Ultimately, A Colossal Waste of Light takes Eyelids several steps further in terms of heft and gravitas, sharing the sense that they need not rely on hype or headlines to garner the attention they so decidedly deserve at this juncture.

Consider Shook an example of auditory excess plied with aural intrigue.

The Vivian Line is unlikely to land on anyone’s hip/hot list. Rather Sexsmith, now pushing 60, is content to churn out radiant, sublime, transcendent music that unobtrusively exists in its own delicate bubble, inviting us in to join him on his unique musical path.

Over the course of 23 tracks—a mix of archival classics, recent entries, and a couple of covers—the band struts their stuff with the usual flair and panache.

The frenzied sound of “Brain Capers” implies certain complications just as “Fallout” seems intent on driving through whatever haze continues to confound us. There’s very little here that’s as clear-cut as the overall messaging might imply. Nevertheless, it’s clear that This Stupid World still manages to impart wisdom and reflection in equal and apt measures.

The Fragments box set offers enough weight and return to justify its weighty price tag. The remastered version of the original album is simply stunning, bringing clarity to the source material that wasn’t as evident before. So too, while repeated versions of certain songs may sometimes seem redundant, they are well in keeping with any Dylan devotee’s desire to peer well below the surface while gathering clues as to the germination of Dylan’s genius.

The 14 tracks clocking in at 50 minutes speak to War’s prolific nature, one that encompasses her diversity yet remains focused on vocal, lyrical, and melodic talents that this disc’s enhanced production, and budget, spotlight.

Listening in one sitting can get tedious since few tempos rise above a muted whisper. Individually the songs play like scenes from that indie movie. Curious, stimulating, and worthy of pondering … if you’re in the mood.

He's no less daring than before. Marked by a series of ominous atmospheric soundscapes, the album finds Cale seemingly beckoning whatever spirits surround him with a dire yet distinctive vocal that casts a spell on the effort overall.

Like the previous set, this is another batch of slightly skewed but affectionately crafted R&B, heavily tinged by mid-’70s affectations with some blues touches. ... Most impressive though is how soulful a vocalist Dan Auerbach is.

With 17 mostly terrific songs (three sung in Italian), only one breaking the four-minute mark, the collection has the jittery intensity of a lion pacing before feeding time. ... Perhaps we could have done without the closing power ballad “The Loneliest,” but that’s the only misstep on an album that should thrust this band into worldwide superstar status.

Lead track “Mile Marker 29” gets things off to a rousing start courtesy of the song’s riveting refrain. The tangled tapestry of “All Your Friends Are Dying” doesn’t offer the most promising premise, but it’s intriguing nevertheless. Still, when the band slows the tempo and recasts the proceedings with some mellower melodies, the album truly hints at greater glories.

Price breaks down any barriers left around her on this record to great appeal. In just 10 songs, she manages to tell a lifetime of stories that are captivating from start to finish.

Every Loser is commanding, powerful, and above all fun, proving that Pop has plenty of gas left in his aging tank.

Ultimately then, See You in the Stars is as footloose and fanciful as its handle suggests. When Broudie indulges his instincts, the possibilities can become sky-high.

Jude is Lennon’s singular statement, his purposeful pronouncement, his pivotal turn as far as coming into his own with music that bears a grander scope.

This wasn’t a tremendously fertile period for the group. Yet based on the animated gig and some inspired moments, they still sounded vital, and capable of writing impressive new music, albeit inconsistently and largely without Brian’s input.

All are already available on one of the many existing Hendrix live discs although as usual, the performances are substantially different since Hendrix seldom played anything the same way twice. ... One of the last recordings with the original threesome. Despite reported tensions within the group, they tear it up.

It’s a decidedly evocative album, one that ought to give hope and comfort to all those that may feel adrift in uncertainty and sadness while confirming the fact that they’re not alone. In that regard, it provides a shared service to us all.

There are enough moments when everything clicks to make this a pleasant, intermittently compelling listen. But it’s hard to shake the nagging feeling that it could have been much better with a starker instrumental edge and less processing.

his is as organic, honest, and powerful as soul gets. Between Roth’s guidance and Lee Fields’ riveting performance, this is a contemporary/retro-tinged classic, one that any lover of the genre will find timeless and inspirational.

Granted, En Är För Mycket och Tusen Aldrig Nog isn’t the kind of album that aims for accessibility. Nor is it a set of songs that will invite the unsuspecting to simply hum along. However, for those that are up for a more adventurous interlude, it’s nothing less than an intriguing endeavor all around.

While not every song is covered, but enough of the creative process is revealed to make this a revelatory encounter.

