Some Kind of Trouble is a step in the right direction for Blunt, a move toward love songs free of pretension.

It's a refreshing change from the usual compilation of bibliophile, sea shanty/murder ballad, and while the Led Zeppelin III-style rural overhauling may isolate fans who prefer the serpentine, progressive art rock of albums like The Crane Wife and Hazards of Love, it opens up a whole new continent for the band to explore.

It adds up to Allman's best and surely most focused and cohesive solo release, and one where the template can hopefully be repeated in less time than it took this to appear.

Swamped by the same safe, repetitive, and unadventurous production, the majority of the ten tracks are indistinguishable from one another, making Science & Faith a solid but pedestrian and uninspiring affair.

While the grand and sometimes snotty lyrics might not be to all tastes, anyone who misses the days when rock radio loved Nirvana and Blur will find his retro rave-up easy to embrace.

2011's Showroom Of Compassion, still finds John McCrea writing like he's tossing off random thoughts as he struggles not to be overwhelmed by the voices in his head, and singing as if he's waiting for that grilled cheese sandwich he ordered to finally show up.

Needless to say, the time is right for the phrase "just another" to be banned from use when discussing him.

Steel Magnolia are an able, energetic, vocally savvy country pop act, and stress the word pop in that phrase.

Red Barked Tree is another strong effort, and while Wire is still making music that shatters expectations, after 30 years they're sounding a lot like the mainstream rockers they once despised.

At 13 tracks the album feels right-sized, not overstuffed, and Banks himself is in fine form throughout, delivering stone cold and slow punch lines that are as lethal as ever. When it comes to evolution, there's really none, but even though he's been here before, veteran fans will appreciate his return.

8701 is more mood music than anything else, and while it does work fairly well on that level, it's not memorable outside of that mood.

Apollo Kids feels just the slightest bit unfinished.

Her follow-up isn't merely eager to stand out but rather desperate, as if the studios in which it was recorded contained a clock counting down to the point of failure, the moment when Hilson would no longer stand a chance of being a ubiquitous, multi-platinum superstar.

There are no upbeat pop-oriented songs, and stylistic diversions are not part of the program, either. It is something of a refinement of Cole's first two albums, and yet it involves a revolving door of songwriters and producers.

Highlights are pushed to the front, so consider the last four songs or so bonus tracks. You'll still be left with a substantial good time.

At its core, these demos are the sound of Dylan becoming Bob Dylan, and it's an evolution that's spellbinding.

In a less skilled writer's hands, this sort of thing might be off-putting, but with Toth behind the wheel, Death Seat makes for a weirdly wonderful ride.

Helpfully rounds up 18 of these guest appearances, including a cut by the Jones-fronted country cabaret outfit the Little Willies, and what impresses is the range of collaborators and the consistency of the music.

The Tallest Man on Earth, keeps it sparse with a summertime EP of fingerpicked acoustic guitar and vocals, written on the road just after the release of The Wild Hunt.

They're playing at full strength, with the rhythm section pumping hard on the opening title track and the three that follow it.

Uptight types who want him to save hip-hop will hate on this one, but this ain't nuthin' but a party y'all, and a fun one at that.

Most of these songs are not quite up to Hart's usual caliber. His inherent charms are hard to deny; they just feel slightly threadbare this time out.

Olympia doesn't feel fussy; it's unruffled and casually elegant, its pleasing familiarity reflecting the persistence of an old master honing his craft.

A fitting final studio effort.

Things start to slow down toward the end of Progress, when Mark Owen, Howard Donald, Jason Orange, and Barlow get their own track to write--each revert to type, Barlow stultifyingly so on the sticky "Eight Letters"--but for seven tracks, Progress is the hippest and best music Take That has ever made.

Winner Stays On will undoubtedly continue their stratospheric rise from the ghetto to the mainstream, but despite flashes of ingenuity, it's a strangely formulaic and over-familiar listen.

