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Duranies who’ve lasted this long have more than likely heard most of the singles and extended mixes contained in The Singles 81-85, Duran Duran’s first boxed set collection.

As part of its 100th anniversary in 1998, EMI released the limited edition Night Versions, a collection of 12-inch mixes. And the single tracks have all been collected in a pair of retrospective discs, Decade (1989) and Greatest (2000).

And let’s face it — a boxed set is geared for Duranies anyway.

No. The Holy Grail of this set are the b-sides.

Duran Duran has a terrible habit of putting perfectly serviceable songs on b-sides, while stuffing its albums with filler. Anyone who’s ever encountered “I Believe/All I Need to Know” will know the feeling.

About five years ago, Capitol had readied a b-sides collection for the band but canceled it for fear that bootlegging had already saturated the market for such a disc.

Now with the original five members who infused Capitol with wads of cash in the early 80s reunited, the label has started a reissue campaign of the group’s hit albums.

The Singles 81-85 painstakingly replicates the packaging of those early singles, from the Mondarian-influenced covers of Malcolm Garrett right down to the “45 RPM” imprint on the disc. (As if fans can set their CD players to 45 RPM!)

Thankfully, the box fits nicely on a CD rack, although the compact design leaves little room for extended liner notes. That ink was already spilled for Night Versions.

Listeners without a CD changer or a CD burner to rip these discs to their hard drive may find it a hassle to switch out 13 separate 15-minute discs. Even with a five-disc changer, you’d still need to switch them out three times.

The boxed set, however, pays for its $50 price tag in the b-sides, and these songs reveal more about the band’s influences than some of their albums.

“Late Bar” and “Khanada” show the strongest influence of Chic, especially in John Taylor’s bass work and Roger Taylor’s drumming. If anyone ever mistook Simon Le Bon for David Bowie on “New Moon on Monday”, a cover of Bowie’s “Fame” reveals why.

“Faith in This Colour” finds the band actually trying to be “new Romantics”, while “Secret Oktober” intersects Eno-like textures with ancient Hawaiian rhythms.

Duranies who missed out on snatching up Night Versions before it went out of print — it was pressed for only six months — may find some odd gems.

The manic-paced, single version of “My Own Way” bears no resemblance to what eventually showed up on Rio. And an demo version of “The Chauffeur (Blue Silver)” shows why the song endures.

Duran Duran would go on to make more interesting music as the 80s progressed — some of the post-1986 b-sides are downright gorgeous — but for fans who thought the group was finished when Andy Taylor and Roger Taylor left, this set is at least, interesting, at most, essential.

Right before Lucinda Williams released World Without Tears, her label Lost Highway cross promoted Williams with newcomer Kathleen Edwards.

Edwards had played an in-store performance at Waterloo Records during SXSW 2003, and on quick passing, her resemblance to Williams sounded way close.

(When handing out postcards promoting Edwards, I would make a snide comment, “New album out April 8” — the release date of World Without Tears.)

Yes, Edwards’ burnished delivery is as slurry as Lucinda’s, and yes, Edwards performs the same kind of rural music — not quite folk, not quite country, not quite rock, but all of them.

Is Edwards some wannabe knock-off? Sure, if only her own music didn’t stand on its own proverbial feet.

Failer is, as music critics are wont to say, a “strong debut”. It’s also what marketing types would call an “alt-country” album.

The hype which preceded and subsequently followed this album namedropped the usual suspects — Whiskeytown, Ryan Adams, Sheryl Crow, as well as Lucinda. This review can’t say otherwise.

Edwards’ songs deal with much of the standard themes of rural American music — play it backward, and the characters in her songs sober up, go back to their wives and return unrequited love. In fact, “One More Song the Radio Won’t Play” pretty much ribs these same themes.

Musically, there’s barely a single filler on the album. (You could even say there weren’t any.) Edwards works best when she lets her whisper crest into something more forward, as she does on “Hockey Skates” and “National Steel”.

It’s on the faster tracks where the Lucinda comparrisons come into play. On “12 Bellvue” or “Six O’Clock News”, the song’s extroverted demeanor can’t seem to compete with Edwards’ sleepy delivery — which, of course, gives Williams her charm.

Despite any similiarities to other like-minded artists, Failer succeeds in delivering a solid set of songs. Edwards could have sounded like, say, Linda Thompson, and it wouldn’t diminish anything.

The skepticism alarms usually start ringing when an artist releases new albums in consective years. (Except for Japanese artists, who are tacitly required to release on a yearly schedule.)

So when Caitlin Cary unveiled I’m Staying Out just 13 months after her full-length solo debut, While You Were Sleeping, the alarms went off on cue.

How can anyone craft such a stunning debut, then turn around and offer more material?

The alarm is somewhat justified — I’m Staying Out doesn’t immediately grab hold the way its predecessor did. But give it just another few spins, and it eventually will.

