In all, Jeniferever couldn't be better designed for soundtrack music to a moody sci-fi drama of the 2010s.

So judge not, indie rockers and other self-satisfied musical tribes: any way you slice it, the aging rock audience is hungry and, flawed as they may be, Chickenfoot are just the guys to feed them.

Flying in the face of his public persona, this is a sprawling (could be tighter) and humble (could be more persuasive) Deadmau5 album and one best suited for established fans.

In some instances, it helps to not be much of a Donna Summer fan. Afrojack transforms "I Feel Love" into a graceless barrage of battering noise and reduces Summer's vocal to pulp, while Greene's "On the Radio" has Summer so heavily echoed and distant that it could be titled "On the Radio (At the Bottom of a Deep Well)."

There's enough variety to excite and warrant repeat listens; however, pacing suffers when the momentum is cut by otherwise pleasant tracks like "Fractured and Dazed" and "Picture Frame." These issues aside, Let's Go Sunshine is a mature progression for the Kooks, one that points in the right direction for the band's evolution.

Somewhat more reminiscent of Rage Against the Machine than the Beastie Boys or Eminem, the group... is as good as any rap outfit at expressing anger; in fact, they're more eloquent than most.

Halfway through, Girl Who Got Away sucks you into its sway, its comforts as alluring as they are elusive.

200 Years is as subtle as they come and makes for excellent background music, especially if you're feeling fragile.

At times, Synesthesia falls short of the brainy synth rock bliss Hands aim for, and while their songs are almost unfailingly bright and fizzy, they're not always especially distinctive. Still, even the least memorable tracks will make lots of listeners bob their heads whether they want to or not.

On the whole, the produced numbers are better than the unadorned cuts: Bugg's nasal twang gets buried underneath the gloss and the hooks are pushed to the forefront. The whole thing adds up to a bit of a mess, not in the least because Bugg's schtick was his authenticity.

Consider this a Meth-led posse LP aimed at returning fans, and a very good one at that.

Lights and Sounds' good songs are very good, and the album ends up being the band's most accomplished work yet.

LP1 doesn't always achieve a balance between the two extremes, not to the extent Stone and Stewart desires, as some of the ballads are a little formless and some of the funk a little too restricted, while some of Joss' posturing is a little affected, but it has more moments that work than anything she's done since her actual debut in 2003.

If Ringo 2012 is slighter than the lighter-than-air 2010 Y Not, it still has enough good cheer to bring a smile to longtime Beatles lovers.

ATE doesn't shy away from their debts to the Killers and the Strokes, they brandish their influences so brazenly the echoes reverberate upon themselves and turn into something not quite their own but not quite recycled: it's insistent mood pop designed for its moment, getting enough momentum from its bounce and melody to be something of a pleasure.

Ultimately though, whether robotic or human, binary or organic, it is Ra Ra Riot's gift for addictive, romantic songcraft that gives Beta Love its heart.

The first recording that the hardcore Stereolab fans need not own.... What was once endearing has mutated into the irritating, as the chanted vocals, simple organ runs and endless, pulsating rhythmic drones alienate listeners instead of mesmerizing them.

Even if The Spine is decidedly uneven, it still has enough good songs to please diehard fans and keep them around for the next album.

The songs here all sound very samey. Not to say it's an easy listen. It's a dark one, and many songs lose themselves in sleepy, drawn-out droning. However, extended jams should be nothing new to those well-versed in the Warlocks catalog

Unlike his early classics, Laugh Now stumbles occasionally and fails to keep the momentum going through the whole fourth quarter.

The group takes pains to be able to fit onto every kind of playlist imaginable: rock, pop, electronic, soul-any popular sound that can be sculpted and shaped by a streaming service. As such, listening to Origins uncannily re-creates what it's like to experience-or maybe more accurately, consume-popular rock-oriented music in 2018: everything sounds vaguely familiar, vaguely connected, all designed to function as a soundtrack to whatever task you'd like.

The relatively stripped-down setting winds up letting the rockers of the album’s first half latch in, particularly the rather propulsive “Trouble,” the nimble “She’s Alright,” and rolling “I Got Your Number,” and does keep the succession of anthems and ballads on the second half from seeming too languid.

