The album succeeds more often than it flounders, and even then, the singin' and pickin' is so good that it's hard not to submit, but one wishes that the pair had decided to infuse the collection with a bit more of their signature wit, as much of The Ash & Clay feels a bit like a serious Flight of the Conchords.

As good as the by-the-books ballads and rocking country are, the moments when the façade slips a bit make this worth hearing as an album and not a collection of singles.

This is merely designed to please the diehards... if anybody else happens to like it or if it stumbles into a hit, that's merely a bonus.

While the band might be adjusting after a shake-up like losing a singer, they've still managed to create another riff-fest that, while not a throwback to their older sound, has them continuing down their current path without much trouble.

["Skillzone" is] one the few times the album offers a "punch in the gut." Everything else is more "hands in the air" and from every radio-friendly strain of wonky pop, giving the impression that The Ascent is a mixtape of Wiley features and not a proper album.

Rkives rounds up existing rarities--several B-sides and demos--and six unheard songs, plus a remix featuring Too $hort. That is the most radical shift in sound on Rkives but there are hints of the glitzy bombast of Blacklight scattered throughout the collection.

There are times on Wheelhouse where Paisley simply has too many balls in the air and they're destined to fall.

Hotel California refuses to sort his over-the-top bangers into anything sensible, and without a "Rack City" to make it crossover worthy, this is a full-length to leave for the fans.

The album sounds as if it were cut in the living room late one night, the bandmembers easing into songs they've always loved but never played.

The style of music ranges from heady precision punk to rustic acoustic folk, but because the artists on board share in the same optimistic indie spirit, the compilation plays cohesively from start to finish.

Resilience mostly lives up to the promise of its moniker, delivering another well-executed, purely fan-centric collection of testosterone-fueled, post-grunge/processed metal jams with a complete disregard for subtlety.

Dramatic and sweeping, the Las Vegas band works in the same vein as pop giants Coldplay, offering up track after track of hooky and emotional midtempo jams.

At the end of the day, The Melvins know what they're all about, but with Everybody Loves Sausages, listeners get the chance to roam around in their heads, if only for 50 minutes or so.

As for English Little League, the three records the band did in 2012 are all stronger collections, but this is hardly a failure. One just has to search a little harder to find the good songs this time.

For all of its weirdness, this album feels more like a pop record than his debut, and while Auerbach certainly didn't scrub all of the dirt and grime off of the album, it feels a lot more put together, bearing a lot of resemblance to the Black Keys' later work.

Their furious lyrics and chunky guitar lines are standard moshing and stage-diving material, but fans will be satisfied nonetheless.

Marius Bubat and Georg Conrad, assisted by an assorted cast who visited their Cologne, Germany studio--including vocalists Ada and Edi Winarni, and a handful of instrumentalists--have made one of the Kompakt label's more entertaining and less serious albums.

Transit break the emo-pop formula and head in a pleasant, pleasurable, indie-centric direction for their second album on Rise.

So cheerful is Golden that it seems a little churlish to complain that the songs here aren't grabbers: they're slow burns, designed to sink into the subconscious through repeated plays on radio, in-store sound systems, waiting rooms, and bumper music.

Time winds up a bit muddled, swinging from moments of genuine sweetness toward sharp saccharine, but even with all its flaws it's nice to hear Stewart engaged again, both as a writer and a singer.

While Maines' singing is the glue that holds everything together, the set's overly polished production and the scattershot curation of the material makes it feel like more like just a haphazard collection of songs than a cohesive album.

Nobody is concerned with reinterpreting the songs or surprising a listener, they just want to enjoy re-creating sounds and tunes they've loved, an attitude that's rarely alienating although it's never quite infectious, either.

For longtime fans, Cloud Room, Glass Room offers exactly you desire from PA. For those who've listened in occasionally, enjoyed what you've heard, and are seeking change in Nelson's aural aesthetic, listen elsewhere; this music wasn't made for you in the first place.