The big difference on this two-disc set, however, is the occasional, recognizable drum pattern, mostly snare strikes or cymbal crashes, that give the rest of the music a wider dynamic range.

He may have lost the plot for a bit, but Page is back and his pop sensibility remains sarcastically, unsparingly intact.

Tidelands takes the Moondoggies in some glorious and unexpected directions, and you'd have to go back to Wilco's Being There to witness a group upping the ante on the potential of their second album with this much success.

DIRTY BABY is a singular accomplishment, presented in a fashion that demands more of the listener's attention but buy pays off handsomely.

Silver is the work of a band with a very clear vision and the skills to make it work like a dream.

Fantastic Explanations (And Similar Situations) makes something fresh and powerful from Novak's influences, and if the ingredients to this cocktail are pretty simple to figure out, that doesn't mean it's not strong enough to knock you out.

Heard as a whole, this set doesn't sound nostalgic but revelatory, for the simple fact that its slow, deliberately restrained brutality is not only engaging, but hypnotic, doom-laden, serpentine, even beautiful.

Like their Chicago contemporaries the Handsome Family, Cotton Jones feels a kinship to the country-folk tradition, but is not bound to it, and with each new collection of songs, they add another couple of lines to the genre's weathered face.

Flockaveli has enough hooks and attitude to keep those bottles poppin' all night long, and whether or not you remember any of it the next day, it does serve its purpose.

Valentine's lyrics are delivered with a rigorousness that seems like it's meant to assure the listener that the only thing the Electric Six take seriously is having fun. It feels good to know that someone out there is fighting for our right to party.

Blurry Blue Mountain is an album full of heart, soul, and wit, and this music confirms that no one does quite what Howe Gelb can do with such remarkably innate grace and feel; Gelb's songs find pretty remarkable things in the odd details of simple lives, and there some very real magic to be found in the elegant force of Blurry Blue Mountain.

Bittersweet songs like "Grey Clouds" and "What I Lose" are more subdued than prior work, but ultimately The Inevitable Past is a solid addition to the discography of an indie rock fixture.

More moody, modern R&B that sounds like nothing else and reveals remarkable depth (there's even a little well-placed twang and some violin), Authenticity is neither an everyday nor an every-day album, unless playing it is necessary for the sake of convalescence.

As Darnielle's first release on his new label, Merge, opening a new chapter in his career, Undercard may not be a total knockout, but it's an eminently worthy diversion from (or preface to) the main event.

While producer Dave Cobb's arrangements don't self-consciously re-create every element of the musical eras the sisters dig into, they don't add any superfluous modernizations either, keeping the sonic framework just as timeless-sounding as the Secret Sisters' style itself.

Regardless of the tack she takes, Nes' music has the vulnerable freshness of winter thawing into spring--particularly on the lovely album-closer "Ruby Red"--and Opticks puts her in the very sweet spot between innocence and expertise.

It's an excellent way for Jenkinson to branch out and try something different--his playing and programming is definitely up to his high standard--but aside from the sweet retro vibes, it's hardly a classic.

Return of the Century is their most impressive record and shows that they were able to turn personal and professional turmoil into a work with great artistic merit.

Given Jones' legendary stature and reputation for taste, this set feels unnecessary at best, and downright cynical at worst.

All Day is too playful to be considered mature, but for the first time it feels like a consistent album and there are definite signs of Girl Talk maturing as an artist. Above all, it's a whole lot of fun.

As far as pop albums go, this one strikes a rare balance between familiarity and novelty.

Adams touches upon rainy-day English rock and atmospheric anthems custom-made for arenas, but his touchstone remains American rock, specifically the Replacements.

While The Social Network may not be as iconic as the Dust Brothers' score for Fincher's Fight Club, it's as impressive and listenable in its own way. Reznor fans and film score aficionados will find a lot to like here.

It's one of the few effective Euro-flavored club numbers to be fronted by an R&B artist. Altogether, this is one of 2010's finest pop-R&B albums -- Ciara's best yet.

