If Florida Georgia Line feel anonymous, that's not a bug: by design, they're playing to the largest possible audience, so nobody should be surprised that Anything Goes is so broad it avoids such messiness as personality.

By delivering this big, sloppy valentine to everything he is and everything he loves, he's not being neat but he is true to himself.

Despite a few bright moments, Motion is disappointingly bland--especially since Harris has made plenty of memorable electro-pop before and after his EDM makeover.

Chamberlain sounds like he's exorcizing some demons with Sleepwave, and he's doing so in the style that comforts him the most.

Ot overall the compilation, with all its good intentions, pales in comparison to the originals and will only strengthen the urge to hear Russell's wonderful songs again after listening to this well-meaning but flawed collection.

Even when London muddles quasi-philosophical gibberish and pro-fellatio sentiments on "Water Me," the hooks and basslines dig deeper. It's more creative, too.

As it is, BRONCHO need to head back to the studio with some Red Bull and a producer who can light a fire under them, because judging by their first album, they can do better than this.

Rhubarb Rhubarb, sounds like a condensed version of their first.

Nick Jonas is at its best when Jonas plays it straight, when he relies on his eternal Prince and Stevie Wonder fixations, which give him not only a fairly rich palette to draw from but provide him with a good direction to channel his melodic skills.

The Buzzcocks haven't lost their touch as a live act in the 21st century, but The Way makes it clear these guys need to recharge their creative batteries before they attempt another studio album.

By and large, the featured performers--mainly McCartney's peers, including his good friend Steve Miller, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan, Brian Wilson, Jeff Lynne, Roger Daltrey, and Willie Nelson, but also a handful of younger performers and old pros, too--stick to both familiar tunes and familiar arrangements, which means The Art of McCartney often gets by on sheer enthusiasm

The Ting Tings aren't quite ready to grow up and stop partying, but the maturation on Super Critical takes them out of the "overbearing pop flash in the pan" category and suggests they may have even more interesting statements ahead of them.

On Soft, Bodan is assisted by several producers, and while the backdrops range from light drum'n'bass to the kind of stark and lurching beats heard more commonly on labels like Tri Angle and Modern Love, the album isn't quite as scattered as the singles.

He seems like a featured artist on his own album, which would be standard issue for other producers turned artist, but not Guetta.

The band's overall distaste for sound quality will probably put some listeners off, as much of the record sounds like it was recorded in real time on an old Tascam four-track in somebody's basement, but King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard possess enough pop acumen and oddball charm to lure even the most unsuspecting psych-rock fan downstairs for a taste.

Nico & Vinz are lite bubblegum worldbeat pop, and will try on any fashion just as long as it might bring them a hit.

Texturally, there's not much of a surprise but The Dream Walker does have its own distinct momentum.

The series is still going strong with Punk Goes Pop, Vol. 6.

As this train barrels on, there's the sense that the record never really started and will never really end, but such full-throttle indulgence may indeed be what some fans want, for there is a whole lot of bang for this buck.

By Shonen Knife's standards, Overdrive does sound like some sort of hard rock album, and the attempts to make like Kiss, Thin Lizzy, or Deep Purple come off better than one might expect, though Yamano's guitar skills are less impressive than those of the average metal axe slinger.

Kudos to the group for deciding to do a little remodeling, but it might behoove them to keep the original floor plans, as the current arrangement feels a little out of character.

The album might scare off some fans who were reeled in by his perky pop songs, but it might find a home with those who like their pop seriously murky and gray.

My Garden is a mix of colorful party anthems and substantive, pull-no-punches ballads with warmth beneath the surface.

Ultimately, it's just this kind of self-flagellating, dark-hued rock aesthetic that's worked for Papa Roach for well over a decade, and despite whatever passing styles or trends in pop music they've ignored in the process, it's a sound that seems to be working for them.

This stuff can't touch Adrian Younge's Venice Dawn project, which released the dynamite Something About April in 2011, but it has its own charm.

Afraid of Ghosts isn't as immediate as some of his other records, but it will suit the needs of anybody craving a record that sounds like Ryan Adams used to make them back in the day.

I Sell the Circus is the debut album from Ricked Wicky, the latest in a long line of projects from Pollard, which finds him in a straightforward rockin' mood while also indulging his fondness for classic hard rock and progressive influences.

Sure, most fans of the duo will reach for the original album 9.99 times out of ten, but it's hard to look askance at the playful spirit behind the album and the thoroughness of Cornershop's complete deconstruction of one of their career highlights.

The soundtrack to Fifty Shades of Grey winds up as something conventional: high-thread count seduction with nary a hint of menace, suitable for any romantic evening you choose.

Patched together and seemingly out-of-character as it is, the singer's fourth album does have more going for it than her third one did.

Carey's strengths are in building enchanting musical landscapes inspired by the beauty of the natural world, but presented here as a more straightforward piano-and-strings songman, his shortcomings are revealed.

