Think 98 Degrees, and you probably flash on their ample muscles and male-model pouts before recalling multiple mushy ballads that lack the pop pizzazz of Max Martin's Backstreet/'N Sync/Britney crew. On its fourth album, the Cincinnati-grown quartet pumps up the tempos with its own Swedish producers, Anders Bagge and Arnthor Bigisson. The pair's startlingly sprightly "Give Me Just One Night (Una Noche)" finally inflames the lukewarm foursome. The heat smolders through "He'll Never Be" and "Never Givin' Up," crafty R&B grooves that energize the group's breathy, boyish harmonies with memorable melodies and agile arrangements. "The Way You Do" and "Yesterday's Letter" prove they can also spin sophisticated, symphonic slowies. Drew and Nick Lachey, Jeff Timmons and Justin Jeffre co-wrote eleven of the album's thirteen tracks; when cornball lyrical cliches clog some cuts, those credits flip from badge of honor to mark of shame. Despite a few feverish moments, 98 Degrees remain slightly below average. (BARRY WALTERS -- RS 851)

David Bowie Bowie at the Beeb: The Best of the BBC Sessions '68-'72 (Virgin)

David Bowie didn't start out as a "phallus in pigtails," as he sings with self-deprecating amusement on "Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed." That would come later. On the first half of the double CD Bowie at the Beeb, which collects BBC performances from 1968 to 1972, he is an earnest folk-pop singer still grappling with his boyhood influences -- music hall, cabaret, Anthony Newley, Bob Dylan -- while dabbling in blues rock and psychedelia. (There's also a superfluous limited-edition bonus disc, containing an entire concert recorded last June.) Bowie wanted little to do with the dominant counterculture of the day, as he makes clear in tunes such as "Cygnet Committee" and "Changes" ("Look out, you rock & rollers"), and these discs offer a fascinating glimpse into the years when he transformed his words into a persona: Ziggy Stardust, the first anti-rock star. With the addition of guitarist Mick Ronson, Bowie's music flirts with rock grandeur on the second disc, but the fey theatricality of "Starman" and "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide" allows him to subvert it. It's only the first of many roles Bowie would later play, but here's where the fun started. (GREG KOT -- RS 851)

Shyne Shyne (Bad Boy/Arista)

"Similarities in my voice/nigga check the words," spits Shyne at his detractors over the hummingbird-on-methadone strings of "Whatcha Gonna Do." This Brooklyn-based Bad Boy has a defensive stance on his debut album; since early in his career, he's been called the vocal doppelganger of the late Notorious B.I.G. But his invitation on "Whatcha Gonna Do" becomes self-incrimination; he borrows extensively from the Notorious One's catalog. His conversational choruses ("Bang," "Niggas Gonna Die") and murder narratives ("The Hit") have Biggie's menacing roll; there's also the same distillation of West Coast gang sentiment within a New York-centric thug ethos, and the careful balance of street life and the high life, the gangsta and the playa. Shyne even invokes the name of Biggie's never-realized supergroup on "Commission." (CONTINUED)

Soulfly Primitive (Roadrunner)

Soulfly are . . . old-school; Brazilian frontman Max Cavalera started Sepultura in the mid-Eighties. He's older than the guys in these other bands and more comfortable in his own skin. Primitive is deeper as a result -- in the sound of Cavalera's lived-in growl, the churning effect of a four-string guitar (he has taken off the B and high-E strings because he likes a low and mean sound), and his concerns, which are slightly more idealistic than taking revenge on one's own mother. Live, the band's music seems to collapse into mush, but Cavalera and co-producer Toby Wright have figured out a way to get a ferocious presence on Primitive. A peace-loving hell-raiser, Cavalera sings vaguely about tribal behavior, quotes Bob Marley's "Who Feels It Knows It" in "Back to the Primitive," and ventures into reggae ("Bring It"), Brazilian percussion ("Terrorist") and straight hip-hop ("In Memory of . . ."). Clearly, Cavalera believes metal can use new instrumentation; you hear the beating of military bass drums and the twang of the single-string Brazilian berimbau (although he's not nearly as innovative as fellow Brazilians Nacao Zumbi). And there's some emo here, too: "Son Song," Cavalera's duet with Sean Lennon, explores the psychological damage of fatherlessness. (BEN RATLIFF -- excerpted from RS 850)