Granted, they haven’t hit the heights they climbed courtesy of such early mega milestones as Don’t You (Forget About Me),” “Glittering Prize,” “Somewhere in Summertime,” “Waterfront,” and “Alive and Kicking.” No matter, Kerr, Burchill and their newer recruits still manage to stay true to the band’s overarched intents, but do so based on premise rather than pretense.

A dozen effusive offerings that show off both their talent and tenacity. The tones and tempos vary from song to song, but nearly all provide an upbeat delivery that grabs the listener straight out of the gate with nothing less than an instant impression.

The result was a rich listening experience, as Swift flew past the mark she set for herself with ease, daring to look further inward than ever before.

To their credit, Dry Cleaning is not compromising their often prickly art. Rather, like the most resolute artists, with the provocative and relentless Stumpwork, they admirably move their boundaries further afield regardless of appealing to a bigger audience.

The swapping of leads with both voices joining on choruses is wonderfully executed, the songs float and swoop with the nervous anticipation that comes with looking forward to better days and the backing musicians add just enough weight to keep it all grounded.

The album, sees the pop maven realize her own strength and let it take her somewhere new while keeping with her characteristic candor and energy.

At just over a half hour, the short but compelling set finds a generally chipper—if somewhat guarded—Andrews expanding her musical boundaries and peering cautiously to a brighter, more fulfilling, and looser future ahead.

This is soul music of the most raw and affecting type; naked but brimming with more feeling than the majority of today’s stars in the genre whose elaborate productions can’t touch Son Little’s cottage project for purity and emotional clarity.

It’s adventurous and elastic, played and sung with honesty and a sure sense of the mutual lyrical, compositional, and especially vocal abilities of its three talented musicians.

Few others, let alone from Texas, are creating anything quite like this. While it won’t bring Barrett back, The Black Angels are intent on keeping his art alive for future generations.

The unexpected is to be expected, and in that regard, Wagner and company don’t disappoint. The Bible may not be the last word as far as this band’s creativity is concerned, but as always, Lambchop’s music is worth heeding.

A sturdy but far from a revelatory example of Creedence rolling through a dozen hits and album tracks without much fuss and virtually no connection with the audience for a meager 42 minutes.

It shows Nikki Lane at her best, stepping towards a darker direction while keeping one foot planted in the country and roots music of her past.

Combs describes the disc’s overall tone as that of a black and white film. Add foreign to that description (one song was inspired by an Ingmar Bergman flick) and you’re a few steps closer to this stirring, decidedly non-commercial music that sounds like little else.

Overall, the hardest part about listening to Noah Cyrus’ The Hardest Part is turning the album off.

An impressive collection that’s innovative and inventive if not collaborative.

Perhaps a few more originals, or even covers, could have been wrestled with to bulk up the playing time. Nevertheless, what’s here is solid, uncluttered, unadulterated blues rocking, played by a trio who will never sell out.

Despite his relatively young age—he’s barely 25—he conveys a remarkable sense of self-awareness, and if he seems especially vulnerable on some of these songs (I love myself but that’s alright, he insists on the album opener “The Funeral”), one gets the sense that he’s speaking for others that imagine themselves in a similar scenario.

Not surprisingly, these Orwellian soundscapes don’t make for a particularly easy listen. ... It’s that collusion between sonics and strife that makes The Invisible Light radiate so remarkably.

Competence and creativity are never in question, even though every one of these numbers requires the listener to allow added indulgence.

For them [super fans], the voluminous and informative liner notes alone, which track Blondie’s history from those who lived it, seldom seen photos, and track specific comments will be worth lightening their bank accounts for. Others less dedicated may want to tread more carefully.

Unlike its predecessor, it comes across as a decidedly calming affair, one that stands apart from the earlier album’s brash and bombastic surge of racket and rumble.

The tone is consistent throughout, a sound so giddy and engaging, that it can easily break down barriers in order to allow for a communal embrace.

Marcus King isn’t pushing any boundaries on the leathery Young Blood, he doesn’t need to. His talents as songwriter, singer, and guitarist are skillfully displayed in these dozen roots rockers that any musician in this genre would be proud to have crafted with the energy, enthusiasm, and sheer professionalism he displays.

Few tracks instantly jump out, but after multiple spins, it’s easy to get lost in Lynn’s creamy, dreamy approach, her breathy yet compelling voice, and the life-questioning lyrics that define the album’s overall entrancing soundscape.

The pair deserve credit for an adventurous attitude and for not allowing their reverence to deter their intents. These are, after all, interpretations, and in any such circumstance, creativity counts. Granted, it’s an unorthodox tack for a tribute, but it’s one that still resonates well.

