Compared to prior outings, their Zorn-like freewheeling spirit has been toned back and songs feel more like actual "songs" with defined structure and greater emphasis on the individuality of the performers and the negative space surrounding them.

Keeping a good thing going, Uncle Charlie follows the formula of the former Gap Band vocalist's previous release, "Charlie, Last Name Wilson," which climbed to number ten on Billboard's album chart.

Best summed up as a deranged Mardi Gras (the cover art is perfect), it's a strange little album, and surprising that something so alienating and overwhelming could also be so utterly listenable.

Fortunately, even the album's least obvious moments are well worth deciphering, and the emotional connection Sholi make on almost every track raises the band from merely impressive to very promising.

The Blue Depths is an album first and foremost and is assembled as one. Therefore, it should be listened to that way; because the aura it creates around the listener--particularly through headphones--is nothing short of spectacular.

This 2009 release is a fine addition to her catalog, although it isn't an album that goes for immediacy.

For those with more of an ear for intricate soundcraft and matchbox symphonies, The Camel's Back ends up being something far more satisfying and memorable.

It's Not Me never hits heights as blinding as "Smile" or "LDN"--but this approach does wind up spotlighting just how special a pop star Lily Allen is, how she captures all that's wretched and glorious about her time without falling into any of its traps, probably because she's clever enough to avoid them in the first place.

variety here, but Keep It Hid never draws attention to Auerbach's eclecticism, especially because it moves along at a rapid clip, never staying in one place too long.

The tone of the relationship songs is more upbeat, and even occasionally lighthearted, relative to those of "Testimony: Vol. 1," adding a pleasant contrast to the more serious material.

Years later, however, the well-networked songwriter appears to have finally found her own voice with Light of X.

Bottom line: the album is one of the stronger pop-R&B releases of the last few years.

If this is a somewhat more sedate effort than the hot-wired Flat Duo Jets of yore, Ruins of Berlin shows Dexter Romweber's passion and gifts are as strong as ever, and the result is a compelling album from a one of a kind talent with plenty to offer.

It's a hilarious comedy album that's just as hip, inventive, and inappropriate as their digital shorts.

This is one of the most compelling releases yet by one of the new jazz's finest bands to emerge in the 21st century.

The Fray's sophomore release picks up where How to Save a Life left off, reprising the same blend of piano-led ballads and midtempo pop/rock that helped establish the band in 2005.

Doolittle is nothing if not steady, making all the right moves at the right times, sounding at once like a seasoned pro and someone who feels everything she sings while never forcing or faking anything out. It's one of the smartest, most likable albums from an American Idol alum yet.

The whole is still a game enough effort, if nothing else showing Houck's excellent taste in song choices.

Love Hate and Then There's You is the Von Bondies' most consistent album yet.

It would be nice if some of the titular burn could be felt on Dierks Bentley's fourth studio album, but Feel That Fire is an atypically cautious, calculated affair from one of Nashville's best singer/songwriters of the 2000s.

These are chilling sounds from a dark place that, nonetheless, shelter the listener. Between the European and stateside physical releases of the album, Cooper passed away. Knowledge of that could only intensify the album's most passive spins.

Changing Horses marks a defining moment in the songwriter's career, offering up a batch of pastiche-free country music that, like Ryan Adams' "Jacksonville City Nights," may be a promising sign of what's to come.

"Don't You Fake It" may have suffered from a lack of variety, but Lonely Road is plagued by different diseases: misguided ambition, outlandish excess, and a bad case of the ol' sophomore slump.

Definitely track down 'Meet Me in the Garden' as it stands head and shoulders above the rest of the album, but give the rest a chance too.

If you want to hear a singer's singer, one who can move you to the core of your being with her way of interpreting a song, Wynonna Judd's deeply moving, authentic Sing: Chapter 1 is a fine place to begin. This may be her finest hour.

The Mountain is a more diverse set than the old Heartless Bastards gave us, it's still rooted in the same emotionally direct songwriting and performing that is this band's trademark, and for all that's changed with the band, Wennerstrom has held on to her core virtues.