Stade 2 has its moments, but its overall lack of invention suggests that Mr. Oizo is perhaps now channeling his creative streak elsewhere.

With their big choruses and building grandeur, songs like "The Hunted" and "I Can't Fly" feel not only larger, but much more refined than the songs on the group's last album.

What's clear about Hurts on Exile is how skilled Hutchcraft and Anderson are at seamlessly incorporating their influences, so you can hear the bands' inspirations in every line even as you marvel that this album is like nothing you've heard before.

Despite a few moments of inconsistency, Fool Metal Jack fares far better than most records from bands returning to form after decades of silence, and in its best moments highlights the brilliance of a group that never lost its unique voice.

Sometimes, Davies' blend of hard rock and healing doesn't quite jibe--it can lose form and drift or it can hammer its points home too hard--but there's a dogged individuality to his mission that's appealing even when the music itself is not.

The majority of what follows is a qualitative step back from previous solo album X.

On their debut, Coasts produce a competent collection of catchy arena-ready tunes that could eventually carry them there.

Depending on your disposition, Earth Grid will be either a delightfully compelling listening experience or a maddeningly dull one. Either way, Osborne's uninterested.

Listened to with an open mind, it's a refreshingly retro rock & roll album that uses its waste-oid imagination in capturing every fantasy that entered Bobby Gillespie's teenage mind.

Ten Thousand Fists does start to sound the same after a while. But those bloody zombies aren't going to stop pouring though the doorway, so it's a good thing it has at least 12 burly alt-metal rockers.

His flow is so good, his wordplay so sharp, it seems churlish to wish that he addressed something than his long-standing obsessions and demons.

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.

He pushes the notion further on the brilliantly melodic, ennui-ridden baroque pop ballad "Anti-D," in which Blur's "karaoke songs" from "The Universal" have been replaced by the Wombats' own songs, which are better than "citalopram" and "to be prescribed as freely as any decongestants." The song, like the rest This Modern Glitch, makes the case for the Wombats as both rock stars and fools in their own pop star sitcom.

A less than engrossing record from Piano Magic was bound to happen at some point, but few could have predicted something as dull, drab, and ultimately powerless as Songs From the Chronic Fatigue Ward -- er, Writers Without Homes.

Jumping on the Radiohead bandwagon a couple years too late, For Stars' It Falls Apart cops so much of their sound and style it is almost ridiculous.

Despite the simplistic formulas present here, these young men have patched together a sound that is catchy and eager for additional spins.

Ingram's latest doesn't fit the definition of a work by an artist, because this set isn't original in any way. It seems that he can not only live with this compromise, but he freely chose it, and celebrates it here.

Die-hard Slits fans who aren't put off by the band's newfound professionalism or the greater reliance on keyboards at the expense of guitar will find their faith rewarded by Trapped Animal.

All the songs aim for intense, tormented statements and end up being about nothing. In this way, ! is more numbing than visceral. After it's done, it's hard to remember anything that was worth latching onto.

They have nothing on their mind other than making basic, black-and-white modern rock, and they do so efficiently on Leave This Town, a sophomore album that's every bit as satisfying as the first.

Given Brown's talents, it could have been much more.

Though Zero 7 are still not in the same class as Air (or even Phoenix), Yeah Ghost is an enjoyable record that shows them apparently on the way to something more unique.

Musically, it's closest to Adore, yet it's a distant cousin: if that album hinted at '80s synth rock and goth, this re-creates the spirit and sound of 1986, right down to the robotic pulse of the rhythms, the cold, slick surface of the production, and the brooding, self-absorbed atmosphere.

It's not particularly big or, indeed, clever, but it's a return to form that might just stop the rot, even if it's unlikely to reverse their fortunes dramatically.

They may not be as confident here as they were on their first album, but La Liberacion's best moments are direct and fun, and there's no shame in that.

All admirable attempts at honesty, yet these confessionals bear an uncomfortable resemblance to Lindsay Lohan's autobiographical A Little More Personal (Raw).

Morrissey’s singular personality is on full display, and just as uncompromising as ever, but sitting through an entire album of his musings and moanings circa 2026 is less than fun.