Guru Guru's Jazzmatazz: StreetSoul (Virgin)

Guru has one of the two or three best voices in all of hip-hop -- gruff, idiosyncratic and charismatic. On his self-helmed Jazzmatazz albums, the MC has assembled an international who's who of rap, R&B and jazz to try and stretch all three genres in new directions. The classic first volume did just that in 1993; the second, 1995 entry in the series fell off a bit in terms of focus and inspiration. This time around, production and guest stars are stellar. The problem is that Guru often relegates phenomenal talent like Angie Stone and Donell Jones to singing hooks while he boasts about his rhyming prowess. On the tracks that are a true collaboration of artists, the album blazes. The moody "Night Vision," with Isaac Hayes, the blistering social consciousness of "Lift Your Fist," with the Roots, the haunting "Who's There?" with Les Nubians, and the funny-sexy "Plenty," with Erykah Badu all hit their marks so powerfully because they force Guru to step away from the mirror and bring both his lyrical and analytical skills to the table. When that happens, the album gives up some of the most powerful music you'll hear this year. (ERNEST HARDY -- RS 851)

Slash's Snakepit Ain't Life Grand (Koch)

As the poet once sang, it's hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain -- but Slash is still hanging in there, shining the light within his soul as a lucid path back to the days when guitars were guitars, hair was hair and shirts were for pussies. Like a sweet child from out o' the past, welcoming us to the jungle o' the future, the ex-Guns n' Roses axman rides again on the second album from Slash's Snakepit. There's nothing here as inspiring as the debut's Zen pinball meditation "Be the Ball," but the real problem is that great guitarists need great bands, and the Snakepit dudes are barely functional backup peons who don't even have cool names, except bassist Johnny Blackout. So concentrate on Slash, and feel the burn of his guitar reminding you that, once upon a time, he was the guy who co-wrote "Paradise City," "It's So Easy" and "Get in the Ring." One question, though: Where's Izzy? (ROB SHEFFIELD -- RS 851)

Meat Puppets Golden Lies (Breaking/Atlantic)

The first Meat Puppets studio album in five years isn't a proper Puppets record at all -- at least not for those who think that the band revolves around founders Curt Kirkwood and his drug-addled brother Cris. The good news: The new Cris-less lineup -- guitarist Kyle Ellison, drummer Shandon Sahm and ex-Bob Mould bassist Andrew Duplantis -- doesn't stink, by any means. It does, however, lack the original band's inspired derangement. On Golden Lies, weighty midtempo rock hobbles the Pups' trademark blend of cow-punk, blues and hallucinatory instrumental rants. "Hercules" is a standard mix of old-school heavy metal and new-school whitey funk, even when enlivened with sweet lyrical absurdities such as "I see a spiderman vigorously jumping/Up and down on a little pink dumpling." The pop plaint "You Love Me" is fine, dreamy stuff, but disappointingly conventional coming from a band renowned for idiosyncrasy. Curt seems to acknowledge his own heavy legacy on "Pieces of Me," moaning, "Once I was something/But I can't remember/Whatever that something should be." (NEVA CHONIN -- RS 851)

Paul Oakenfold Perfecto Presents Another World (London-Sire)

Any computer can splice together a dance-mix compilation. The challenge for DJs is to create a montage of music that actually says something and still puts bodies in motion. A veteran label boss, remixer, rock producer and superstar DJ, England's Paul Oakenfold can coax the likes of Dead Can Dance, Vangelis and Tim Buckley onto the dance floor without resorting to gimmickry. With unexpected juxtapositions learned from hip-hop and a sense of spiritual release gleaned from underground disco, Oakenfold steers the ultra-European, classical-minded pulse of trance toward syncopated rhythms, drum-free interludes and actual songs. Robert Plant's thirty-year-old vocals swim through Quiver's watery reinvention of Led Zeppelin's "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You," while club favorites like Salt Tank's Tori Amos-sampling "Eugina" get dreamy new mixes. Bigger than the two-and-a-half-hour sum of its substantial parts, Another World takes you to a spectral sphere where New Age talks to old rock via the universal language of soothing, steady, stimulating beats. (WALTERS -- RS 851)