For those interested in one of the more compelling and quietly provocative and graceful guitar records of 2010, Silent Movies is well worth seeking out.

No doubt, Diddy injects so much of his unfiltered self into the album that no hater can be swayed, but it's his unique attitude that makes Last Train such a delight.

At the very least, the album doesn't tarnish his legacy, although it adds nothing to it either.

It's easily the least sexually charged album in his discography, ideal for those who admire him as a singer, arranger, and producer but tune out the fantastical come-ons.

If she had the right co-writers, the kind who could pull melodies out of her sincere strumming and down-home jamming -- the kind the whole American Idol empire was designed to bring into the equation -- Farmer's Daughter would deliver on Bowersox's promise instead of sounding like a local singer/songwriter performing on a stage she's too modest to fill.

A funhouse mirror of an album, Mini Mansions is a few shades lighter than Rekords Rekords' usual output, but it's still twisted and catchy enough to win over those more familiar with Shuman's day job.

Taken as pieces, these songs are prime 2000s indie rock; added together they make Play It Strange a satisfying step forward for the band.

Some 13 years after he cut an MTV Unplugged album, Adams decided to once again strip down his songs to acoustic, to take them down to their Bare Bones, to coin a phrase that's used for the title of this 2010 collection.

In the end, Pink Friday is an ambitious, glossy stunner if fashion week is your favorite time of year, but Minaj didn't earn her diva status this way.

The album is not only perfectly balanced; it stands out as a bright (black) light amid the dross of postmillennial rock.

It's a wonder why a few of these cuts didn't pop up before this, but as a collection of outtakes, they hold together better than some of the band's proper albums.

Kid Cudi's Man on the Moon II was released in a year where rap album sequels were common, but unlike most of the competition, this sequel has a very strong link to its predecessor.

The rallying choruses are not effective, and he's short on ideas; threatening to steal attached women is a default topic. 5.0 is, by a considerable margin, Nelly's least essential release to date.

The Promise stands on its own as a great Bruce Springsteen record; it feels finished, focused, and, above all, offers more proof that Springsteen is one of the greatest rock and pop songwriters.

It's a faithful version that humbly spotlights the versatility of a fascinating talent.

Sure, Max Martin's hooks, and especially Dr. Luke's neon-colored throb push these tunes into your head--they're in top form, aided by the tight focus of an eight-track EP, Cannibal's brevity trumping the scattershot Animal--but what makes them stick is Kesha, a pop star lacking pop star looks and a pop star voice.

For the most part, The Gift is indeed predictable in its sound--a continuation of the glassy, stately march of I Dreamed a Dream--and songs, relying on carols, not secular seasonal tunes.

The level of sophistication--arrangements with subtle details, the frequency of slow tempos, a couple well-trodden motifs--lends itself to a couple tepid tunes, but Ne-Yo remains a premier source of R&B that is both traditional and contemporary.

Overall, though, Body Talk is more focused than Robyn, and just as bold in the intimacy it creates with listeners.

As fatiguing as it is invigorating, as cold-blooded as it is heart-rending, as haphazardly splattered as it is meticulously sculpted, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is an extraordinarily complex 70-minute set of songs.

Encompassing the past, present, and future of sci-fi scores, Tron: Legacy feels like it grew and mutated from its origins the same way the film's world did. Without a doubt, it's a game-changer for Daft Punk.

While it's important to have ambition, Deluca probably should have stuck to the sound he does so well. His desire to stretch makes We Can't Fly a misfire of an album. It would have made a nice EP though.

After factoring in the fictitious post-breakup duet with Ne-Yo (which is more like a verbal joust), the self-flagellating "Holding You Down (Goin' in Circles)" (a collision of oft-used samples and references that does not sound the least bit tired), and the nakedly ambitious "Famous" (where she yearns for girls to want to be like her), it becomes increasingly clear that Love Me Back sprawls and stuns in equal measure.

