates what over eight million little wankers already knew — that Green Day are a fabulous pop band with a glorious mean streak. Said mean streak is directed inward as much as outward on Insomniac, as Billie Joe learns that becoming a grown-up is just as frustrating as growing up. Unlike some of their forebears, Green Day may be completely fed up with the state of the world, but they'd never, ever blame you. And if they're not "punk" enough for you and your friends, then you're either too old or too cool to be reading this magazine. C.M.
Just when we were cozying up to the word "trip-hop," Raekwon, secret weapon of the Wu-Tang Clan, drops a record that sounds like the genuine article: vivid, dense, terrifying, and expansive — a mindfuck that's as cognitive as it is sensory. Over an operatic, expressionist backdrop by the RZA — all hissing rain and creepy violins — Raekwon and clan take you staggering through the slums at night, tripping on smarts, fear, and power. Proof that too much reality is the craziest dose of all. CHRIS NORRIS
No other musician right now so gracefully abandons the rational and taps into the dreamlife of modern things. Björk's second collaboration with English soul innovator Nellee Hooper brilliantly melds the hard-to-learn dialects of ambient and trip-hop with the improvised tongues of her native folk music and avant-garde jazz. Syncretism takes her beyond pop conventions; love of the song brings her back. The end result is a whimsical, visionary sound that a shrink would call uncanny. ANN POWERS
The twist is that Buju got conscious, which is inspirational if you're a yardie and hypocritical if all you know is the homophobic humbug of "Boom Bye Bye." But the reason he attracted such an infamous fuss in the first place was that voice — an uncontrollably vibrant lickshot of adrenaline. And on these cracking tracks — the stop-the-violence single "Murderer," a haunting duet with the late Garett Silk; "Complaint"; and the genuine yearning of "Wanna Be Loved" — he waves it in your face like he just might care. C.A.
Electr-o-Pure is full of literate rock highs, but Yo La Tengo still have their feet on the ground, making music that's rich and resonant without sounding like resurrected rock stars or ironic pastiche artists. Usually a rather low-key guitar monster, Kaplan here lets the static fly, while the songs that float out of his and drummer Georgia Hubley's mouths are the band's most poignant and fun ever. Proof that impressive record collections an the electric organ revival are definitely good things. ERIK DAVIS
Culminating a story that runs through '60s British skinheads' obsession with Jamaican bluebeat, glam, and ska's shared origin in New Orleans R&B rhythms, the dublike echo on Gary Glitter hits, the Clash's Slade-y soccer-led choruses, Generation X's ballroom-blitzing bubblegum hooks, and the Specials' moaning two-tone dirges, while suspendered bootboys beat up West Indians outside. That's the music; Rancid's lyrics run even deeper. CHUCK EDDY
Fairy tales as country songs as punk rants as an action-adventure flick about junkie boyfriends in L.A. With her wry, gender-hazy alto, Carla Bozulich deals dead-on with a lifetime of self-loathing — "Everything I sat is a stupid lie / I won't tell the truth even when I die" — while the band squalls up a domestic storm of guitar, fiddle, and stand-up bass. Like X, an obvious influence, the Fibbers have too much respect for musical traditions not to stomp all over them. C.A.
On the 1998 classic Lately I Keep Scissors, Barbara Manning's ability to convey anxiety and dread had a lot to do with her raw, gangly awkwardness. Resurgent in 1995, she's equally haunting, but as a pro: a bandleader mixing in cocktail touches (trumpet, violin, viola, cello, piano); a music fan unearthing ideal covers (the Pretty Things, Faust, John Cale); a star singing out as never before. No insult to call her the indie Bonnie Raitt. E.W.
As self-consciously pop-wise Brits stole the attention, an American made 1995's Rubber Soul. Sweet amasses melodies the same way he collects Japanese comic books, out of unquenchable admiration for their shine and power to distract. But what makes his pop stickier than bubblegum is its subject: adult love, the kind someone who vowed he'd be a kid forever stumbles into, then tries desperately not to blow. A.P.
Crazy: Tionne Watkins purring "Oh I oh I oh I" in "Creep" like she's found spiritual instruction in vowel sounds. Sexy: the gender-freak of women cooing Prince's "If I was Your Girlfriend." Cool: Lisa "Left Eye" Lope's mock-up of a greasy male fan in "Kick Your Game." Where Salt-N-Pepa and En Vogue go for the jugular, TLC's ace-in-hand is a certain wary reserve. "Waterfalls" deepens reticence into gravity — and walks on water. TERRI SUTTON
As clone scrunge took over modern-rock radio, Eddie and his Cruisers began to seem like originals, like founders; no other rock had nearly the same weightiness. Vitalogy resembled '70s gatefold LPs, but its mood — rock as a lover you cling to because no other shelter's in sight ("can't find a better man") — was contemporary, the right weariness for the most disillusioning political year we've ever lived through. E.W.
Sure, they sound like Wire, if Wire were horny tomboys hopped up on too much TV and curry. And yeah, they sound like Blondie, if Debbie Harry ever made dirty-white-girl noises on a guitar. Led by singer-songwriters Justine Frischmann and Donna Matthews, Elastica was the most tuneful of the "Britpop Invasion" bands. And their debut album, 16 spurts of unrequited lust, featured cheeky dating rejoinders such as "Is there something you lack / When I'm flat on my back?" C.A.
No release, no catharsis. Just merciless fate showing up with a past due notice. Stripping down to shape-shifting voice and pulsing organ, Polly plays a devil in a red dress eager to add God to her repertoire — or at least Robert Plant. Harvey's best album yet, it uncovers the desire in the blues' greatest dread: that the feared Other — especially the other sex — is yet another face of the self. Fiercely androgynous, Harvey sings every song like a prayer, and a threat. T.S.
The most fabulous musical hybrid to emerge from today's millennialist Britain, Maxinquaye is a soundtrack to a spinning world whose growing interconnections cannot keep it from falling apart. As the dark prince of trip-hop, Tricky scrambles any codes he gets his hands on, building textures out of corroded beats, spooky samples, crunchy guitars, and dripping faucets. He and Martine whisper and sing about suffering, ominous love, and designer clothiers, as you slip into the delicious entropy of it all. E.D.
What hath Moby wrought? A sprawling opus of ecstasy and torment, pogoing guitars and wailing divas, blues shouts and symphonies — Paradise Lost for club kids and even their nerdy little sisters. A guitar-punk turned DJ turned composer turned messiah, this unfashionably passionate (and Christian) outsider introduced grunge angst to house music, and Butthole Surfers squall to jungle, opening the womb of techno and letting in the world. C.N.