Bemis and Conley may wield the most power here, but Two Tongues debut is a collaborative effort through and through, with the band taking measures to prove its debt to past traditions and present friends.

A little more variation from song to song, a little more of their own sound, or another song or two as compelling as the best stuff here and the POBPAH's debut would have been classic. Settling for impressive is fair enough and good enough for fans of loud, fuzzy, and heartfelt indie noise pop.

Willie's voice can sound a bit gruff and rough--this is as comfortable and welcoming as a familiar old leather jacket. It's no surprise that it feels good.

It's often catchy and kinetic in the moment, yet it still feels like Franz Ferdinand has the potential to do more with their music than just slightly tweak and polish a sound they established several albums ago.

A large part of Springsteen's appeal has always been how the E Street Band has sounded as big and open as his heart, but Working on a Dream, like "Magic" before it, has a production that feels tiny and constrained even as it is layered with extraneous details.

This is pure NPR music, all neo-jazz melodies and martini-lounge flourishes without the sly bite of its predecessor.

Disenchantment with the state of rap, and society as a whole, is a major underlying theme, but the statements never feel too preachy or in your face. Instead, the vocal freestyles hover just slightly above the music, delivered in an amorphous mumble that matches the sonic abyss of the background perfectly.

Dear John shows that Svanangen has really gotten his act together; it makes good on all the tremulous, tender, wistful promise of his debut.

It is stronger all-around than "Supernova," the poor 2001 album that never came out in the States, with the stitches less audible than the average post-humous album. And yet, nothing here comes close to rivaling the best TLC material.

The fact they fit so well says a lot about this music, and while there are moments of genuine beauty and grace, this is a far cry from what these men achieved in their prime.

Frusciante has done a nice job of carving an identity completely separate from his main gig, and Empyrean fits nicely with his other solo albums.

Paranoid Cocoon establishes its sound early, so anybody initially put off by all of the cloudy skies and soft, neo-psychedelic mountain melancholy will inevitably come away disappointed, but fans of James Yorkston, Richard Hawley, M. Ward, and mild hangovers will eat this up, and rightly so.

Despite this barrage of invective, it's strangely reassuring hearing the oft-preprogrammed Hoobastank break free from their constraints.

Neither horrible nor great, Time of the Assassins is an unassuming album, a working holiday that was probably more enjoyable to make than for anyone besides die-hard Strokes fans to hear.

Among Sheik's albums this ranks among the best, showcasing his subtle skills and sense of quiet adventure in ways his sometimes fussy earlier records never did.

Old Money is so far-reaching, it will likely piss off some of his fans while making others nearly swoon with its unwieldy rockist excesses. As for winning new fans to his cause? You bet.

It's a fantastic album, and one of the standout metal records of the year; it's just too bad that it's kind of embarrassing to admit that you're a fan.

Merriweather Post Pavilion is a perfectly organized record, not a note out of place, not a second wasted.

Whatever hopes you held in the aftermath of "I Am a Bird Now," they have been exponentially exceeded in poetry, music, and honesty here.

Anyone who can craft a record that sounds and feels as good as Get Guilty deserves to keep on making records forever.

Whatever romance he lacks in the textual medium he more than makes up for in melody.

Grand isn't as majestic as its name suggests, with only a handful of songs moving past the anxious minimalism that permeated the last album. For returning fans, though, Grand provides a familiar brand of punk music for happy people, for lovebirds, for those who wish Mates of State had more swagger and less glockenspiel.

Recorded over a couple years and in various locations, the EP sounds like outtakes from "Emma," but not in a bad way.

Fiction Family is slightly sprawling as a result, having been compiled over a number of years, but the track list takes strength in diversity as it alternates between sprightly duets and slow, Elliott Smith-styled melancholia.

You and I's stranger moments reveal that Cut Off Your Hands have more personality than the album's more tasteful songs suggest.

It's an unfocused album that defies comfortable listening, perhaps deliberately so, but the collision of half-baked folk tunes and uneasy soundscapes isn't as stimulating to hear as it might have been to create.