In the end, this is the same mixed bag as last time round with a half point subtracted for diminishing returns, and another half point subtracted for lessons not learned.

With the high-gloss Flo Rida, less is more, meaning this eight-tracker is entirely right-sized.

As on their last two LPs, it's heavily reliant on nightclub anthems and will.i.am's throwback rapping, alongside Auto-Tune harmonies and waves of synth

There's no emo bloodletting, no expressionist confrontations with death, just exaggerated adolescent anthems and calls to rebellion, just enough drama so this could be called cathartic by a certain generation, but for most listeners it's crystallized fun, the purest rush My Chemical Romance has ever delivered.

Besides whittling the number of special guests down from three to one, casual fans will have problems telling this one from his previous release, but these ten smooth cuts go down easy and give no sign the formula has stopped working.

Bedingfield plays it exceptionally safe, to the extent that she even tones down the self-empowerment of her first two records, preferring pristine blue-eyed soul and adult contemporary ballads, all tailored for an aspirational upscale lifestyle.

Neither redemptive nor triumphant, No Mercy is the MC's least compelling release thus far, but there's a sense that he'll regain focus once his legal matters settle.

From the beginning of her career, Duffy's voice alone was clearly not her most potent weapon. Here, she oddly attempts to build an album out of it, not succeeding with anything close to the power and elegance of Rockferry.

With the illuminated big head and all, Canadian producer Joel Zimmerman's Deadmau5 alias is a blast to see live, but you can also bring quite a bit of that tech-house-meets-slammin'-electro excitement home with 4 x 4 = 12.

Most of the tracks are written by Cartwright and they have all the hard-won wisdom and desperate melancholy of his best work.

Light of a Vaster Dark is ultimately the most integrated, seamlessly rendered aural illustration of McCarthy's unique vision that Faun Fables has released to date.

Highly desirable for Currensy fans who like his material at its most loose and free, just don't start here.

Not every DJ dream team is up to the challenge of creating great original tracks, though, and it's hard to criticize Swedish House Mafia when their mix is otherwise such a blast.

What the Dethroned half of this nearly 70-minute set reveals is that Jesu is still breaking new ground. Contrasted with Heart Ache, this new double EP is an excellent introductory portrait of the project, past and present.

Born Free goes a long, long way toward keeping that heartland flame burning bright: it's familiar yet fresh, and song for song it's the best album Kid Rock has cut since Devil Without a Cause.

Not Music is all over the place in the best possible way, and fans who love Stereolab's gracefully intellectual side will especially appreciate it.

It's a fine starting point for someone looking to discover Smith, but even if you have all his albums, it serves as a greatest-hits collection of sorts and only confirms just how awful not having him here truly is.

When things are light and simple on Live It Up, DeWyze seems like himself: a threadbare talent who floated in on the vapors of Idol's empty tank.

A Christmas Cornucopia is a real contender for best Christmas album of 2010.

Smart guy that he is, Rubin doesn't eliminate surging melodrama from Groban's bag of tricks but he does limit and mute the palette, making sure the strings don't soar so high and that the singer doesn't bellow.

Dig those snippets and Codename: Rondo just might be this weekend's soundtrack.

Maturity doesn't necessarily suit the band--there's a natural, flat whine to Joel Madden's voice that dooms him to eternal adolescence--but every step Good Charlotte makes toward a comfortable middle age on Cardiology is a step that succeeds, producing music that resonates louder and longer than the flashy twaddle of Good Morning Revival.

While this isn't necessarily a bad idea on paper, the Concretes unfortunately forgo much of what made them an enjoyable listen in the process.

The concentration on writing and arrangement is disciplined, with a strong set of dynamics, a terrific mix, and great production, and of course the lavish package lives up to the band's reputation as well.

Two minor complaints aside, For the Ghosts Within succeeds as both collaboration and an aural portrait of what a complete standards recording by Wyatt could offer.