Derulo's still saying nothing--which is fine, since these are hooky, club cuts--but it's the talking louder that's the issue.

When the album ends and the various styles, songs, and moods are added up, Midnight Memories ends up as another satisfying album that does everything a One D album should do and then some.

Here, Sheeran's melodies are soft yet insistent, and the production glistens with flair borrowed from younger, hipper artists who mine a similar blend of retro new wave and modern R&B, but he knows how to turn this stylish sound into something cozy and reassuring.

Tenterhooks is one of the darker and more internal SSPU albums that stresses atmosphere over energy, which will hit listeners who enjoy their more thoughtful and introspective material, but may miss fans craving cathartic ragers and catchy anthems.

It’s all very eclectic and a bit unexpected -- two qualities that seem to be Keane’s modus operandi as of late -- but what’s missing is a pop anthem along the lines of “Again and Again” or “Bend and Break,” both of which allowed Tom Chaplin to flex his vocal chops on past albums.

While it seems they will probably never equal the majesty of their debut, Editors have dug themselves out of their artistic cul de sac at least long enough to plan their next move.

There's nary an ounce of diva in Lewis, she seems to enjoy singing for the sake of it, which helps her out on an album like Echo, where the melodies are elliptical, not catchy, designed to showcase range, not to stick in the head or evoke emotion.

Choruses, riffs and harmonies sound familiar because they're cribbed straight from some of the Replacements' best-known songs. The genuine sweetness and naivete that made this bald-faced theft more forgivable on earlier albums is harder to find here, leaving songs that are catchy enough but ultimately feel like hollow impersonations of someone else's work.

A Fine Mess is quintessentially Interpol, almost to a fault. While it's a little undercooked compared to the songs that appeared on Marauder, the EP may still please fans wanting more of that album's vibe.

Unfortunately, despite a few great tracks and plenty of pounding productions, Blank hits a lot of familiar notes.

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.

Far from consigning her to one-hit wonder territory, the blend of strength of personality and music-biz savvy on Title shows that Meghan Trainor is clever enough to parlay a big hit into a real career.

BE feels familiar--the group is stuck in the back-half of the '60s, naturally loving the post-Pepper pomp of the Beatles but happy to crib from the Zombies ("Second Bite of the Apple" opens with a riff adapted from "Time of the Season") or any other number of half-remembered, half-forgotten psychedelic oldies--but isn't musty, thanks in part to Sitek's colorful, layered production.

Matt Costa's sophomore effort, Unfamiliar Faces, finds the singer/songwriter delving into similar territory to his 2006 debut, "Songs We Sing," crafting hummable, somewhat intricate AM pop-influenced tracks.

Remind Me Where the Light Is ultimately concludes as the luminous successor to "Trading Twilight for Daylight"--bright where that album was nocturnal, open-armed where "Twilight" was introspective, and altogether illustrative of Great Northern's growth as songwriters and performers.

Too intelligent and well-crafted to dismiss but too disjointed and self-indulgent to really embrace, Love the Future is equally frustrating and promising.

If it weren't for the album's studio polish, it'd feel like an extremely well-recorded concert -- it has the ebb and flow of a good live set, and its expansive warmth ends up making its length work in its favor.

The crew is still intentionally misogynistic and profane, sounding like caricatures of Eminem or Kid Rock as they rap and sing about gangsta cliches like puffing blunts, drinking Patron, getting booty, and "flossing."

With Getting Away With Murder, Papa Roach offer fans of this sound an appropriately hard punch in the face. But there's a hollow sound as the bones collapse, because all that's supporting it is expensive art direction and a big scaffold of clichés.

On Again and Again, Brilliant Colors aren't doing anything radically different than their contemporaries with similar influences and a similar sound, but they do what they do with conviction and just enough weirdness to give them a leg up on the competition.

These are late-night, club-ready tracks with a goth disco vibe.

Ultimately, Anna is something of a return to form after Falcon, but still lacks the spark of the Courteeners' early days.

The band's debut for the Innovative Leisure label, forces noisy indie rock, stoner metal, trippy psychedelic pop, and freak folk to sit at the same lunch table, resulting in a spirited yet oh so slightly hesitant food fight that goes just far enough to earn a couple of detentions.