Cary’s second solo album offers much of the same as before — country-fied rock rendered with a honey-sweet alto reminiscent of Linda Thompson.

There aren’t any songs that would make a person stop and listen — not on the level of “What Would You Do?” or “Shallow Heart, Shallow Water” — but all of the songs have something that eventually seeps in subconsiously.

“What was her name? What was her name?” Cary sings on “Cello Girl”, a song that could either be about a lost friend or a lost identity. Cary poses that question through a melody that’s difficult to forget.

The lyrics of “You Don’t Have to Hide” address a distant lover. Another singer would have made those lyrics sound trite, but Cary makes them sound like she’s addresses you. The longing in her voice can’t be faked.

“Please Break My Heart” is steeped in the tradition of the Patsy Cline weeper, while the vocal harmony on “Beauty Fades” sound gorgeous.

Perhaps more impressive is the fact I’m Staying Out continues the cohesiveness Cary staked out on her debut. There weren’t any fillers then, and there aren’t any fillers now.

(“The Next One”, however, has the unfortunate potential to be used in a coffee commercial.)

If anything, the album feels as if it finishes too early. When the ending strains of “I Want to Learn to Waltz” dissolve, it leaves a listener craving for more but satisfied with what was heard.

I’m Staying Out is a sophomore slump only in regard to how quickly it grabs you. It’s not a love-on-first-listen album. But in every other aspect, it’s a solid follow-up to an excellent start.

A lot of ink has been spilled about Emmylou Harris’ intuitive ability to seek out great songs.

After spending three decades being a “song magnet”, it stands to reason Harris would have absorbed the creative knowledge behind writing a good song. Never mind the commercial dud of 1985’s The Ballad of Sally Rose, her first attempt at writing her own record.

So in 2000, Harris released Red Dirt Girl, her second album of self-written material.

The songwriting on Red Dirt Girl stood toe-to-toe with the work of Harris’ colleagues, but the album itself was often too achingly beautiful.

It didn’t seem able to cast off the looming shadow of Wrecking Ball, her most moving album to date.

When news came that Stumble Into Grace would be another set of originals, questions arose (at least in my mind) about whether this album could stand on its own.

Good news — it does.

This time around, producer Malcolm Burns, who helmed Red Dirt Girl, did away with the cathedral sonics of his mentor Daniel Lanois. Stumble Into Grace brings Harris front and center, and in doing so, makes her music even more intimate.

Sure, some of the residual Joshua Tree-era U2-isms still abound — the Edge would probably find Burns’ guitar work on “I Will Dream” very familiar — but with Harris in the foreground, it’s easy to forgive.

Audiophile considerations aside, Stumble Into Grace shows a remarkable maturation in Harris’ songwriting. An exuberent track such as “Jupiter Rising” was exactly what Red Dirt Girl needed to break its levity.

“Strong Hand (Just One Miracle)” takes on a stronger resonance when you imagine June Carter Cash (to whom the song is dedicated) standing by her recently departed husband, Johnny.

“Little Bird” adds a dose of sweetness to the album, while “Time in Babylon”, co-written with ex-Luscious Jackson member Jill Cuniff, gives it some seething grit.

Of course, Harris’ specialty is that achingly beautiful song, represented by the likes of “Lost Onto This World”, “O Evangiline” and “Can You Hear Me Now” (no relation to the Verizon commercials).

Balanced by more diverse moods, these songs don’t overpower Stumble Into Grace, which gives the album’s title much more meaning.

Graceful, indeed.

Former m-flo singer Lisa has a lot to learn from former 10,000 Maniacs singer Natalie Merchant.

Although Merchant possesses a compelling voice, 10,000 Maniacs itself was no slouch when it came to producing music. The passing of guitarist Rob Buck, in fact, marks a terrible loss for rock music in general.

Merchant’s solo career rode the wave of alternative rock’s popularity, but critically, her own writing turned out to be limp if not downright dreary.

What does any of this have to do with a biligual R&B singer in Japan?

The charismatic Lisa possesses a rare combination of marketable skills — she has a tremendous voice and she can switch between English and Japanese with ease.

Her vocal power combined with m-flo’s musical muscle produced some of the most original mainstream pop music made anywhere.

So when Lisa announced her departure from m-flo in 2002, music fans assumed m-flo was over. If anything, it’s vice versa — does Lisa have what it takes to match the musicianship of her former colleagues?

Juicy Music, Lisa’s solo debut album, only partly answers the question.

There’s definitely some potential. The jittery beats on “Superstar” harken back to her days with m-flo. “Natural Color” possesses a catchy melody that slowly ingrains itself into a listener’s consciousness.

Even the ridiculous “The Shwing” can be forgiven for its lack of substance.