Wino aims to combine vocal and guitar swagger with psychosis in equal measure on Punctuated Equilibrium--the mark of someone who knows that one of the best things to do with electric guitars is to figure out how to stun the listener and make them queasy at the same time. So if nothing on the album ultimately surprises, it's still a great demonstration of ability.

That magic might be missed a little on Mirror Eye, but its fever dream-like intensity is more than compelling in its own right, and feels as subtle and natural as a shadow or a reflection.

Most of Lily Perdida is charming--it's like these songs were always within Mitchell's reach, but were buried underneath processing and slower tempos in his earlier work, and they're bursting out here.

More polished and refined than the EPs, Fight Like Apes and the Mystery of the Golden Medallion (named in honor of an obscure Mr. T movie) skillfully walks the grey area between mainstream and underground, spit-shining frontwoman May Kay's effortless pop smarts without losing sight of their zany outsider appeal.

Truth be told, it's still a bit of a mess, but it's a glorious and galvanizing one: a convoluted construction crammed with so many immediately gratifying moments that it takes multiple listens to extricate them all--in other words, enough instant pleasures to easily outweigh its occasional grating, overreaching, and faltering.

The material is stellar.

The soundtrack to the Notorious B.I.G. biopic Notorious is a welcome surprise. Selections from the past (a bunch of old hits plus some wonderfully raw demos) and the present (Jay-Z's infectious collabo with Santogold) along with a hint of the legacy's future (an appearance from Biggie's son, Christopher "CJ" Wallace, Jr.) are sequenced in a way that avoids any of the bombast or misguided majesty of Born Again or Duets.

On Compass, Redman has finally learned the greatest trick from his mentor--to walk out on the wire with his horn more, trust the fluid abilities of his incredible rhythm section(s), and let his inner sense of song and freedom take precedence over his already well-established sense of discipline.

The band's ninth album continues the Austin-based ensemble's penchant for offbeat Southern minutia and melodious, after-hours juke joint revelry, but despite boasting production values that rival anything before it, Haymaker! feels less like the blow to the face that its title implies and more like a last quick rummage through the basement before the garage sale starts.

Whether intentional or not, there's a certain glee to FOB's pop absurdity because their cheerfully careless genre-bending has no reverence: fitting all these sounds and jokes into a pop song is all a game and it's one listeners can share, whether they're playing spot-the-allusion or just succumbing to the sugary hooks clustered within one track.

Discerning fans may demand something new from the band's next effort, however, since this is essentially "Move Along" with a revised track list.

There's a core of at least seven songs here that rate as highly as the best from the first two albums, and they're anything but reheated.

If not quite as enjoyable as "Unpredictable," Foxx's ability and personality make it easy to ride out the sags.

At least a third of the album's contents would have to be part of any representative introduction to Hamilton. In fact, this puts a cap on a three-album run as remarkable as any other in 2000s R&B.

With some minor problems, some minor advancement, and some major moments, Da Realist is an overall winner from a rapper who keeps beating the odds.

Fans won't be thrilled doubling up on tracks they already have, but the set is definitely more for them than for those who know little beyond the classics.

Short on new ideas and lacking in cohesion, Soulja Boy Tell Em's second official full-length finds the young upstart trying way too hard to re-create the bazillion selling 'Crank That' and repeatedly coming up short.

Common's here to have a good time, no strings attached, with uneven results.

Human is nothing if not a serious album, not to mention the least enjoyable release in Brandy's catalog. But it could very well be her most useful one.

Here, the pre-recorded sequences of fan favorites "DVNO," "Tthhee Ppaarrttyy," and "D.A.N.C.E." are born again; flipped and redecorated with aggressive house beats to the point that they feel fresh, but they still retain enough familiarity to get fists pumping and mouths singing along.

This wide net says more about Maroon 5's fashion than it does their music--they're sharp and smart enough to know what will get them club play and blog mentions--but it's nice to have a band so big try to tie together these two niches, even if neither the R&B nor the indie rock winds up relating to the happy mainstream hooks of the group's hits.

All this extra material may not carry the same deliberate weight as so much of Brighten the Corners, but it enhances the album considerably, bringing it closer to an album that can stand with Pavement's first three classics.