While a totally pleasant album not too far removed from the dense sound they've been working in, the dour sentiments are barely hidden below the softly spacy atmospherics, and when they do pop out, the combination of ugly hard times and pretty music can be unsettling.

Ultimately, this isn't an album of purpose, it's a collection of moments, and it has just enough good ones to solidify Demi Lovato's comeback.

This is stately, sweet Europop, the kind that could have been released any time over the last 30 years, but it's given a warm, reassuring quality by Agnetha Fältskog, who retains an appealing, easy touch that separates her from her successors and still resonates all these years later.

As uneven as Curiosity sometimes is, its mix of goofiness and melancholy is compelling enough to make it hard to dismiss Wampire completely.

Much of the album meanders and loses focus. When the band hit their mark, as they do when "Pictures of Today/Victory" ramps up, or with the strident, beat-heavy march of "Motionless Duties," it makes the process of digging through the rest of the scuzz worthwhile.

An album that feels like a return to form for the band.

He'd rather lay back and sings songs of love won and lost, and even if that means Love Is Everything isn't necessarily ambitious, it is remarkably satisfying.

The rest of the album suffers from redundancy and some wasted opportunities with the guests, but Montana is a flossy tycoon first and a wordsmith second at this point, so his handing in a high-power mixtape instead of a focused debut is to be expected, and with a little bottle service, enjoyed.

All of this is enjoyable but it's rarely compelling, as very few songs play with the original arrangement in any serious fashion.

Probably because neither of the artists concentrate on their usual instruments of choice, there is a childlike innocence that runs throughout the wash.

Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot and White Denim's D are examples of similar-sounding albums that successfully pushed the respective bands outside their comfort zones, and Saltwater takes Brazos to a new plateau in the same way.

Alice in Chains are now firmly entrenched in their middle age and settling into what they do best: retaining their signature without pandering and, tellingly, without succumbing to the darkness that otherwise defines them.

If the album isn't quite a classic, it does represent its time in an unhurried, unselfconscious way: this is what big-budget rock sounded like in the mid-'70s, and expanding it to such an extravagant size doesn't hurt it because it always was bigger and bolder than its competitors.

If it is uneven, that's because there's much more here than is necessary, rather than a sad dearth of ideas.

Getting Closer comes off as an undecided jumble of background and foreground music. Nice, but not necessary, this one falls somewhere between a promising debut and glossy, pretty wallpaper.

Few things are more excruciating than hearing shallow frat guys try to sound deep, and these tracks can really make you wince. Ultimately though, when 3OH!3 stick to the anthemic, glorification/satirization of their own lifestyle, the good certainly outweighs the bad on Omens.

He's got talent to spare, but at this point he's swimming in an idyllic creek, not a raging river, and no amount of howling will banish demons that have yet to be summoned.

While they're still enjoyable--they're talented craftsman with an innate ear for pleasing pop hooks--the insistence on making everything bigger and bolder than previously turns Anthem a little wearying over the long haul, but when sampled in small doses the trio remains a reliable pop pleasure.

Rzeznik and Takac are merely sticking with the program that they helped to create, but they have honed their sound so close to the corporate bone that the marrow is beginning to show, and if they're not careful, there soon may be nothing left to feed the masses with.

The songwriting can be a bit samey, but the group writes some unexpectedly catchy hooks that might win over cynics.

Fans of the Maine are going to have an easy time falling in love with this one, but anyone looking for a new slice of that (relatively) old alt-rock sound should give Forever Halloween a chance to get its hooks into them.

The funky soul groove template that Jones helped create in Memphis some 40-plus years ago never really goes out of style. One wishes there were more of that here.

A solid collection of the kind of classic speed metal that Anvil have been trying to make a name for themselves with for 35 years now.

Parlour Flames feels curiously stitched together, the work of a mutual admiration society where neither party quite feels at ease to suggest a direction for their partner.

Ultimately, Every Man Should Know is a record with something for every Connick fan.

Quite a bit bluer and calmer, where her previous music featured the four-on-the-floor pep of traditional house, this album falls closer to witch house and the rainy gloom associated with trip-hop.

