A few strong moments don't make a full release succeed.

A loud and obnoxious ruckus.

A strangely attractive racket.

Bangarang is a disappointingly formulaic affair which hints for the first time that the wheels may soon slowly begin to fall off.

There is a chasm that separates "Video Games" from the other material and performances on the album, which aims for exactly the same target--sultry, sexy, wasted--but with none of the same lyrical grace, emotional power, or sympathetic productions.

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.

Despite a scattering of fantastic material, overall this collection is unworthy of the Sparrow's mighty legacy.

Sounds from Nowheresville shows that the Ting Tings have more range than their debut suggested, but while it's more ambitious and crafted, it's just not as coherent as We Started Nothing.

The Brit Award winners have suddenly gone all serious, eschewing their trademark singalong choruses and reining in the quirkiness that briefly made them one of Britain's biggest guitar bands, in favor of a more downbeat and slightly psychedelic sound that may be less annoyingly infectious but is also ultimately less fun.

Rhyton stumble through their jams oblivious and dopey, failing to fully connect with each other or take the listener to a place more exciting than a spirited jam session in the practice space.

There's a comforting softness to the album (only occasionally broken by a stray emotion in Eric Emm's vocals or a danceable tempo) that makes it perfect background music for working away in a cubicle or relaxing after a long day.

Mies and Mullen have successfully mined this kind of temporal, freak-folk territory before, but Out of It and Into It feels more like a step backwards than a cerebral expansion.

Sharks have built up a reputation as one of the U.K.'s most vibrant young live acts, but the disappointingly flat No Gods suggests that something must have gone missing on their way to the studio.

The sheer density of the tunes becomes an issue right away.

Even with this change of tone, the album is still classic Shinedown, and though this kind of triumphant mood will probably disappoint fans looking for something to cut loose and pump their fists to.

An EP might have worked, but apparently Grinderman had to milk it for all it was worth.

Midtempo tracks like "Only if for a Night," "No Light, No Light," and "What the Water Gave Me," the latter of which finds Welch in full control of the room by the song's second half, are soulful, spooky, and bold.

Shedding much of the Spoon influence of Crystal Skulls, Poor Moon follow the same rustic backwoods folk path as Fleet Foxes.

There's nothing preventing them from indulging in the silliest rhymes, baffling name-drops, nagging hooks, and earworm melodies.

The resulting Curve more or less lives up to its ballpark idiom, and while it may not signal a complete reinvention, it definitely distances itself from the calculated guitar-driven alt-rock that dominated 2009's Burn Burn.

Too bad it all falls apart so drastically when you factor in Cosentino's disastrous lyrics.

[The last] three songs better illustrate what Kwes. is capable of as a producer and musician, falling somewhere between Thundercat and James Blake, in a cool blend of downtempo, dubstep, and R&B.

While the album has its share of pretty melodies and even some gently beautiful moments, it's mostly a string of unremarkable songs built on platitudes, searching for reason and resolution but ultimately coming up empty-handed.

Working against the big intentions are the ramshackle playing; the rough production and mixes, and, inevitably, Arcuragi's rusty, overwrought tenor upfront.

Turner possesses some mighty charm but it's not enough to turn that one into something listenable and he stumbles into a couple other potholes here too, all created by the desire to turn him into a big cutesy teddy bear.

Landline is cloying, full of soon-to-be-dated production tricks, drab, mediocre songs.

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.

Days Go By is more for fans who have been with the band for a while than those just tuning in, and while die-hard Offspring followers will be able to see the shift in the band's sound as part of a logical progression, new listeners would be better served by checking out some of their earlier, more urgent work.

Each song competently mimicking the characteristic death metal ingredients of the era, but adding nothing new to the recipe in the end.

With just a few exceptions, The Midsummer Station's would-be mainstream anthems of youth, love, and longing come off generic, hollow, and barely enjoyable.

With all its clean-cut melodies and smirky introspection, even Death Cab fans might have a hard time finding Former Lives more than a collection of melancholy, whimsical tunes.

Certainly, Night Train is huge, but its size feels derived by divine proclamation: it is big simply because it was intended to be big but at its core it feels weary, a little hollow, and not at all fun.

The three songs for The Ganzfeld EP manage to go all over the map in under half-an-hour.

A serviceable slab of unpretentious yet utterly forgettable '80s retro-metal that adheres to every cliché in the book.

While there are still some bright pop moments and interestingly demented freakouts like "Who's Running My Ranch," the album as a whole feels more hollow than even Pollard's sometimes tossed-off song fragments.

The highlights are all casual, subtle, finely detailed midtempo numbers and slow jams. What's truly disappointing is the absence of energetic songs descended from soul and funk.

Unfortunately, on Top 10 Hits of the End of the World, PR were so involved with their campy concept, they neglected to write and record music capable of carrying its weight.