The bottom line here, of course, is if you are a fan, you'll need this and won't debate its merit one way or another. If you're new to Kozelek, you'll no doubt be wowed by some of this and bored by the rest.

A couple dramatic moments don't quite take full flight, and a handful of tracks are tepid and unmemorable, but OnMyRadio is mostly another set of sturdily constructed laid-back R&B.

As far as guest rappers, old friends like Teddy Riley, Keith Murray, Redman, Havoc, plus an especially on fire KRS-One are here, making this album short on new developments but greatly appealing to those who long for the way it used to be.

If she feels marginally more connected here than she did on "Blackout," it's a Pyrrhic victory, as Circus never feels as sleek or addictive as its predecessor.

Akon sounds more comfortable than expected, and he reduces the lechery in favor of longing ("I wanna make up right now") and awe ("When I see you, I run out of words to say"). At times, the tensionless backdrops don't inspire Akon to do much with his pen.

Emeritus is not the usual, very serious good-bye record, but in so many ways, it's a typical Scarface record. It's just better than usual with the rapper sounding liberated by his decision to move on.

This is unfettered joyful listening, and in its own small way, even profound.

"Hold on Now, Youngster" is still the more magical of the two records, it's the one to play when you want to feel joy, but We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed has more depth and feeling.

There are more twists and turns, more textures, than on any other McCartney album in the last 20 years, and if it's a little messy, so be it: it's better to have Paul letting it all hang out instead of hanging back.

For anyone sifting through a broken relationship and self-letdown, this could all be therapeutic. Otherwise, no matter its commendable fearlessness, the album is a listless, bleary trudge along West's permafrost.

While his previous effort, 2006's "Release Therapy," was much more the thematically tight album and deserved a concept, this loose set of tunes is all-together more entertaining, thanks in no small part to a highly inspired Luda and all the punch lines he lands.

None of this is major but it is enjoyable, worthwhile for the devoted--and it's nice they can get it separately instead of plunking down cash yet again for a deluxe edition.

Happy in Galoshes isn't quite as textured or bright as "12 Bar Blues"--the smaller budget is evident in its muted colors as well as Weiland's sleepy delivery--but it has the same emphasis on churning psychedelia and clomping glam.

If one wants to really hear the gifts that Adkins is endowed with as a vocalist, one that can reach people in the marrow of where they live, toss away the hits and listen to the rest.

Cuomo still doesn't allow himself the freedom to venture in these directions on Weezer's albums, and that's what makes both volumes of Alone quite valuable: they're as eccentric as they are accessible, portraits of a pop hermit letting his mind wander wherever it may take him.

Enjoyment of the Rapture's Tapes necessitates unfamiliarity with the majority of its contents, indifference to acute sequencing and, naturally, deep interest in what the band views as classic and fresh.

The nice thing about Day & Age is that not only is Flowers' voice relatively buried, the Killers are unwittingly comfortable with their ludicrous, outsized pop, which turns the album into terrifically trashy pop. Not the serious rock they yearn to be by any means, but these fashionable threads fit them better anyway.

In the City gets by on hooks and hugeness, like an irony-free Andrew W.K., Timbaland working with Aerosmith, or a jaded version of the Jonas Brothers now willing to drop the F-bomb.

It's a good album, no less and no more.

It's a marvelously intimate performance, unguarded and open-hearted, unique in its delicate touch: it's Neil Young before the myth crystallized, and listening to it anew, it's easy to fall in love with him all over again.

Beyonce's third solo studio album is as concise as 2006's B'day, but it is divided into two discs as a way to emphasize the singer's distinct personalities. It's a gimmick, of course--a flimsy one.

Dark Horse was constructed entirely from the group's standard templates of bleating power ballads and dulled hard rock.

There are melancholic edges, but it's not haunting, it's comforting, reassuring music that's quietly powerful, music that Dido hinted at before but never quite made.

Of course, the songs are amazing, but just as impressively, Stuart Murdoch's vocals are heartbreakingly sincere and soulful, and the band definitively belie their image as shamblers by sounding tight and together.