On Idol, McPhee always favored middle of the road over modern, and Unbroken returns her to that course, bringing her somewhere within the vicinity of Paula Cole (who co-writes the title track), Rachael Yamagata (who co-writes “Keep Drivin’”) and Mandy Moore’s stylized ‘70s throwback, flavored with the slightest traces of modern sounds, including a vague borrowing of Beyoncé phrasing.

While it’s easy to admire his well-cultivated classicism, Who I Am is an awkward growth spurt, relying on songs designed as grooves but given performances too hemmed-in to be soulful and often undone by Nick’s thin teenage yelps.

In the 40-odd minutes that follow, the sisters' simplistic, repetitious song structures may start to grow stale, and their fine but unfussy folk instrumentalism may seem less than inspiring, but those harmonies are never far from hand, ensuring that The Big Black and the Blue is never less than an entirely pleasant listening experience.

The sisterly harmonies and country-tinged arrangements are pleasant enough, but they focus on atmosphere at the expense of melody, a move that leaves the listener emotionally stirred but unable to recall a single melody after the disc’s conclusion.

Everybody’s got to miss sometime, and on Haywire, Turner does by a mile, despite his no doubt good intentions in taking some of the slickness off the contemporary country sound.

Fixin' the Charts really comes down to the jokes and the concept--how much you appreciate it will depend on how much the idea appeals to you in the first place, and how well you can tolerate Argos' sung/spoken/ranted vocal approach, but it's definitely good for at least a chuckle.

Grubbs comes one step closer to turning Almost Everything I Wish I’d Said into the underground equivalent of Parachute’s "Losing Sleep" or the Fray’s "How to Save a Life." He doesn't quite get there, perhaps, but the attempt still has some tuneful moments.

Looking for a testosterone-heavy rock album that is 100 percent ballad-free? Airbourne have created quite an offering — in the form of No Guts. No Glory.

The sleek dancefloor track “So Many Girls,” one of a few songs in which Usher sounds dead in the eyes, going through the motions, desensitized by the bounty of women at his feet, is followed by the sarcastically titled “Guilty,” where he whines “I guess I’m guilty for wanting to be up in the club” — which warrants a response like “Yes, attached 31-year-old man, that’s correct.” A few songs before that is a quasi-redemptive ballad “Foolin’ Around”; he humbles himself, seems to take responsibility for his actions, then casually drops “Guess that’s just the man in me, blame it on celebrity.”

If you heard Mankind without hearing their other work, you might think it was a decent record with a couple of memorable songs--kind of generic and bland, but not awful. It’s only a disaster if you were charmed by High Places' original sound and left cold by their new approach.

It's hard to find fault with the album's intricate arrangements and top notch production, but the songs, which rarely change key, begin to congeal into one big independent film trailer montage as the record progresses.

Pond still fills his lyrics with snark and deadpan cynicism, a move that gives complexity to his otherwise soothing music, but even that has gotten old by now, and The Dark Leaves rarely distinguishes itself from the music that came before it.

Not that dignity was ever that important to Meat Loaf, but the shallow spectacle of Hang Cool Teddy Bear lacks the absurd joy of his best: you can hear everybody involved working far too hard to achieve next to nothing.

Champ is still a melodic, eclectic record, but it often feels like the work of some other band.

Uffie’s long-delayed debut looks to be filled with excitement, but rarely has an album sounded so unconcerned.

The results of that effort are apparent, and they're not good. Gray wields one of the most naturally talented voices in R&B, but from the evidence here, she's not a songwriter.

Chemical Brothers have remained in the stadium house category for a decade-plus due to their immersive music and vivid light shows, but from the stale beats and lack of new ideas on display here, they'd do better going beatless or hiring a drummer.

Custom Built is odds-and-ends masquerading as a new album, rounding up brand-new cuts and leftovers from Michaels' unheralded pre-Rock of Love 2000s.

It's a bit of a surprise that this album sounds like a watered-down diluted Urban Hymns, with all the romantic darkness turned into something cheerfully dippy.

While this hardly supplants those originals, Spot the Difference is a fun spin for the devoted and a good advertisement for Squeeze's reunion tour, proving they still have the knack to entertain.

The album is certainly more in vogue than Tell It to the Volcano--its blippy keyboards and amorphous arrangements sound very 2010--but that doesn't keep it from sounding less gratifying than the band's debut, which prized a good pop hook above all else.

The album itself is almost incidental to the self-styled fantasy that Katy Perry sells with this entire project.

The problem is, the subdued rhythms, riffs, and raps of A Thousand Suns wind up monochromatic, an impression not erased by the brief bridges between songs, sampled speeches, and easy segues, every element retaining moodiness without offering distinction.

Most of the album stays sludgy though, and Seeing Eye Dog tends to drag more than it hits.

Invented, as tuneful as it may be, still plays an odd role in Jimmy Eat World's discography, since it can't quite figure out how to transcend a genre -- one that Jimmy Eat World helped invent, no less -- that exclusively caters to younger listeners.

On tracks like "Point Me At Lost Islands," where weather metaphors share equal space with acoustic guitars and fiddle solos, the group manages to shake out the doldrums and hit a genuine stride. But the rest of the album doesn't flow so well, and The Place We Ran From winds up amounting to far less than the sum of its parts.

Gonzales isn't an innovative dance producer, and there's not much pop music in play here either, making Ivory Tower a rather run-of-the-mill soundtrack--one of the many that can't be separated from their films.

While it's important to have ambition, Deluca probably should have stuck to the sound he does so well. His desire to stretch makes We Can't Fly a misfire of an album. It would have made a nice EP though.