Gary Allan has long been one of country's most reliably velvet-voiced beautiful losers.

I'm that grumpy old guy yelling at all those pesky little Grizzly Bear fans to get offa my lawn.

Ever wonder why people are so determined to reach for white picket fences, supposed normalcy, a nuclear family? Well, try growing up without one.

By the late '80s, I was already giving up on rap music.

Mayer Hawthorne's old school pop-R&B homages are so meticulous that it's tempting to overrate his pipes.

No band on 21st-century radio has mined pre-grunge hair-metal's sleaze like L.A.'s Buckcherry. So it makes poetic sense that they'd spend their sixth album tallying all seven deadly sins.

Gary Allan has long been one of country's most reliably velvet-voiced beautiful losers.