Simmons makes little attempt to vary her template. Eventually, despite the pleasant pastiche, the music all starts to sound the same. Absent any real shift in tone or tempo, the overall impact tends to be somewhat muted.

A nice summation of Chris Cornell's career up to this point, Songbook makes for a fine springboard into the next creative chapter of his life.

As befits his sideman status, McLagan is neither a particularly riveting vocalist nor songwriter--some of his lyrics are rudimentary bordering on simplistic--but he makes the most of his limitations by sheer heartfelt resolve.

It all seems more diverse than it actually sounds, and true, the band borrows plenty, including some room to play around with the sound, but Thank You Happy Birthday transcends its genres, and would be better simply labeled as a solid second step.

In other words, if you’re looking for a good time disc to get your party started, you could do worse than slapping this on, turning up the volume and letting Snider and his pals kick start the fun.

Mission Bell is hopefully a transition record for Lee, one that shows him at the crossroads of polished, packaged pop tunes and the grittier gut-wrenchers of artists like Nelson and Williams.

No one expects sing-along, hit single material from the edgy, thought-provoking Heap, but this seems excessively random.

Existing Wilson fans will find this an enjoyable enough diversion, but even they will have to admit, it’s a little flimsy and simply not up to the high water mark Wilson has set for himself.

Blackberry Smoke continues to deliver with the assurance and dependability that their fans have come to expect. At this point, their chief priority seems centered on maintaining their dixie designs.

It's a solid, not spectacular album with a few very fine songs.

There’s plenty going on and most is worth hearing even if Milia’s artiness occasionally gets in his way.

While this is surely not for everyone, those whose tastes aren’t constrained by traditional notions and are willing to go with Ziman’s somewhat oblique, even aloof flow, will find plenty of reasons to spend the requisite time getting comfortable with her unique style and genre expanding approach.

Consistency doesn’t count for much, but that may indeed be the point. Juice is a refreshing reminder that it’s better to sound a bit unhinged than to always be so common and consistent. For their part, Born Ruffians serve up all of spontaneity their spirited style allows.

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.

This is mood music, so little jumps out as the songs melt together. But a little goes a long way.

This pleasant set of smooth honky tonk finds a sweet, somewhat slick path and never wavers as it coasts through eleven slices of radio ready country.

Born and Raised a prime example of the John Mayer paradox--it's good enough to satisfy even his most casual fans, but the old-school Mayerisms that remain will only anger his detractors.

The energy level Soundgarden maintains is certainly admirable for a band whose members are all hovering around 50 years old, but this fairly narrow focus on capital-R Rock songs and little of anything else results in a homogeneity that keeps it from offering the level of depth or surprises that the band's previous albums held.

Faithfull simply shares her dry recitations with poise and proficiency.

Lyrically, the concepts are obtuse and diffuse, but with all the effort Little Scream and co-producer/multi-instrumentalist Richard Reed put into the soundscape, it’s likely there are some intriguing concepts here, if you can untangle them.

Keith's plenty good enough and smart enough to do a lot more than ably cover the bases on his annual albums whenever he wants to.

The Flaming Lips return with one of their most challenging, yet cohesive records to date.

When all is said and done, Angles could make for an exciting introduction to a new chapter for The Strokes, or it could be a disappointing swan song.

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

Like the music of Nick Drake, these subtle songs creep up on you after repeated listenings. Their supple strains, low key choruses and overall atmospheric vibe gradually become intriguing and often hypnotic. Still, a few upbeat selections would have helped make this medicine go down much easier.

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.

Collingwood's nasal vocals–part charming limitation, part annoying affectation–can wear thin, even when sweetened by pristine guitar arrangements and perfect backing harmonies.

Buckingham knows his true strengths. Seeds We Sow waves goodbye, just as it began: with quiet meditation.

Vices & Virtues combines the best and most memorable elements of Panic! at the Disco's previous two full-length releases, and the end result is their catchiest and most accessible effort to date.

Basically, you know if you want to buy this album already, and if you do want buy this album odds are you will really enjoy it. But if you aren't familiar with either artist don't bother--there are better Orb records and there are better Gilmour records, and even though Metallic Spheres is quite enjoyable, we wouldn't recommend it for newbies.

When Feels Like is at its best, it’s a reminder of how exciting it can be to plug into a distortion pedal and let it rip. In its lesser moments, that’s still more or less what it is.

Despite a few missteps, Volunteer is a worthy next chapter for a group that continues do its best work when finding new ways to tell old stories.

With the exception of the occasional detour into heartbreak ("I Don't Do Lonely Well") or empathy ("Black Tears"), it can feel like he's doing the same stylized smalltown-conjuring over and over, to the point of hollowness.

This commercial shift seems a deliberate way to attract a larger audience, sell more albums and raise her star profile. In doing so, it often, but not always, dissipates much of what made her talents so distinctive to begin with.

Like most of Doe’s solo work, this one grows on you.

Even though this is unlikely to appeal to hard core Black Keys or Arcs fans, the songwriting effort (the sweet, sensitive “Never In My Wildest Dreams” could have come from Burt Bacharach’s pen) and detailed creativity of the arrangements is impressive.