The album is an adequate addition to one of the most impressive artist discographies within any genre, not great enough to overshadow the heavily scrutinized corporate alliance that assisted with its ascent.

Wherever this door does go, it is a place that calls for boat shoes, a relaxed attitude, and a returning fan's patience.

While it may be a bit of a pre-2013 tour advert/cash grab, like all Folds-related products, it's certainly not without its charms.

If this collection of alternate mixes and variations sounds like something you need to hear, it is; if it sounds like a mere curiosity, that is also true. Know yourself well enough to know which camp you belong.

This is too unfinished and uneven to call a masterpiece, but Kaufman's loyal fan base should still check out this insightful and wonderfully weird experiment.

Only a handful of the tracks here have a lot of staying power, and the rest, while always colorful and even enjoyable, are fast to fade.

It can take a while to deconstruct the narrative, but when ignoring the weighty plot, the songs' key themes of mortality, love, and loss still manage to make an impact.

If this package can sometimes feel a little too pat, put the blame on producer Tom Hambridge, who also helmed Skin Deep and Living Proof and now has a track record of pushing Guy just enough to form a narrative but not enough to break him out of the box.

Concentrating on a traditional rock lineup with bombastic "screaming at the stars" vocals, the Michigan group may not be breaking any new ground musically, but they are determined to make some of the biggest sounding music around.

It's not fun but it's not meant to be: it's a bunch of lifers in their middle age reconnecting with the things they found important back then.

Complain that they're stuck in a rut or praise that they're still able to do it convincingly, because this album gives up evidence to support either argument.

As someone whose success has come mostly as a singles artist, Jay Sean fails to deliver anything quite as charismatic as any of his greatest hits on Neon, leaving the album feeling largely flat.

This is essentially a greatest hits that offers no real surprise in either songs or arrangements (the exception being "It's Only Rock N Roll," which now sounds more Chuck Berry than ever), but that doesn't mean Hyde Park Live isn't satisfying.

While by no means bad, is definitely more of a missing link for die-hard fans to get a taste of what's to come.

Even though Kissaway Trail aren't exactly breaking any new ground here, Breach is executed with enough beauty and feeling that the lack of innovation is pretty easy to forgive.

Maturity suits the group, and "Pink Wonton," "Sparks," "Paul's Grotesque," and "Head On" have all the makings of breakout singles with their fun, memorable choruses and subtle yet clever musicianship.

Put Summer Camp in the category of bands that are too good to ignore, but too uneven to truly embrace. Summer Camp is frustrating proof of that sad fact.

That her instincts are often right speaks to her skills; that she veers into accidental condescension suggests this country move may be motivated by finding a new audience, not satisfying her existing one.

Despite some missteps, like an attempt at rapping on "Bitter Bug" or a slight lapse into new age on "Symmetry," there are a handful of songs that redeem the ambling nature of the album.

There is much that is admirable about The Diving Board--the feel is spacious and haunting, the ambition is commendable--but the emphasis on tone over song means it leaves only wistful wisps of melancholia behind with the actual songs seeming like faded, distant memories.

While there's nothing wrong with the piecemeal construction of the record, 14 years is a long time to wait for an album that sets blandness and brilliance beside each other in an almost equal ratio. When Defend Yourself hits its stride, however, it's amazing how timeless and unique the classic Sebadoh sound really is.

In the end, it's an admirable and interesting effort where the highs offset the lows, but those with molly in hand and dancing shoes on feet should just cool their jets and get ready to sit a spell.

Outsides is yet another strange installment in Frusciante's unabashedly weird and sometimes uncomfortably naked evolution as a solo artist.

There are too many shifts in mood here from track to track--but it is without question a worthwhile record, as its best moments are strong, substantive reinterpretations that illustrate just how good a songwriter Peter Gabriel is.

Now, Then & Forever demonstrates the lasting value of the band's classic sound.

Pure Heroine seems to hint at the truth... but the truth is, Lorde is a pop invention as much as LDR and is not nearly as honest about her intentions.

