Someone's starvin' to be Marvin. The entire suave package of John Legend (né Stephens) and his major-label debut, Get Lifted, seems pinned on the hope that he'll follow through on the promise of his stage name and powerful associations – he sang hooks and cowrote two songs on Kanye West's College Dropout (Roc-A-Fella) and warbled on Alicia Keys's "You Don't Know My Name" – and ascend to the ranks of such first-name-only monsters of soul as Marvin, Curtis, Al, and Stevie. He's got the sleek good looks, the suits, and a goatee, and in line with tradition, Get Lifted plants him squarely in the firmament of the church and gospel, slung between the pews and posed at a pipe organ in the album art, with lyrics betraying the mind of the rogue couched in his Sunday best.

In fine Gaye-like form, often writing alongside executive producer West, Legend makes eyes with the lovely lady one aisle over ("Alright"), cheats and retreats alongside his Dropout bud ("Number One," also cowritten with Curtis Mayfield), and seductively, ambiguously evokes both the choir and Compton cool backed by Snoop Dogg. "I ain't been clubbin, drinkin or smoking," Legend wails. "I'm focused, bowin down every night / Prayin and hopin." Uh huh. And I've got some Florida swampland for Mr. Soul Plane to sell.

Even as the production and arrangements impress with their springy, effervescent detail (marred by the occasional rote, filler gush-athon like "So High"), sincerity here translates into capturing the ambivalent stance of a young black man who has to show a hard front even as he holds down a job as the choir director at Bethel A.M.E. Church outside Philadelphia (and Legend is said to have done just that until the making of Get Lifted). To his credit, Legend often locates the hunger – and power – in the schism between the two roles, and mines it. This listener, however, prefers the less fashionable and predictable moments, like Legend's hoarsely blues-tinged performances on "Let's Get Lifted" and "Stay with You," as he evokes Bob Marley and makes one forget the playa posturing amid the overall undeniably handsome game. (Kimberly Chun)

Doug Gillard
Salamander (Pink Frost)

Think of Guided by Voices lead guitarist Doug Gillard's solo debut, Salamander, as a Cleveland rock Sideways. Unpretentious, human, verging-on-middle-aged side-guy soul, with a healthy pour of heart. There's even a sorta-schmaltzy image of a wine bottle on the cover. But open it up, and you'll find that it's a mature not musty, tasty not tacky, lean not lame, keeping-it-real bouquet of sensitive midtempo rock flavors – you know, the stuff of not-so-svelte, Rogaine-free manly feeling that GBV once secretly specialized in. Oh yeah, and it's good, really good.

Salamander's first three tracks sum up the differences between the former Cobra Verde and Death of Samantha guitarist's newly uncorked vintage indie and GBV's now-flattened Bud. The opening song – a breezy ditty titled "Valpolicella" (not "Pinot Noir"; the Sideways comparison only goes so far) – is an effortless and enjoyable sip of pop, perfectly complemented by the lumbering crunch of the bandmate-loyalty love song "Wait for You." Then Gillard seals the rock-solid fate of Salamander with the coulda-been-GBV ballad "Going Back (to You)." That song has all the spare melodicism Gillard brought to GBV, though none of Robert Pollard's lyrical twists. Sure, words are the weakest links here, and Gillard tends to prefer the comfort of closure when it comes to writing his own songs, in contrast to GBV's more haywire tendencies, but who's complaining when the guitarist captures an emotional turning point so exquisitely, with so little.

Though ethereal solo-Beatles-ish songs like "Momma" are startlingly touching, and reminiscent of songs off Gillard's Malamute Jute EP (Cushion, 1999), the rocky tunes stand out – including the martial "Symbols, Signs," the clangy '60s girl-group pop "(But) I See Something," and the lovably lunkish "Give Me Something," which finds Gillard sounding like he's taking a page on playing dumb from Our Bad Girl of Oberlin Liz Phair's book. In all, Salamander adds up to an insinuatingly addictive recording – a quaffable, classico take on GBV's tipsier moments of indie rock-o. (Chun)

Magnapop
Mouthfeel (Daemon)

For someone who fronts such an irrepressibly boisterous band, Linda Hopper can be a surprising buzzkill. On Magnapop's fourth album, Mouthfeel – the Atlanta, Ga., alt-rock quartet's first release since 1996's Rubbing Doesn't Help (Priority) – the vocalist sings with the sobering, matter-of-fact delivery of a woman who long ago resigned herself to a lifetime of disappointments. Just check songs like "Pretend I'm There" and the heartbreaking "We're Faded," on which she predicts her relationship's demise with all the nonchalance of someone reciting a grocery list: "I know you'll lose your grip on me, and that is how we will be." A pick-me-up she ain't, but Hopper gives her band's peppy jangle-pop an almost unsettling emotional depth that gets deeper with each listen.

Of course, there's always been a dark poignancy beneath the surface of Magnapop's music. Back in the '90s, when their albums were produced by the likes of Michael Stipe and Bob Mould, the group's brisk, ridiculously infectious songs were setups for deadpanned lyrics like "Everything is good these days, but all of my friends are dying." Such disturbing juxtapositions made Magnapop infinitely more compelling than peers like Belly and Veruca Salt, and they're certainly in no short supply on the excellent Mouthfeel. Throughout, Hopper's vocals and lyrics are as unnerving as ever, and her bandmates – guitarist Ruthie Morris, bassist Scott Rowe, and drummer Chad Williams – pile on enough mile-high hooks to make this album one of the most welcome, enjoyable returns to mid-'90s alt-rock yet. (Jimmy Draper)