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It was wise of 10,000 Manaics to subtitle Campfire Songs as “The Popular, Obscure and Unknown Recordings”.

For such retrospectives, “greatest hits” or “best of” are the usual prefixes, and what subjective ones they are Popularity, on the other hand, can at least be gauged on some empirical level.

The fact In My Tribe, perhaps the Maniacs’ most popular album, dominates the program of Campfire Songs’ first disc bears the subtitle out. While In My Tribe deserved the success it garnered back in 1987, it doesn’t possess quite the charm of 1985’s The Wishing Chair, represented by one track on this collection.

But like I said — subjective.

John Lombardo was the group’s main songwriting on The Wishing Chair, and despite Joe Boyd’s reportedly lassez-faire production, the album contained some of the Maniacs’ best material.

It’s interesting to note, then, how the band opted to include earlier versions of The Wishing Chair’s strongest songs — “Tension Makes a Tangle” and “My Mother the War”.

Campfire Songs is a fascinating document of a band’s rise to fame. Before they became alt-rock radio mainstays, 10,000 Maniacs were quite quirky.

Thematically, the earliest tracks were far more diverse — the machinations of a mother working to support a war effort on “My Mother the War”, the impact of science on belief in “Planned Obsolence”, even the psychological effects of cloudy weather on “Like the Weather”.

In My Tribe marked a transition for the band, between its bright, folk-rock sound and singer Natalie Merchant’s darker, socially conscious themes. That tension is reflected on the album’s most memorable tracks — “What’s the Matter Here?”, “Don’t Talk”.

The last half of Campfire Songs’ popular recordings find the Maniacs giving into the demands of fame. Merchant became the focal point of the group, and her direction ultimately led the band’s creative focus astray. The Tower of Power horns on “Candy Everybody Wants” was as low as it could go.

The obscure and unknown recordings that make up Campfire Songs second disc is something of a de facto covers album.

Most of the disc contains cover songs that were released as b-sides to the band’s singles. “Wildwood Flower” shows a country sound the Maniacs’ could have done well to feature more often. A live performance of “To Sir With Love”, featuring Michael Stipe, is just plain messy.

(Merchant’s performance of the Smiths’ “Everyday is Like Sunday” is said tt have put Morrissey in such a tift, he wrote a song to rebuke her.)

While the post-In My Tribe songs may be somewhat painful to listen to — it’s amazing just how lifeless the band’s mainstream work became — Campfire Songs possesses enough moments to remind listeners what made the Maniacs special in the first place.

The post-Elektra years are not documented on this collection, but by then, both Merchant and the Maniacs had moved in directions different from the one they charted together.

It’s still a suitable document.

Truthfully? I never really paid much attention to George Michael after Faith. Not that there was much to which to pay attention …

My interest was, of course, piqued when Michael was tossed out of the closet back in 1998, and it felt nice to know those impressionable pre-teen years lusting after him weren’t for naught.

But musically, he doesn’t really engage me. Perhaps it’s a cultural gap that prevents me from digging British white man soul.

And for the most part, Michael’s latest album, Patience, doesn’t go a long way to conversion.

Like Annie Lennox and Duran Duran before him, music video has frozen Michael in time, and the ubiquitous success of Faith back in 1987 makes it plainly obvious he’s mellowed out. A lot.

Rod Stewart has taken to covering standards, but Michael crossed that milestone years ago.

Patience starts out with a series of incredibly mellow songs. Some, like the opening title track, are plain pretty. Others, like “John and Elvis are Dead”, are plain plodding.

Half-way through, Michael puts four on the floor with “Shoot the Dog” and “Flawless”. A lot of people despise “Shoot the Dog” — I don’t mind it because I tune out the lyrics.

Toward the end, Michael gets interesting and combines the two styles. Although overly long, “Precious Box” seethes even though it’s propelled by a techno beat.

Unfortunately, a lot of the quieter moments the album are just indescript. They seep so far into the background, a listener’s subconscious can’t even pick anything up.

Save for one thing.

Michael’s voice has really sweetened over the years. Despite trying to style himself as a heir apparent of the crooner sect, Michael sings with a tenderness that isn’t easily faked.

In the opening moments of Patience, Michael makes a striking impression without barely raising the volume. It’s a far cry from the guy who crowed about wanting your sex or some such.

Patience isn’t going to win any new fans, and it may not even totally satisfy his current ones. But he sings mighty fine on this disc, and at times, it’s the only thing that saves the album from itself.

Back when people were tripping over themselves to sing high praises for Annie Lennox’s solo debut Diva, I stood to the side and said, “Damn this is the coldest album I’ve ever listened to.”

Lennox’s voice has always been described as icy, but in 1992, music technology wasn’t yet advanced enough to fake warmth.

And the mostly synthetic Diva, while striking a chord with Lennox’s emotional words, was limited musically because of it.

It’s been 12 years since Diva effectively shook off the MTV shackle of Lennox’s early days, and her voice is as chilly as ever.

Thankfully, her music has defrosted quite a bit since then.