For all the progress and growth Del Rey shows in the vocal realm, her songwriting appears to be in stasis and the productions behind her have actually regressed from Born to Die.

If you don't listen closely, it goes down easy, but listening with just a slightly critical ear reveals those similarities [to Dave Matthews] as near farcical.

While longtime JLS fans may be satisfied with Evolution, those looking for either a smart reappropriation of sounds from the past or a daring creative leap forward will find themselves at a disappointing dead end.

Too bad it's a step back from Doo-Wops in so many ways, leaving people who saw promise in his debut shaking their heads in disappointment and hoping Mars can sort out his feelings about women and get back to being a sweet romancer, instead of an icky hater.

Big Boi adapts to the unfamiliar surroundings with little effort and often sounds comfortable, but the fusions are short on power.

There's something gelling on Dirty Glow that almost matches the album title itself, but it's just not quite there yet.

ong for song, Merry Christmas, Baby is very much of a piece with Rod's ongoing Great American Songbook series, with Stewart not straying from the familiar form of these songs and producer David Foster laying on all manner of soft, soothing sounds.

As it stands, the album is a decent attempt at a fresh start that won't put off too many Girls fans, but until he figures out exactly what kind of singer/songwriter he wants to be, won't likely earn him too many new fans.

Strangely, III doesn't sound like the work of a band at all.

The band certainly throw their arms wide open in welcome, crafting the laboratory-perfect, good-time emo-country-pop hybrid experience that'll sound very good blasting out of rag tops and 4X4's, if not a moody teenager's bedroom.

Much of No World is so slight, tentative, and ill-defined that it easily slips into pleasant background listening for intimate encounters and soul searching.

A pleasant and grown but tedious release from a charismatic entertainer and exceptional vocal arranger who is not a great recording artist.

Maybe lovers of '90s revival bands will find something to like here, but anyone who was into the records Wavves made before is out of luck.

Kinski still sound best when they're stretching out into longer, moodier pieces of cloudy rock. There are enough strong sections like that to keep Cosy Moments afloat, but fans might be turned off by the attempts at pop that don't quite hit the mark.

While the ominous vibe is spot-on, the overall lack of hooks and power makes the record feel more affected than connective.

Reincarnated the album is all heart and heart-in-the-right-place, threatening to mash up the system without ever even harshing the mellow.

If the production had been a little more restrained and the band had written a few songs that didn't sound like they were meant to be played by U2 after a couple days spent listening to Top 40 radio, the album might not have been quite the heavy and ponderous thing it is.

LL sounds rusty and a bit under-rehearsed as he belts out his iffy punch lines and motivational anthems, but he pours his heart into the pop numbers and sounds at home during the nostalgic throwbacks.

Tears on Tape proves that H.I.M. moves forward and back but remains mostly in one place.

The textures are excellent, the songs are OK, but as a whole, it just doesn't pack the emotional punch of earlier outings.

A confounding set of song sketches and hot riffs, this one belongs with 2005's Interim, 2001's Are You Are Missing Winner, and others that are considered "for hardcore fans only."

The great production of the album and its grab bag of above-average musical ideas are ultimately lost to the overarching disingenuous feel of Boats and the strain their various affectations put on the songs.

The by-the-numbers production goes hand in hand with the bandmembers' tailored playing and thickly stylized vocals, hitting all the marks of emphatic country-enamored rock on tracks like the Toupin-fronted "Houston Train," a tale of being strung out, riding the hard-luck rails.

Despite using occasional strings, steel drums euphonium, woodwinds, and even a mellotron, this is not a slick affair.

Super Collider is so mired in midtempo drudgery and familiar hard rock (not thrash) tropes that it never really connects.

The Del-Lords once embodied the spirit of the ragged, rootsy, New York rock & roll scene at the end of a magical era; but that culture has long since vanished into history, making most of these songs, no matter how well constructed or intentioned, feel like exercises in nostalgia rather than anything vital.

Try as she may to distract with her strut and style as Skylar Grey, what resonates is the same kind of melodic turn of phrase that was apparent back when she was calling herself Holly Brook.

No matter how carefully constructed this whole enterprise is, See You There doesn't carry the same weight as Ghost on the Canvas.

The album just offers up a heaping pile of midtempo heaviness that harkens back to Metallica's middle years.

Everything here, from the sound to the songs, is about improving the brand of "Luke Bryan: Party Bro" and if he never seems to inhabit that role, he's nevertheless able to sell it.

By the album's second half, Avenged Sevenfold can't help but let loose their guitar shredding theatrics a bit, and their personality starts to shine through as the tempo quickens and tracks take flight to unabashed height

The slightly wider vocal range and additional expressiveness don't hurt his cause. For those who aren't as easily drawn into Tesfaye's world, this will seem roughly as insufferable and as bleakly aimless as the earlier material.