At its essence, From Capelton Hill is an album that’s literally brimming over with unceasing delights, making it not only an exceptional comeback but what can justifiably be called, Stars’ album for the ages.

The ambition is admirable, but a schizophrenic quality pervades the effort overall. The dramatic shift in sound makes it hard to get a handle in terms of either consistency or feel. Perhaps the two are merely feeling each other out and taking advantage of their options. Whatever the case, 18 still seems like an odd assortment of numbers at best.

The 11th release from the Toronto-based, foursome certainly contains some of The Sadies’ finest work. Colder Streams is one of the group’s most diverse sets.

Anyone who has somehow been immune to the late icon’s talents need only push play and let his showmanship, musicality and sheer star power wash over you to understand why he was such a legend. This captures it all and it has never looked or sounded better.

Without stronger, more diverse material, the whole frustratingly becomes less than the sum of its parts. Notwithstanding its good intentions, Sage Motel doesn’t resonate as forcefully as it should, especially in light of the amount of work clearly instilled into its creation.

The music returns to the melodic strains of Hornsby’s more elegiac work, offering a frame of reference that longtime listeners will likely relate to best — from the sweeping piano undertow that characterizes “Days Ahead”—which sounds remarkably at times like Brian Wilson in symphonic mode—to the melodic strains of Lidar,” the “Way It Is”-like narrative that characterizes “Is This It,” the sparkle and sheen of “Had Enough,” the stately feel of “Simple Prayer II,” featuring the tender shared vocals of Z Berg, and ultimately, the dramatic delivery of “Point Omega.”

Jerry Jeff serves the purpose well by turning the spotlight on an artist that deserves greater attention within the Americana arena. Earle’s effort to share his songs will hopefully contribute to that added appreciation.

It maintains an unblemished feel overall, one that stays true to Lund’s traditional template.

While Welcome 2 Club XIII has been described by the band itself as autobiographical in nature, it still manages to retain the populist appeal that drove those earlier efforts.

He zips past previous genre assumptions, ripping up any blueprint for how a blues album should sound on this daring and audacious release.

In listening to this remarkable audio document, the thing that stands out most assuredly is the remarkable chemistry these two artists shared, as evidenced through a set of songs culled from the pair’s shared love of gospel, R&B, folk, and other archival sources.

His quality control remains in place though which makes No More Worlds to Conquer another absorbing, if maybe not essential, entry into a bulging catalog that has remarkably few missteps.

Harry’s House pleasantly surprised us—knocked us off our feet actually—with its synth-layered earworms.

Now in her early 70s, Wilson’s distinctive, powerful pipes haven’t lost any of their soulful command on this eleven-track program mixing intriguing covers with Wilson co-penned originals.

“If They’re Shooting at You,” “Deathbed of my Dreams,” “Do It for Your Country” and “Prophets On Hold” manifest as engaging and affecting ballads, sweetly suggestive and instantly engaging.

At its best, it’s a reasonable recap of their strengths kicked up a few notches for the small stage they hadn’t played in far too long with a tight band and generally stripped down (no horns, backing singers) lineup featuring then new guy Ron Wood. Those looking for “satisfaction” won’t hear that tune but will get gratification from the majority of this long sought-after audio document.

It’s all interesting, at least once, and there is plenty to chew on in these nine tracks. How often anyone other than Scott fans will want to hear some of these again is unclear.

Fame, fortune and influence haven’t dulled their initial impulses, something made clear on the hypnotic unvarnished vibe created throughout the superb Dropout Boogie.

Citizen Kane Jr. Blues finds Young back in a solo setting, and while some of the performances initially seem rather tentative, he comes through with unfailing effort and determination.

The setlist is expanded and the sound quality is more than adequate to ensure Young is spotlighted in fine form. Taken in tandem with his other live recordings, Dorothy Chandler Pavilion 1971 ranks among the more essential offerings of Young’s current crop of releases.

The material is consistently strong, thanks in large part to her ability to integrate her originals with a well-chosen collection of covers. And while she doesn’t feel the need to lean on standards, the material does have meaning.

Paint This Town could be considered the group’s most emphatic effort yet, given its music and messaging. Simply put, it’s also their best to boot.

Ultimately, Second Nature finds Lucious at a precipitous point in their combined career, a reckoning of sorts that calls for reconciliation and resolve. Then again, if they can keep grooving on propulsive momentum, there’s a good chance they’ll succeed through sheer willpower alone.

Brother Johnny should send blues fans, or those new to his catalog, back to the initial recordings to appreciate the legendary guitarist’s talents at their most inspired.