2003’s Bare is the first collection of original material from Lennox since Diva — although a 1999 reunion of the Eurythmics came across more as a Lennox solo album with Dave Stewart in tow. (1995’s Medusa was pretty much a covers album.)

Lennox still offers up the same sprawling, reflective music she did a decade ago, but this time around, its lushness feels live.

The intricately arranged “A Thosand Beautiful Things” and “Honestly” demonstrate the still-amazing versatility of Lennox’s voice. The long power chords on “Loneliness” give the song a rock swagger, while the sparse “The Saddest Song I’ve Got” segues with “Loneliness” for a stunning contrast.

The more uptempo tracks, “Bitter Pill” and “Erased”, don’t sound as robotic as they could have been. “The Hurting Time”, though, meanders way too long for its own good.

There’s a lot that’s familiar with Bare, and Lennox is very good at what she’s done before.

Long-time fans will no doubt relish Lennox’s soaring performance on this album, but for casual listeners, the album can get nondescript.

The good moments — “The Saddest Song I’ve Got”, “A Thousand Beautiful Things” — are very good, but they also leave the rest of the album behind.

But Lennox doesn’t need any new converts. The folks familiar with her already know what to expect.

When Kylie Minogue didn’t match the runaway success of her previous album Fever within the first few weeks of releasing Body Language, her hometown press wrote her off.

Perhaps the first sign of the album’s perceived failure was the fact critics actually liked it.

And it is a fairly decent album.

Minogue opted to work with a different set of producers this time out, and they crafted a sound for her that was definitely more mature.

But that was the problem.

A lot of the tweens who snatched up Fever back in 2002 have gotten older and graduated to hip-hop and nü garage. The twain have grown up, albeit in different directions.

Yet something else is happening with Kylie.

Body Language practically carpet bombs ’80s reference throughout the entire album.

She quotes Lisa Lisa’s “Take You Home” on “Secret”, a song subtitled after said Lisa Lisa reference. “Red Blooded Woman” drops a bit of Dead Or Alive (“You Spin Me Around”). And “Sweet Music” goes so far as to hint at Jody Watley’s “I’m Looking for a New Love”.

Anbody remember Shalamar?

The teens, tweens and twentysomethings who made Minogue a background music staple on the WB would be far too young to remember Watley’s win as Grammy’s Best New Artist — and her subsequent obsolesence.

So who is Kylie really courting this time around?

Following this circuitous line of thinking, Minogue sounds like she’s courting the audience who first propelled her to stardom in the late 80s with a bubblegum cover of “Loco Motion”.

But it doesn’t really come out very cleverly. In fact, all of those references — Lisa Lisa, Dead or Alive, Jody Watley — are so specifically dated, they’re pretty much one-hit wonders.

A strange reference for someone lauded as the international version of Madonna in terms of career longevity.

Body Language comes across as a mixed message. The electronica-influenced production of “Slow”, “Still Standing” and “Someday” all point to an artist wanting to push the edges of her pop career box.

There’s an edginess to the album that’s meant to appeal to folks who think they’re too cool to listen to Kylie Minogue.

But the 80s references, the more difficult melodies, the lack of any real blazing single — that points to the audience not cool enough to hang out with the people who think they’re too cool to listen to Kylie Minogue.

All the while, she’s ignoring the audience that, as sales may seem to indicate, don’t seem to have much room for her in the first place. And the Kylie who appealed to that audience was damn fun and in mighty fine form.

Yeah. It’s confusing what to make of this album.

But from moment to moment, Body Language feels like mature work. Very little about it screams “radio”, but it still works within in the strict confines of pop.

Kylie just needs to focus a bit more on who’s supposed to be listening.

Man, do you need a lyric sheet to listen to this album.

As the Advocate and Pitchfork have already helpfully stated, the Hidden Cameras do a rather compelling job of linking spirituality with gay politics.

And jumping on the band’s website to read some of its lyrics, those analyses bear themselves out.

I’ll defer to these opinions. Why duplicate someone else’s analysis?

But Advocate writer Rob Chin is spot on about singer Joel Gibb’s enunciation on the Cameras’ studio debut, The Smell of Our Own. “One wishes he were miked more clearly”, Chin writes.

Uh, yeah.

Despite Gibb’s lyrical content and the Hidden Cameras’ pleasantly bizzare music, The Smell of Our Own gets predictable after a while.

The Polyphonic Spree, the Magnetic Fields and Belle and Sebastian have all been name checked when comparing the Hidden Cameras’ lush, orchestral sound to other groups.

And The Smell of Our Own delivers, indulging in strings and glockenspiels and harps and all manner of heavenly instruments.

But all the songs start off the same way — with a pulse. A chugging, eighth note pulse. Hello, Phillip Glass. Hello, Steve Reich. Even with all the orchestral flourishes, the song seem to follow the same template.

Gibb possesses a strong, clear voice, but the words — and they’re damn fine words — often get lost. When all you’re left with is the music, The Smell of Our Own is pretty repetitive.

That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen to the album. “The Man That I Am” paints some really vivid images of alternative bedroom techniques.

But prepare to work a bit harder to cut through the unintended obfuscation on the album. It pays off.