The result is sometimes sublime, sometimes noisy and chaotic.

She's spellbinding when she's on--aided by her penetrating and often-literary lyrics. But when her singing meanders too long without focus, you forget she's there--her energy dissipates and she blurs into background, leaving her dependent songs with nothing to do but await her return.

You may wish the songs were a little tougher (the Wilco frontman might have spread himself too thin writing the entire album), but Tweedy’s words preach without sounding overly preachy. The backing musicians effortlessly find a funky/soulful groove and even at low boil, Mavis Staples remains a force of nature.

Richey’s doe-eyed, bittersweet approach perfectly captures the hurt and regret in her material, but you may wish there were more glimmers of light to offset her somewhat bleak outlook.

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.

The best moments on Faster find a reasonable niche between Fish pushing her boundaries and including enough roots music to keep earlier followers from abandoning ship.

The Ascension, Stevens’ eighth studio album over all, and the follow-up to his highly lauded outing Carrie & Lowell, diminishes the accessibility factor in favor of a more amorphous imprint, one that finds all manner of effects and an ever-constant shift in sounds that drift through practically every selection.

It’s an impressive start to what seems to be a promising career for Jay Som, an artist ready for the next step to build atop this remarkable and often striking self-constructed first release.

Neal Francis’ balancing act of meshing a retro mindset with a modern sensibility doesn’t always work, but when it does, his music reflects a fresh, if not always compelling, perspective.

Harris' vocal approach to her folk-based songs, ballads or mid-tempo, is infused with the presence of a time-traveler, visiting modern America from a pre-pop-culture place where music is in the air rather than the airwaves.

Although Augustana may not be the year's most cutting-edged release, it is full of strong, if not extraordinary material, which is sure to leave an indelible impression on admirers of pop/rock.

At times, Amore sounds like a modern Goth-rock romantic tragedy, full of heartbreak and despair, but the pain Atkins expresses in her lyrics ultimately results in the album's most pleasurable moments.

This scrap of a record is nothing more than something a hardcore collector adds to the library for completion's sake.

It’s a fine line between revival and parody, and he walks it well, cowboy boots and all.

All in all, the album feels like the slightest bit bloodless, the older, wiser Lerche a little less than the yearning teenager we once knew.

At 10 tracks clocking in at about 35 minutes, it leaves you wanting more .

For a band that many hoped might come roaring back from Where Are They Now? purgatory with engines in overdrive, this is bound to be a letdown.

Some of his best observations get lost in the full-throttle approach of songs like "Ecce Homo" and "Still Life With A Hot Deuce And Silver Platter." It isn't until the album's second half that pace slows, some open spaces appear in the music, and Stickles' rants come into clearer focus.

What's offered on Ceremonials is solid, even a cut or two above solid. But it doesn't move the band forward.

Taken in tandem, All Roads Home makes for an enjoyable outing, one that gives each musician an opportunity to take center stage while demonstrating a small sampling of their individual wares.

Although the songs on Speed Of Darkness have a heavy theme, this fifth album by the band is anything but sorrowful.

Charmer is at its finest during the most subdued, quietly detailed stretches, which veer closer to what we've heard from Mann on past efforts.

This 30 minute set [provides] a crazed, occasionally unhinged yet always riveting experience.

A full orchestra occasionally adds more bloat to an already over-the-top sound.

Other piano-based narratives like the closing “Angel Blues” are delicate, pretty, and charming, but edge dangerously close to schlocky and don’t play to Lofgren’s tougher talents. Thankfully there’s enough solid material here displaying Lofgren’s impressive vocal, instrumental, and songwriting qualities to punch another notch on his belt of good but not great albums.

Whether or not this will be Bulat’s breakthrough record remains to be seen. The sound sustains the suspense, but rarely does it leap out at the listener. It hardly matters though. Are You In Love? answers its own question with every repeated encounter.

Sun June defines its enigmatic, shadowy sonic borders but never pushes beyond them, which causes the disc to occasionally lapse into tedious uniformity as it progresses.

While there are moments in which Coldplay take some interesting steps forward on Ghost Stories, there are a few moments when the band rests a little too heavily on easy listening or pop music clichés.

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.

The sound is of bootleg quality, with audience comments and an occasional cough evident in the mix. Nevertheless, given the set list that’s spread out over the two discs, it does make for a worthy archival addition.

High Flyin’ offers an interesting insight into one of Young’s many outside ventures and a good representation of a brief chapter in his ever-changing trajectory that hasn’t been shared to any great extent before. On the other hand, it doesn’t represent any dramatic change in his template, as the replay of his aforementioned classics confirms so convincingly.

This remains a moderate leap forward for them and indicates an adventurousness they will hopefully explore further on forthcoming albums.

While the set of songs on this album may not count among the best of McCartney's career, they definitely provide a pleasurable listen for both casual fans and ardent supporters alike.

Even though their vocals aren’t always suited to each other, this set of mostly covers (some previously recorded by the participants), works relatively well, as long as you’re not expecting too much.