In spite of the extremely high expectations, he has managed a pretty neat debut that will please fans who have been waiting since his early singles.

Ultimately, with Chaidez in spotlight, Kitten is an album of swaggering dance club passion that aims to move your soul as much as it does your feet.

This is an intriguing, promising debut that suggests lots of possible directions for Ivar's next move.

While the occasional foray into the shallower end of the mainstream may divide some listeners, there's enough here to keep longtime followers satiated (and probably a little curious/nervous as to what the future holds) until the next ride.

Its wider emotional range and stylistic switch-ups, none of which is outside Newman's grasp, give it a slight edge.

With On Desire, the Drowners sound more confident and more in tune with each other as a band, but they still remain captives of their influences. They're evolving, but at a pace that may never yield any new fruit.

Bon Jovi and Shanks may not have done much to freshen up the band's sound--they don't take any mid-2010s musical trends into consideration--but that simmering defiance does mean this is the band's liveliest album in years.

What's It Like Over There? sounds like Circa Waves are testing their longevity and aiming for a wider audience, and that's not a bad thing.

At a compact 12 tracks, Music Is the Weapon provides just enough inspiration to get the party started, but it is so good that -- if left on repeat -- it would be enough to fuel an entire night of hedonism.

Game tends to overreach with his mix of the referential and the personal. When there's less obvious effort, the results are favorable, as on the Kanye West collaboration "Eazy," containing some of Game's best lyrics, illustrating the contrast between his upbringing and his ascendancy.

The Dark Side of the Moon Redux doesn't offer uninterrupted talk but the stress is placed firmly on the words, to the point that "The Great Gig in the Sky" now doesn't float weightlessly: it's now about a letter Waters wrote to the assistant to Donald Hall when the poet was in his last days. It's a subtle change but it's a substantial one, turning Dark Side of the Moon into a voyage inward, not outward.

From Flowers' five-dollar words to the operatic bombast, every little moment of Flamingo carries weight, which means every moment cancels out the one that came before: it's all sequined stage costumes shimmering under blaring lights.

A chronological ordering gives a sense to the band's progress, a definite perk, but the big payoff with Tape Club is that it offers a chance to see through to the heart of SSLYBY's songs and realize how charming they can be without the big-league production.

Harris doesn't need to sing--his electronic noises from the keyboard are quite sufficient.

What makes Soul an overall success isn't just Seal's caressing vocals and obvious knowledge of how to interpret these songs faithfully without drifting away; it's the subtle yet effective production work of 15-time Grammy-winning producer David Foster.

The drumming that helps ground it all is elastic and malleable, making this follow-up a more successful and well-rounded album that seems to be just the beginning of something really good.

Time reaffirms that there's more to Ekko's music than ballads, but a little more consistency would have made this a confident debut instead of a promising one.

Maroon is simply charming. It's not outstanding, but the Barenaked Ladies do keep their self-defined whimsicality top-notch.

Each song is tailored to the strengths of the lead singer, not the strengths of Santana, whose left with piddly, forgettable instrumental interludes and playing endless lines beneath the vocal melodies.

Though both the lyrics and the production are quirky, there is nothing dumb about them.... The melodies have brilliant pop hooks and Russell's voice soars.

Dead Media thankfully brings the focus back to personal matters, and it sees a breath of fresh air introduced in the form of analog synthesizers and audio experimentation.

There's an air of sloppy experimentation, of demos and B-sides and other things that probably won't interest more than the heartiest fan.

Despite relying on too many tricks from the Daft Punk playbook, they prove there's more up their sleeve than just vocoders.

Most of the time, Jackson's new arrangements of Ellington's compositions don't serve the songs so much as they betray the arrogance of a musician who wants to show us how he can bring this music into the present day while ignoring many of the qualities that made it timeless.

The combination of strong songs, Lissvik's inspired production, and the chances they take (and nail every time) make this the best Mary Onettes record yet, and the first to sound like they have their own voice.

Grasque proves to be the group's most elusive outing to date, favoring icy, often formless melodies that come and go as they please, and existential lyrics that periodically dissolve into ghostly, wordless repetition.