The second half of Juicy Music, however, gets mired in overwrough balladry. “I Promise” and “Ienakutemo” are so alike in temperament, it’s easy to think the two songs are actually one, overly long 9-minute track.

“Let me cry” attempts to pass itself off as a gospel track, but it meanders. “Babylon no Kiseki”, which was perhaps Lisa’s weakest pre-release single, sounds genius by comparrison.

Lisa’s still incredible voice does prevent many of these missteps from being absolute disasters, but on the whole, the magic she produced as a member of m-flo is definitely missing.

Much like how Natalie Merchant’s luster got dulled without 10,000 Maniacs to give her a boost.

It doesn’t help either that m-flo has returned with its own single — “Reeewind” featuring Crystal Kay demonstrates Taku and Verbal are doing just fine.

Juicy Music is a passable debut, but it pales in comparrison to Lisa’s previous work.

You know you’re in for a rough ride when an artist billed on the cover of an album takes 4 minutes to get around to singing.

Chapter II, Ashanti’s follow-up to her self-titled hit debut, begins, as most R&B albums are wont to do, with an introduction, a mood-setting throw-away track.

Instead of getting down to business, some loser who calls himself Chink Santana takes 3 minutes to introduce her again. That kind of stuff is great for a live show, but Chink? There’s something called a “skip” button on a CD player. You can shut the fuck up now.

Thankfully, Chapter II starts off properly with the album’s sultry first single, “Rock Wit’ U (Awww Baby)”. But it doesn’t quite dispel the feeling that Ashanti’s sophomore effort will eventually slump.

The key word, though, is “eventually”.

Once listeners skip to the third track, Chapter II actually moves at a pretty brisque pace.

“I Found Lovin'” tips a hat to the analog sound of the 80s. “Breakup 2 Makeup” and “Living My Life” further explore the mid-tempo, even-handed performances that made her debut remarkable, while “Rain on Me” indulges Ashanti’s more sensual side.

Then it all comes crashing down on “Sugar Shack”. The fake after-hours club skit doesn’t do much to introduce the rather plodding and predictable “Story of 2”.

After that, nothing much on Chapter II leaves an impression. It’s a sad thing to realize “Shany Shia”, a skit in which Ashanti and “Shia” practice old songs, is the most memorable track on the last half of the album.

What kills Chapter II’s last half is a series of unimpressive slow songs that possess little of the charm from Ashanti’s debut.

By the end of it, you’re almost relieved to hear Chink Santana on the “Outro”, mostly because he won’t ever have to bug you again. More unfortunately because an album that started off promisingly ends as a dud.

Critical acclaim, strings of hits, admiration of peers — these metrics may testify to a musician’s talent. But none is more powerful than snagging a listener who wouldn’t usually listen to your music.

Who the hell knows what a “producer” does anyway? All I know is that some names are an almost guarantee stamp of quality — Dave Fridmann, Gustavo Santalaolla, Takamune Negishi.

Sometimes, the producers become stars themselves.

The Neptunes have built an impressive resume writing hits for pop music’s elite. When Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo decided to take centerstage with N.E.R.D., they unleashed In Search of …, a hip-hop album friendly enough for rock snobs.

Williams and Hugo have parlayed that success into a new label, Star Trax, and under their own name, they offer up The Neptunes Present … Clones.

Is this collection suitable for people who would normally dislike hip-hop? Quite frankly, yes.

Of course, being a Neptunes production, Clones has its fair share of bizarre timbres, strangely awkward hooks and seemingly complex beats. That’s par for the proverbial course.

What’s surprising is how all that brainy stuff serves to push the performers on the album to play the shit out of their contributions.

Ludacris steals the show early with “It Wasn’t Us”, a humorous perspective on the rise and fall of fame. Or good intentions.

The refrain on Dirt McGit’s (ne Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s) “Pop Shit” is damn catchy in spite of itself. When Snoop Dogg offers yet another tribute to his favorite botanical substance (“It Blows My Mind”), the Neptunes create a suitably mind-altering backdrop.

Clipse, the first signees to Star Trax, give two offerings – – the incessant “Blaze of Glory”, and the less-impressive-but-just-as-appealing “Hot Damn”.

The Neptunes work best when tinkering with their samplers and hard drives, so it’s tough to gauge just how they enhance — if at all — the token rock tracks on Clones.

Spymob’s “Half-Steering …” is a serviceable rock song, but The High Speed Scene’s “Fuck n’ Spend” is your typical adolescent-targeted emo dreck.

The 18 tracks on Clones may be a lot to digest, but the bright spots on the collection only sweeten what’s already an incredibly strong collection.

More importantly, there’s enough going on sonically that hip-hop philistines feel comfortable listening to these performers speak from their perspective.

(That’s a round-about way of saying you don’t need to lead a gangsta life to get it. Not like most white suburban kids who’d dig this album anyway actually lead that life.)