Creatively, My Private Nation, Train's third album, is the moment this band has worked for since it started making records.

The end results are a bit unwieldy, perhaps, and not always successful, but it is interesting and certainly different than a Dave Matthews Band record.

Throughout The Last DJ, Petty sounds utterly lost -- and instead of liberating him like it did in the past, it paralyzes him, boxing him into a corner where he can't draw on his strengths. It's the first true flop in a career that, until now, had none.

Despite the natural feel of these songs as sung by Wilson and performed by his talented backing band, anyone who's paid attention to his solo career of the '90s and 2000s won't hear any surprises.

Much of the album is infused with a Casablancas-meets-RSO Records aesthetic circa 1980. Ultimately, it’s just that style, matched with musical substance, that helps Cruel Runnings register as a lot more than just retro hipster pastiche.

Anyone who missed Hype Williams the first time around should start with any of the group's early albums rather than this, but there's no guarantee that they'll make any more sense.

In the end, the infamous LP isn't the album of the year, but it isn't an artistic flop either, just a pleasing effort from a punchline-dealing party gangsta who knows the power of a good hook.

While the powerfully cathartic Big Mess does feel overlong, it may serve as a rare case where that's masterfully appropriate.

He may be able to capture the sound of a band playing in a room but in this case, it feels like the room is a rehearsal studio, with the band stuck playing rough drafts at maximum volume. A bit of tightening and a bit of polish would've gone a long way here.

The skimpy run time is noticeable and downright perplexing coming from an album that ambitiously delivers otherwise.

The beats are fully outfitted, and several are suitably immense, but they blur into one another as they serve as a spirited if mostly unremarkable summertime backdrop.

The concept is artful and logical, yet ARTPOP never insinuates or settles in the subconscious; it always assaults, determined to make an impression even when all it has to say is that it doesn't have much to say.

It's undoubtedly steadier and unified [than its self-titled debut], built for beginning-to-end listening.

This problematic arrival shows too in the final product, but the problem may not be the much maligned rapper's ability or inspiration but the constant mishandling of his material. So many prime street cuts have been given away to comps, mixtapes, and soundtracks in the five years since Kiss of Death was released that only the slick, polished numbers remain.

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

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.

As a whole, Winter Women/Holy Ghost Language School is a lot to process at once, but untangling the mysteries of Friedberger's music feels like more fun than it has in a while.

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

Tracks like "Wishing You the Best," "Pointless," and the unexpectedly clubby "Forget Me" are soundtrack-ready anthems that nicely showcase Capaldi's throaty croon.

Ya Know? is a loving and generous tribute to a beloved hero of the New York rock scene, but the results never match the energy, focus, and sheer rock & roll fun of even The Ramones' lesser efforts, and it doesn't work as well as Don't Worry About Me.

It sounds counterintuitive, but the unconventional nature of Human Bell is the very thing that holds it back.

The Return of Dr. Octagon doesn't always make a lot of sense, but that's the beauty of it.

Caithlin De Marrais' graceful, yet abrasive vocals craft the dynamic of the band: well-directed musicianship without the frills of overproduced punk-inspired anthems.

Living Outside is as conscious a follow-up record as there can be, but it's likely also the record Sense Field would've made anyway, even without the band's mainstream ascendancy.

The intensity and energy get a little too repetitive toward the end of the album, but the returns aren't as diminishing as they have been on the Catheters' previous work.

If there is a fault to this album, it is that it is too smooth; while the listener is surfing these waves of happiness and cushiony pop, an occasional desire for edges and bones surfaces.

With practically no dependence on laptop recording tricks, Stills sounds completely lost in another era, and all the darker and truer for it.

Galore the band isn't as distinctive as its influences, and many of the album's songs are so polished and streamlined that there's little chance for Dragonette's personality to shine through. However, their more adventurous side surfaces on the album's second half.