While there's much here Gill can point to with pride, more than a few fans are likely to feel they didn't get what was advertised.

The electronic bedroom pop inventiveness of his earlier EPs and debut has been replaced by plaintive bedroom pleas on this misguided second effort.

A Thousand Miles of Midnight spins new soundscapes from the moody frameworks of Lanegan's original recordings, bringing his electronic influences to the forefront and confirming the strength and versatility of Lanegan's work.

These cuts ["Let Your Tears Fall," "Good Goes the Bye," and "Nostalgic"], along with the title track, manage to strike the right balance of Kelly's indomitable character and fresh electronic beats but overall Piece by Piece sounds a shade too desperate, which means it winds up having the opposite effect than intended: instead of sounding like a new start, Clarkson sounds a little bit behind the times.

While Butler may have the chops to captain his own ship, he'll need to put some more water behind him before he can successfully steer the beast into port.

Too many other tracks have one too many verses, could have used bridges, or been left off altogether. Ol' Glory may reveal a bigger, more multi-dimensional sound for Grey and Mofro, but at what price progress?

The band manages a reasonable re-creation of the Ramones-esque sound the band delivered in its salad days. But if Zero comes within driving distance of the classic sound of the Rezillos, it seriously misses the mark in terms of feel.

The relatively sparse ambient instrumentals, frequently unpredictable as they twist and turn, are almost as fascinating. Even the relatively tranquil sections seem slightly turbulent.

Few of the songs are worthy of life outside the context of Empire, yet it's impossible to imagine the program, an unequivocal hit, being half as appealing without them.

Strangers to Ourselves is an album where the trees matter more than the forest: song for song, it demonstrates the exacting nature of Brock but put it all together, it sprawls.

Houndmouth have the right touch and impressive chops, but this album makes it clear they needs a songwriter who can make their music seem fresh even as it's modeled on the past.

If there's a scattershot quality to Always and Forever, that seems partially due to the band just dumping a decade's worth of ideas. Either way, it's their liveliest record and possibly their most interesting to boot.

The aptly named Run never really finds its mark, as it too often charges brazenly into the ether and is gone forever.

All the new songs find Bryan looking back over his shoulder at all the fun he's had over the years. Even when the songs get a little funky, as they do on the descending blues riff of the title track, there's a slight melancholic tinge

Where My Weekly Reader shines is on the quieter moments.

Add the way "Roadblox" provides the cinematic side of Prodigy that's often overlooked and the album seems a triumph, but lead single "Nasty" is a lesser "Firestarter" and at 14 cuts, this chunky effort is built for returning fan club members and not the EP-craving EDM crowd.

Listeners looking for something in the realm The 1975, Emarosa, I Prevail or, to a lesser extent, a darker Sleeping With Sirens, will find a lot to be excited about here, but anybody looking for something that pushes the post-hardcore envelope a bit will probably find themselves wishing that they had walked into a different Hot Topic.

Semi Detached is sincere in its distrust, distaste, and ire, and by the time "Bloody Hell Fire" underlines it all as a dour closer, the album winds up a worthy companion for bad days or chucking it all.

So, a mixed bag: good enough to satisfy and also to wish the whole thing was slightly better.

The Björk-based art piece works better when consumed as album number two.

While, depending on perspective, the album's a bit shallow on dignity, it goes a long way on atmosphere and seductive, despairing style.

No Pier Pressure seems genuinely weird, as it's perilously perched between the best and worst of Wilson's pop talent and Thomas' showbiz instincts.

Admittedly, these are also slower-burning compositions that lack the hooks and pop immediacy of much of Villagers' previous work. Ultimately, however, the pulling back feels intentional and fitting for an album of songs that always seem born out of O'Brien's most personal experiences.

While the snap into tightly focused and sometimes more fiery songwriting is remarkable, the songs aren't as across-the-board strong as they'd need to be to make the entire album as remarkable as the shift it represents.

Rundle, Burns, and Clinco are all strong musicians and it's usually their intricate post-rock pedigree that helps to pull them back into the present, making Salome a step in the right direction for them.

Driver feels composed more than written, not in a way that elevates or alienates, but rather one that draws the ear to each presence in a landscape that shifts, unfolds, and surrounds; a quietly intense ride and mix recommended for headphone listening.

Just as his Def Jam-era album tracks often outshined the singles, Nash is in top form here when he forgets about hitmaking, drops his guard, and produces gems that are scenes as much as they are songs.

Ask a Yelawolf regular for a listener's guide then split apart this purposeful beast accordingly.

The Waterfall suggests maybe My Morning Jacket would be better off doing a few things well rather than losing their way down several different paths.

This is a record for longtime fans: it not only evokes warm memories, but it speaks to the band's present.

The album flows easier than Drift and Home, yet it somehow comes off as comparatively fragmentary, with 15 tracks playing out in just over half an hour.

Surfer Blood have regained their freedom with 1000 Palms; next time, they need to do something interesting with it.

