The Cranberries

The Cranberries sugary debut could have been merely another wispy bit of dream pop, as effervescent and forgettable as a Sundays album. But rather than aiming for ethereal lightness, singer Dolores O'Riordan was one of the first singers to rework Sinead O'Connor's swoop for her own purposes; unlike pretty-poo thrushes such as Sarah McLachlan, however, O'Riordan also inherited O'Connor's self-determination and even a bit of her righteousness.

For its desired effect, Everybody Else required a glossy coat, and Stephen Street, who'd produced the Smiths and the Psychedelic Furs back when, supplied it. This is music that delights in its own sound -- "Linger" isn't so much a broken heart's lament as a celebration of how it feels to sing that particular word over and over. No Need to Argue was just as luxurious, but with a harsher undertone. The antiwar fury of "Zombie" was a shocker -- it was almost as if Karen Carpenter had released a single skewering Henry Kissinger. Sharp and deeply felt, this foray into the political was also the beginning of the end for O'Riordan's development as a lyricist.

The titles on To the Faithful Departed say it all: "I Just Shot John Lennon," "Bosnia," "War Child." "Free to Decide" was a proud statement of autonomy, but the rest of the album was practically an argument against allowing such unchecked freedom for clumsy songwriters such as Dolores. Someone must have talked some sense into somebody before they went back into the studio: Bury the Hatchet was a giant leap backward, and not a moment too soon. Wake Up and Smell the Coffee is even more modest and gentle in its melodicism. The age of tuneful modern rock has passed, and adult contemporary is the smart way to go. After all, everybody else is doing it. (KEITH HARRIS)

From 2004's The New Rolling Stone Album Guide