Black Eyed Peas Bridging the Gap (Interscope)

Los Angeles-based hip-hop trio Black Eyed Peas is the unofficial West Coast franchise of the East Coast's iconic Native Tongues collective. Part of their hometown appeal lies in West Coast heads' desperation to show the world that not all Left Coast rap devotees are 'bout blingin', bangin' and bitches: Garbed in boho gear, comprised of various races and stressing positivity, the trio is a pointed anecdote to gangsta and ghetto fabulousness. Where their 1998 debut, Behind the Front (which produced the irresistible club hit, "Joints and Jams"), was a little too slickly produced, their follow-up is a more organic-feeling representation of their considerable skills and vision. Uncluttered but muscular production, deft samples and smart rhymes all ensure that the album's power increases with repeated listenings. Standout tracks include "On My Own," with cameos by Mos Def and Les Nubians, and "Weekend," which folds Debbie Deb's old-school Latin freestyle hit, "Lookout Weekend," into Sly and the Family Stone's "Family Affair" for a smoky party groove. (HARDY -- RS 851)

Nelly Furtado Whoa, Nelly! (DreamWorks)

This debut comes from a twenty-one-year-old first-generation Canadian whose restless ears never stray too far from her Portuguese roots. Whoa, Nelly! is spastic like high-impact hip-hop, melodically durable like big-time pop and soulfully, intelligently, sensuously international. It jumps on Portuguese and Brazilian styles not as exotic refinements but as cool ways to express yourself in everyday tunes. "Turn Off the Light" is a reggae-directed rock-blues tune done with towering confidence; the awesome "Hey, Man!" is an elaborate riff that's like TLC high on Philip Glass; "I'm Like a Bird" is a sad love song that flies off into pop gorgeousness. "You liked me until you heard my shit on the radio," Furtado begins in ". . . On the Radio." But before you can quite digest that dramatic situation, Furtado is already off to the song's chorus, a heavy-duty year-2000 cha-cha in which she wails about the memory of sweeter times. Next track, she's refusing to be someone's "Baby Girl" within a groove that would seem equally right for a New York or Cairo club. Whoa, Nelly! is a wild-ass pop go-go, filled with songs that pursue adventure yet could still make the hit parades. (JAMES HUNTER -- RS 851)

Allison Moorer The Hardest Part (MCA Nashville)

This twenty-eight-year-old's stunning alto voice has the wide-screen sweep of a movie about the back roads of Alabama. That cinematic effect is the star of The Hardest Part, Moorer's follow-up to her 1998 debut, Alabama Song. Occasionally, the album meshes, and the music is transporting, like when Moorer is on a groove with striking strings and melodic peaks on "It's Time I Tried." But more often, as on the slow, wailing "Bring Me All Your Lovin'," Moorer concentrates on the power of pronunciation, rhyming "bring" and "sang," with the kind of flat-A sound you hear on dusty Faulknerian porches. Many country fans, unimpressed with the pop high jinks of Shania Twain and Faith Hill, favor this approach, and Moorer delivers it with conviction and authority; but for now, she is still a work in progress. (HUNTER -- RS 851)

Electrasy In Here We Fall (Arista)

It's hard to imagine the record company meeting where the executives sat around the conference table and decided what the world needs more than anything is another Soup Dragons. But here comes Electrasy anyway, with No Doubt producers Matthew Wilder and Glen Ballard on board for their second album and American debut, In Here We Fall. In all fairness, this British band sounds nothing like the Soup Dragons, but like that train-jumping early nineties Scottish band, they do an incredible job camouflaging themselves in other bands' slightly dated wares. You'll swear the Oasis brothers shanghaied the album midway through, when "Morning Afterglow" rolls out of the speakers. Meanwhile, "Bussed Out" could have conceivably been lifted off Bon Jovi's latest. And who's to say the Prodigy didn't donate "Foot Soldierz" to the starving band members around Christmas? Curious yet unequivocally awful. (AIDIN VAZIRI)

Mark Knopfler Sailing to Philadelphia (Warner Bros.)