An intriguing offering, it also finds them expanding their appeal in a very distinctive way. More earthbound than ever, these seductive melodies ought to find them dialing into an audience that’s been targeted by any number of other contemporary combos who are paying heed to today’s multi-cultural mainstream.

The vibrant, caffeinated production and pulsating sonics help these performances explode with dollops of the frazzled charm, roaring intensity, and sheer musicality we expect from a Jack White project. White, a faithful baseball fan, has knocked another one out of the park.

Honest emotion comes through in every note and nuance. So too, that personal perspective brings honesty and immediacy that makes for an unmistakable impression. Clearly, this Crooked Tree is extremely well rooted.

Those in tune with Cowboy Junkies’ storied circumspect will likely find Songs of the Recollection an interesting outgrowth of the band’s desire to expand their parameters and offer homage to their influences. In that regard at least, these Cowboys appear to have corralled another winner.

It takes a few spins for the tunes to register as some seem more like provocative set pieces than songs. But once they do, the thoughtful lyrics and sometimes diffuse sonics kick in.

One Day is easy listening at its finest, instilled with the fresh finesse and supple sensitivity that only a genetic bond can bring.

Kudos to Cameron for shoring up his strength and providing us with such a bold venture.

He could have jettisoned the closing “I Gotta Go,” a jazzy vamp where he chats about having to get off stage at the end of a gig. ... Don’t let that minor misstep dissuade you from supporting Gales as he continues to fine-tune his songs and muscular blues rocking on an exciting album that provides a taste of his combustible live show.

There aren’t any catchy melodies, the song structures are loose, often amorphous with a stream of consciousness flow, and the muted ambiance of the 32 minute, live in the studio set isn’t for everyone. ... Lindeman and her band play music as if no one is around and the tapes aren’t running. That’s a difficult task, but one this album accomplishes with class and style and an honest intimacy impossible to dismiss.

Arched and anthemic, it’s pumped and primed with drama, mood, mystery, and intrigue. It’s a sound that’s strikingly similar to his old ‘80s contemporaries—Echo and the Bunnymen, Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, and the like.

While there are few moments that challenge the band’s finest work, let alone justify the extended wait for new music, The Tipping Point reaffirms TFF’s collaborative talents. They remain idiosyncratic and distinctive in a pop music landscape now enhanced by having this veteran duo back in action again.

From the opening pensive, repetitive reverbed guitar washes of “Doris” where Bridges works wonders with his Marvin Gaye inflected falsetto, to the closing easy groove of “Mariella,” this is a near-perfect meeting of minds.

It’s little surprise that Hearst and Trent have taken this edgy approach given the dread and despair heaped on the world over the course of the past two years. With Manticore, they attempt to make some sense of it all.

It’s another home run for Lamarr’s trio who hasn’t made a misstep yet. Get on board and bring a friend as these guys generate the fiery funk/soul/jazz heat.

Earthling suggests Vedder can remain earthbound after all. Figure it’s his best yet.

The album’s first five songs are dire and depressing—somber, sobering, dark, and downcast. ... It remains to be seen if his audiences will want to sing along in order to maintain Mellencamp’s misery.

As with any of Jethro Tull’s early albums, The Zealot Gene demands more than a cursory listen. The intricate arrangements and articulate instrumentation result in a demonstrative display that continues to be well worthy of the Tull legend and legacy.

Change in the Show is Kane’s fourth solo album to date, and, by and large, his most satisfying as well.

There aren’t many musicians of Mayall’s advanced years still recording new music and fewer still sounding this energetic and dynamic. It’s not his finest work, but fans won’t come away disappointed either.

If you’re new to Everett’s talents, Extreme Witchcraft is a fine place to start, before working back through a catalog that has no weak entries. But this stands out as a highlight by his lyrical dexterity and the visionary Parish/Everett production partnership.

Good To Be is an album that’s sorely needed in these turbulent times when divisions and despair are clearly so predominant. In that regard, consider Good To Be a most worthy mantra to maintain.

No excuse is necessary. Costello is right back where he belongs and the rewards are that much better as a result.

The Light Saw Me provides an intriguing proposition and may in fact end up as the album that eventually gets Boland and the boys the attention they so decidedly deserve.

Calling Renewal a remarkable work doesn’t even begin to describe its full extent of prowess and sheer ability. In a word, Strings simply soars.

Ultimately, completists may debate the worth of this particular anniversary offering, due not only to the aforementioned repetition but also because of the definitive live Band recordings that accompanied the recent re-releases of The Band and Stage Fright. That said, a half-century anniversary makes any Band album well worth revisiting.