The input of all three musicians can be heard from front to back, through swirling layers of ever-shifting sounds and trance-inducing sequences that escalate, expansive and borderline theatrical, with shifts between light and heavy that occur gradually more often than abruptly.

For the most part, Ours Is Chrome sounds like it arrived pristine via a tramp-stamped, nicotine-stained, Puget Sound time capsule.

Like its predecessor, Who Me? is a showcase for Wauters' quirky, likeable personality, and balances introspective lyrics with laid-back instrumentation.

By showcasing the two sides of DeLonge's musical personality, To the Stars does feel like a solo album but it also does feel a bit like a warehouse--a way to clear the decks as he preps for the next great project.

It's music to put on when things are getting just a little bit too hectic but you'd never dream of running away from your problems. Music for a suburban weekend, in other words.

Warren has talked in interviews about the healing nature of music, both on the songwriting end and the listening end; some listeners will likely connect on that level with Numun and, amid its airiness, its substance.

Recorded their solo over a finished mix, which explains the presence of the late Jeff Healey and also how the guitarists don't necessarily seem fully integrated into the album. Nevertheless, that disconnect is ultimately a minor point because there's a gonzo energy to Bachman's originals.

Her Brit-pop soul treacle is still miles better than some of her contemporaries' top-tier offerings, and when the album connects it moves right in and starts to redecorate, but when it falters, it's akin to a chatty party guest failing to realize that everyone else has gone home.

While it'd be nice if the slower songs were as sticky as the speedier tunes, this nevertheless maintains a classy, well-manicured mood throughout.

Drenched in Auto-Tune and more frustrated than a ringtone rapper should be, Lil Durk turns in a surprisingly down effort with Remember My Name.

Summers and Weikel's talent and craft are all over The Helio Sequence, but this music is more than a bit short on inspiration, and the finished product sounds less like music they had a passion to create than something they were put up to--which is just what they tell us it is.

Generally the polished punch of Wood's work pushes Love Is the Great Rebellion into sunny positive pop, the kind of album that can double as motivation or pleasing background music for the office.

The most frustrating aspect of the record is that they are obviously trying hard to find their own sound and they almost get there.

Despite its unevenness, at its best Déjà-Vu is an entertaining return from a dance music legend looking to translate his style into something that isn't overly familiar.

Not one for the skeptical, but Carnegie Hall charms: give yourself over to it, and Adams wins you over, first through his act and then through his songs.

It's all a pleasing time warp without turbulence, one with songs built more to evoke the past than to last in one's memory.

Her earnestness is nearly as appealing as her prettiness, a quality apparent in both her voice and her surroundings.

Even if Dopamine shows the scars of labor, that in itself is impressive, and it also emphasizes how, nearly 20 years into his career, Stephan Jenkins prefers to indulge in his idiosyncrasies and not polish them for reasons related to pop.

Yuck may be bereft of any edges, but it's devilishly clever sophisti-pop disguised as big- box shopping center background music.

Feels Like gets high marks for craft but barely merits a passing grade for fresh thinking.

While the songs are sturdy enough to withstand such gentle rocking, this is a vibe record, the sound of an old pro playing not because it's necessary but because it's fun.

While Dancing at the Blue Lagoon brings Cayucas' shortcomings to the fore, more often than not it's more blandly pleasant than irritating, serving up a watered-down tropical drink of an album that just doesn't connect the way Bigfoot did.

This isn't among the most substantive Four Tet albums, but it does reward repeated casual listening.

While Currents would have made a decent Kevin Parker solo album, people coming to the album and expecting to hear the Tame Impala they are used to will most likely end up quite disappointed.

Established fans will likely welcome the new developments; it's not a shift in style so much as in attitude, and her relatable introspection is in full force, just at a different stage--still searching but looking toward the light.

The album works more as a selection of striking individual pieces than a coherent whole; there are moments of brilliance here, but they're inconsistent, and the album has more than its share of false endings that muddle the pacing.

Young still doesn't do darkness as well as light but Mobile Orchestra shows a willingness to grow and change that makes it the most complete portrait of Owl City's music yet.

It is recognizably the album in its form but not quite in feel.

Buddy Guy serves up a straight-ahead platter with Born to Play Guitar, his 28th studio album.

A little fine-tuning here and a couple tweaks there and the follow-up might really be something special. Until then, Nap Eyes are solidly promising and that's a good start.

While it's admirable that he's trying new things and broadening his scope, Morning World still feels like an experiment or a transitional stage.

All Around Us stands as a puckish, blustery, peculiar creation recommended for a good pair of headphones.

Although nothing achieves the same height as "Try Me," the EP is promising at the least.

The highlights, unsurprisingly, occur when Allen is allowed to exert more of his power, heard in the darting/jabbing third and twisting sixth tracks. Those two tracks are worth the wait.

There's just not much here to keep the group's detractors from bringing out their pitchforks, and over time, staying the course may leave fewer and fewer townsfolk to protect them.