Stick Mark Knopfler in the middle of a hundred-man guitar orchestra, and you'd be able to pick him out of the crowd, blindfolded, a couple of seconds into his first lick. Like Eric Clapton, B.B. King and precious few other guitarists, the former Dire Straits frontman possesses a truly singular and immediately recognizable style, a warm, fluid and unerringly melodic synthesis of lazy jazz and nimble blues at once both comforting and uniquely thrilling. On Sailing to Philadelphia, his second solo album of non-soundtrack material since the dissolution of Dire Straits in 1995, Knopfler's guitar sounds like an old friend checking in to catch up on old times. The opener, "What It Is," unfolds with the stately flourish of "Tunnel of Love" or "Romeo and Juliet," while the following title track achieves a more refined elegance, relying less on licks than on Knopfler's duet with guest vocalist James Taylor. The rest of the album focuses primarily on Knopfler the songwriter more than the guitarist, collecting his musings about wanderlust and America, ranging from the rock & roll fantasy of "Do America" to the clever character portraits of explorers Mason and Dixon in the title song. Nothing quite measures up to the promising start of the first two songs, and it cries out for even a little more of his guitar, but Knopfler's almost maddeningly laid-back approach has an honest, understated appeal that reveals itself in its own sweet time. It's a big country, he seems to be saying; what's the hurry? (RICHARD SKANSE)

Caz Thundadome (Serchlite/Warlock)

As "Intro" reopens the past of Los Angeles rapper Caz with the real-life scenario of six near-fatal bullets connecting to his structure, the reality of being once in the game provides the ammo for his gangster-led life. Ferociously bitter and coarse-sounding, his energetic raw style explodes over "Pop Pop" (featuring Jayo Felony), recalling DMX's raspy power. Continuing this lyrical trademark on other hyped-up tracks such as "Money" and "Headknockers," Caz also adjusts to easy listening ("Flossin'") before switching his patterns to fit the choppy R&B-paced "Bring it." By no means is this a left coast classic, not even close. But as far as street-realism and thug credibility is concerned, Caz is on par with yesteryear's legends like Ice-T, Easy E and King Tee. (MARLON REGIS)

Junior Vasquez Live at Twilo (Virgin)

Considering he co-founded the prototype for Twilo -- (the now defunct) Sound Factory -- it's only fitting that Junior Vasquez spearhead the first release from America's biggest superclub. A fortress in clubbing culture, Twilo has been an innovator on the scene, bringing over from England and Europe elite DJs like Sasha, John Digweed and Paul Van Dyk for residencies long before they became the flavors of the moment. But when it came time to establish their brand of clubbing culture on the market place, Twilo looked no further than its doorstep with New York house god and Madonna friend (remixing for her long before William Orbit) Vasquez. Big, beautiful, loud and proud house music vocals over dancehall rhythms come as expected, but surprisingly, Vasquez tinges his set with the emotional trance journeys that seem to be helping dance music cross over stateside. Expect further great things from Twilo as this series progresses. (JOLIE LASH)

John Hiatt Crossing Muddy Waters (Vanguard)

As a songwriter and recording artist, John Hiatt can be a bit of a wild card, as capable of classics songs like 1995's "Cry Love" and albums like 1987's Bring the Family as big, goofy messes like 1997's Little Head. Thankfully, Crossing Muddy Waters, his fifteenth album and first for Vanguard, hits the mark far more often than it misses it. This is Hiatt's "acoustic record," but don't be fooled by the tag; Hiatt's a rocker at heart, and it shows even in this format. Plug this puppy in, and songs like "Lincoln Town" and "Lift Up Every Stone" would positively smoke. "Gone" and "Take Back," meanwhile, feel just right as mid-tempo, back porch country blues numbers, while the quiet "Take it Down" finds Hiatt at his absolute melancholy best, the Spartan arrangement compounding the sorrow of lines like "Tears are rusted on face/I'm just an empty place where you used to fit." As a whole, this collection fits Hiatt to a T, and it flatters the hell out of him. (SKANSE)

(September 26, 2000)