Carve out the ultimate party EP, or consider the highlights too high to miss, because this is Dizzee at his breeziest and is best taken in little bits.

This offers another slight change from Willner's past--enough to maintain perked attention from listeners in love with his sound, while those who are less enamored won't hear enough that distinguishes it from any other Field album.

As appealing as the lived-in, swampy jams are, there's a laziness that drifts throughout Hoodoo, apparent in the sauntering rhythms and Tony Joe's mush-mouthed vocals.

While rap-rock is a sound that's prone to disaster, the band has the confidence to make it work, finding just the right blend of angst and swagger to pull the whole thing off.

The album is split down the middle with the first half made up of shimmering, supercharged dance tracks that have disco and house influences and seem destined to fire up clubgoers with their soaring choruses.... [The final four] songs aren't as successful, thanks to the somewhat syrupy melodies and clichéd lyrics, but also because Cher's vocals sound a little worn and frayed around the edges.

The band fares best on songs like "Narcissist," which, like the Vines' grunge love letters, are pretty fun even if they aren't shockingly original.

Rather than nervy and isolated, this re-formed version of the band feels like they've got things more sorted out, replacing the uncertainty that marked albums like Emergency & I with a more carefree vibe. The change is one that makes sense, though.

While those already enamored with McCombs' lyrical approach and subdued songwriting might find more of immediate value here than the uninitiated, there's a lot to sift through, even for fans, and it might be difficult to keep focus through the entire sometimes befuddling set.

Tindersticks see this anniversary celebration as a reflection of who they are as a band now, rather than merely as a reflection of their past.

Prism [is] a tighter, cleaner record than its predecessors--there are no extremes here, nothing that pushes the boundaries of either good taste or tackiness.

Neither as intricate nor as emotionally varied as releases from inspirations and contemporaries like Gold Panda, Quarters is short on obvious standouts and distinctive qualities, but it is steady, conducive to beginning-to-end listening.

It's too bad the EP is saddled with a couple duds, because when it clicks and the music, words, and playing all get it right, one is reminded of the energy and fun that made the band worth checking out in the beginning.

Ultimately, Outside's exercises in nostalgia are pretty, smooth, and inoffensive, but not nearly as interesting as CFCF's debut album or the EPs that followed it.

There are things that don't work here: there are stilted, wooden arrangements that mar "I'm Am Not Waiting Anymore" with Sam Amidon, and Vernon's duet with Carter on Bob Dylan's "Every Grain of Sand." Otherwise, I'll Find a Way is a fine, if uncharacteristically restrained, Blind Boys of Alabama recording.

While Nielson would be well-served by sticking with the colorful mess of sound the band seemingly effortlessly creates, he could go the melancholy troubadour route and make that work too. Blue Record is certainly proof of that.

Rather than subverting culture, the band goes one step further, subverting the expectations of listeners by performing the songs without irony. Most surprising, however, is how well these songs work with Bad Religion's driving and melodic style and Greg Graffin's distinctive voice.

She makes listeners wait for her still-formidable skills with hooks and melodies, displaying them most stunningly on "Bad Girls," a sinewy, menacing track whose origins date back to 2007 sessions with Danja.

Sure it's mature, soulful, and often beautiful, but it's also mostly forgettable.

Rice's sepia-tone tales of worry, wisdom, woe, and wild-at-heart love feel authentic and lived in, and while they may lack the spark needed to light a fire that's big enough to bring him out from behind Lewis' shadow, they still manage to provide enough light to warm the bones of even the weariest traveler.

Recommended for those interested in classical-rock fusions.

Those who enjoyed the wooziness of Talabot's 2012 studio album ƒIN should find much to enjoy here.

This is the kind of album that appeals primarily to hardcore fans looking for a new spin on the familiar; in other words, this is unlikely to convert EDM listeners to the pleasures of Linkin Park.

It's a serviceable bit of self-generated fan fiction that's as slight as it is artistically obstinate.