Fanatics only; everyone else can grab the singles.

Appropriately titled, the album exudes warmth but occasionally sounds so relaxed that it seems to lack inspiration--more suited for a department store soundtrack than vacation listening.

There aren't enough songs like "Recollection" and the very poppy "Room 14 (I'm Fine)" to counteract the moments of heaviness, though, and the album ends up being capsized by the sheer heaviness of the majority of the songs.

Unfortunately, the bar set by these songs was an awfully high one, so although the creation of Circles… was no doubt a cathartic experience, the songs here aren't likely to become the first choice for any old-school Soul Coughing lovers.

All this record does is break the heart of anyone who fell in love with Yuck because of that album, and that's a real shame.

Musically, Adult Film is a smorgasbord of pop ephemera, with melodies crashing about like boozy butterflies, occasionally landing on an idea and then leaping back into the blue in search of less restrictive stimuli.

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)."

Its flame flickers at best, and the feeling of deja vu that pervades the album means that Los Campesinos! need to change something before they hit the studio again, or the next record will be an even more faded copy of their glorious early days.

The problem is, shooting for the stars is really where the Airborne Toxic Event are at their best, so while songs like "Timeless" and "The Fifth Day" might feel like the band treading on old ground, it's when they have the time and space to really stretch out that they're able to get up to full speed.

As the album opener, [Alien is] hard to ignore but it inadvertently sets the tone for the rest of Britney Jean: she's not one of us and doesn't feel comfortable where she's at, and that uneasiness underpins the rest of this vaguely dispiriting album.

This music seems clumsy and half-hearted, and Ginn's interplay with new drummer Gregory Amoore feels sluggish and leaden at every turn.

Occasional resemblances to Drake and the-Dream are as blatant as the Isley Brothers and Michael Jackson exercises of Write Me Back. The similarities are so obvious that it's tough to discern if Kelly is acknowledging his younger followers, aiming to beat them at their game, or both.

Life Love & Hope doesn't, and hearing it might lead a devoted Boston follower to believe that, despite the few moments when things come together nicely, maybe Scholz has finally lost his touch. Check back in another decade for further developments.

For all their technical skill, there's something terribly generic about this band, who don't seem to have a fresh or distinctive move in their entire repertoire as they bounce through their cookie-cutter tunes.

The whole affair is ultimately an exercise in late-'90s indie rock ephemera, and like countless other acts before them, Drowners seem poised to fade away before they burn out.

It's unsurprising that this album is filled to the brim of arena-sized singalong choruses--which will undoubtedly be sung to the rafters by delirious teenage fans--but unfortunately, they sound all too familiar.

The album consists entirely of songs begging for a singer that could give them their own personality, to which Michele and company respond by making every song louder than the last.

Twin Forks seems like a worthy vehicle for Carrabba's songs, but too much of this album panders to worn-out themes and clichés.

The songs are too weak, the sound is too good (aka lifeless), and the album feels like a career move instead of anything real or fun.

Issues put enough of their own spin on things to feel like something new, which feels like a praiseworthy accomplishment in an increasingly homogenous genre.

Even the music Jenkinson makes completely with computers by himself has more of a push than the automated tunes that feel more dispensed than played on Music for Robots.

Allen does indeed rally at unexpected moments--"Insincerely Yours" slides along to a yacht-soul groove, "Life for Me" cleverly twists Vampire Weekend's Graceland obsessions, and although the target of an Internet troll is beneath her, the barbs on "URL Badman" are at least sharpened--but these songs only put the rest of Sheezus in dreary relief.

It's the kind of music that will always be polarizing, as some fans buy into it with fervor and zeal while other cringe from the first chord.

Even when the songs sound coherent and have some interesting moments, the jarring beats still come on as incessantly aggressive with no actual power, inspiration, or deeper statement driving the noise.

For all its sonic "ambition," Phosphorescent Harvest is a mess. It's a collection of songs without a unifying center.

It's all perfectly pleasant and a convincing testament to what Clapton learned from Cale, although its silvery monochromatic shuffles suggest J.J. was a little more one-dimensional than he actually was.

Though the complete stylistic overhaul is admirable, the earliest results of Ices' experimentation with her new sound are pleasant at times but less than gripping overall.

It seems like he missed an opportunity here to really put his well-earned gravitas into a genre that would be ripe for it. That the rather mundane and conservative A New Testament is the end result of his country explorations is a bit of a shame.

The band's laconic, devil-may-care charm is evident throughout the 11-track set, but they seemingly lacked the follow-through to ensure that their deal with the cloven-hoofed and bifurcated-tailed swindler included the ability to conjure up some hooks.