Even completists might quibble with the fact that several of these bonus tracks appear to overlap those on the previous edition. The fact that two additional covers are included — a loose cover of “Money,” expanded from the 40th anniversary extra, and an extended read of “Rock Me Baby,” each well in keeping with the blues motif that encompassed the album overall — may be cause for persuasion, although certainly not on their own

The King of Limbs is Radiohead's Sky Blue Sky–a reliably enjoyable record that follows a heightened run of musical genius.

Everyone acquits themselves admirably with highlights being Chris Isaak's sumptuous "Crying, Waiting, Hoping" and Imelda May's rocking "I'm Looking for Someone to Love." However a closing trash-up by Monty Python's Eric Idle is painfully unfunny and borderline disrespectful to a still influential artist who deserves all the accolades he receives.

Fortunately, there is some respite with “June 21” and “The Aphorist,” both of which allow the raucous proceedings to take a brief pause. Yet even there the turgid trappings aren’t entirely abandoned. There’s a clear sense of foreboding imbued in each of these offerings and the darkness and doom continue to linger throughout.

While there are dreary aspects to much of What Is There, the general vibe, and slick, meaty production, is one of a moderately hopeful future.

Born This Way isn't the landmark record it could or should be.

At just over a half hour of music, we’re not getting anything fresh here--no outtakes, studio chatter, demos, remixes, nothing--which, in this day of easily being able to build your own playlist, seems at best like a waste of time and at worst a greedy cash grab aimed at those who can’t figure out how to create this themselves.

Perhaps the input of a full band or an outside producer would have curtailed some of Scott’s more impulsive, if well-meaning, tendencies and made this a more cohesive experience. They may not work, but give him credit for trying.

Campbell seems reluctant to imbue a significant imprint of his own. It leaves little that hasn’t been rehashed dozens of times before. That makes Wreckless Abandon nowhere neither as daring or distinctive as its title otherwise implies.

It's all as heavy and convoluted as it sounds, but the playing and production is top notch and those looking for an adventurous, unpredictable ride will appreciate Cursive's sheer depth of vision.

There isn't much break from the gravitas throughout these dozen character driven, often lyrically obtuse songs, almost all of them sung from the first person perspective.

This is clearly for existing fans; those new to Oldham’s expansive, often confusing catalog are advised to start elsewhere. But if you are already converted to his stridently uncommercial musings, these once difficult to find performances make a wonderful addition to what is likely your already extensive Oldham collection.

Workaholic producer Dave Cobb keeps Shooter’s sound polished proving that for better, and sometimes worse, Shooter Jennings can play by the country-rock rules when he wants to.

The album is best absorbed gradually, likely over repeated plays with no distractions.

With Say Nothing the band takes enough steps to both developing their lyrical content and staying musically contemporary to please hard rock fans who weren’t born when their debut was released and may have no idea who Ted Bundy, or even Nickelback, is.

The heightened level of fury and overall frustration about the state of society is admirable. Some might say there is not enough of it in today’s music. But that needs to be balanced with songs which beckon you back for another listen, an aspect of the confrontational No Gods No Monsters that too often falls short.

It’s a logical extension of their earlier work that’s easier on the ears without watering down the inherent craftiness of the vibe or, even worse, selling out.

It’s hard to shake the nagging notion that this hews too closely to a classy, not-so-subtle advertisement enticing more customers onto future trips. Despite those reservations (pun intended), there is enough wonderful music here for even landlubbing Americana fans to enjoy.

This is a fun listen but also feels like a way for Hatfield to amuse herself, romping through a dozen interesting, far from essential interpretations of the Police’s music in 45 minutes as she works on new material.

While the playing remains somewhat generic and you can’t imagine the group without Price fronting it, Free Yourself Up refines and defines Lake Street Dive’s accessible, retro-leaning, radio-friendly pop aesthetic.

Melodies take longer to reveal themselves and choruses don’t have the natural hooks Loveless has crafted before. Which just means you’ll need to spend additional time exploring the songs, mulling them over, absorbing the lyrics and letting their more elusive charms sink in.

On stage, the stretched out pieces allow the group to more seamlessly stitch their tapestry together, a talent that isn’t quite as effective in this occasionally inspired but just as often hectic studio set.

Generally missing, though, are hooks that bring you back for another listen. The songs are melodic and easy on the ears if not particularly memorable.

The "big-in-England" quartet's fourth release is more of the same that made them so admired overseas;ie trippy yet expansive psychedelic Brit-pop sung and played with attitude (some may say ego), a whip smart attention to melody and an arena sensibility/swagger that screams "rock stars."

In Postcards Pieta Brown has created a trip through her most personal and revealing moments with an honesty and confidence most wouldn’t even attempt.

Everything here is painted in varying shades of gloom and lit by flickering candle flame, but every now and then, illuminates something quite gorgeous.

The band's newest album is likely to alienate longtime followers and music snobs alike, but will undoubtedly excite newer fans who embraced their massive smash hit "Moves Like Jagger."

Hunt is at his most exciting when he fuses the past and the present (“Let It Down” truly shines bright) into ambitious creations that hint at even greater promise ─ but his second offering is largely a mixed bag.