There is a one-take charm to the performances on A Letter Home, an album that’s more of a tribute to Neil Young’s ever-loving idiosyncrasy than to any of the artists covered.

The sheer quality of the songwriting and performances were sharpened and refined over many months yielding a set that’s impressively catchy and immediately satisfying.

She hasn't sounded quite so free and engaged as she does on these songs, where her vocal and lyrical mannerisms come through more forcefully and confidently.

A few more upbeat tunes along the lines of the pop worthy "Summer Child" might have upped the energy, but for established Williams fans, her ninth studio set is another classy entry that gets better with repeated spins.

There aren’t many hooks to latch onto, his emotional tenor is difficult to gauge, and although his four-piece band works hard to vary its sonic palette, no amount of electronic drums, thickly-layered synths, Spanish guitars and theremins can cover a humdrum set of songs.

The sometimes heavy quality of the concepts never overwhelms music that takes Dusty in Memphis as its stylistic template and moves it into a contemporary, but not slick, setting.

It is 1989 reimagined, with often startling results.

Somewhere in between the high times and the death throes lies Out Among The Stars. The songs contained are mostly simple pleasures, but they’re pleasures nonetheless.

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.

Yeah, it's the new OCMS album and, not surprisingly, it's simple and great (and simply great).

Best Coast might not have totally shaken the frivolity on California Nights, but it’s hard to care when it sounds this good.

There are moments of levity on Riser, like the fratboy-ish “Pretty Girls” and “Drunk on a Plane,” but those songs betray what works so well everywhere else on the record.

Earle is far too musically adventurous to linger too long in any one genre, and kudos to him for that, but Terraplane is such a standout that we can only hope he makes his way back around to the blues relatively soon.

These songs are refreshing, loud, fun and thoughtful.

You just need to listen and enjoy without reading too much into the material. That is easy to do here.

They still craft songs as if they’re assembling a robot, and they make sure to throw so many of these short tracks on the album (25 in 45 minutes) that you’re bound to find a few that will hit the pleasure buttons just like the old days.

Overall, the playing and singing are well above average, which helps put across even the weakest material like the closing “Congratulations” ballad, the only non-original.

It all coalesces into one of the more impressive, duskier (Am I living in a nightmare daydream? she asks in the mid-tempo title track) guitar-driven albums of the year.

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.

Both haunting and harrowing in equal measure, The Love Still Held Me Near finds the bond that connects those emphatic emotions clearly and convincingly.

On Delta Spirit the record, the band capitalizes on its hard-fought inertia by presenting their cleanest and most sonically homogenous record to date.

At turns witty, sarcastic, evasive and chilling, Dylan's mercurial song-cycle takes listeners from the exuberant opener, through the sarcastic jibes of "Talkin' John Birch Paranoid Blues" and into the bleak sorrow of "Ballad of Hollis Brown."

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.

It’s encouraging that Seger is expanding his boundaries, especially this late in life. But a few more representative tough rockers interspersed in the album’s disappointing second half would have helped what starts out like a revitalized return to form from--here’s that car/Detroit metaphor again--running out of gas.

Lissie’s latest record, one the year’s most consistent, sprightly indie-pop albums, is a well-rounded introduction to the young singer.

A mixed bag, although one that those who have loved Tea for the Tillerman since it came out might appreciate. Perhaps not surprisingly, the new one doesn’t exude the magic that made Stevens a worldwide star five decades ago. Those who haven’t heard it should start there.

All in all, then, the record showcases a dynamism present but not fully realized on their critically acclaimed (and still excellent) debut.

Band of Horses have embraced a more mature, laid back kind of rock on Mirage Rock, and it's a comfortable, cozy fit.

This expansion into different musical genres and styles helps make On the Road Wherever a varied, uncommon yet inviting wander off Mark Knopfler’s usual path. He’s probing fresh sounds with the class and sophistication we’ve come to expect from this gifted veteran, whose MTV days seem like blurry images in a rear view mirror.

Keys to the Kingdom is both a tribute to and a continuation of the Dickinson musical tradition.

On their self-titled debut album, country duo Meghan Linsey and Joshua Jones Scott deliver a sound that is familiar and cozy, as if the songs have always been there.

With this impressive album of wonderfully melodic music, the band joins the growing ranks of harmony-based folk-rock outfits like the Fleet Foxes and the Civil Wars.

Every Feeling On a Loop finds Johnson offering up a series of confessional songs, all enhanced with the tones, textures and sumptuous arrangements that had been a touchstone of The Head and the Heart’s articulate tableau since the very beginning.

The result is sometimes sublime, sometimes noisy and chaotic.

Considering the hit or miss variables of other such tributes, Dead Man’s Town is remarkably focused and consistent.

It’s inoffensive, unobtrusive, innocuous and difficult to hate. But it’s also hard to get excited about as these songs quietly fade into the background like the music of the generally forgotten acts of the ’80s Rouse tries to emulate.

All in all, Monogamy is a bit underwhelming, but there is understated humor in Kasher's musings, and he has a flair for infectious melodies without hooks. He snaps the puzzle pieces together, whether it's a fit or not.

Ellis’ first full length release taps into a discreet sense of introspection rare for any recording artist, let alone a relatively new one. It’s headphone music for lonesome, solitary Sunday mornings when the self-reflection temperature is high and the vibe is low boil.

This is clearly a labor of love for Boyd and a wonderful introduction to a tragically flawed but exceptionally talented singer/songwriter.

These strummy rockers, highlighted by the group’s established three-part harmonies, are some of the most incisive and powerful in their catalog. Those who acquire music one track at a time need to rethink their position here since these songs weave together to form a tapestry that works as a beautifully constructed unified whole.

Ultimately, it’s the cheery calypso flavor and uplifting sentiments of “Better Days” that offer a hint of hope. With that in mind, this particular Settlement ought to be one that long-time fans find easy to accept.

Happily, even a cursory listen affirms the fact that his snarl and swagger are still intact.

[A] remarkable exploration of and ode to American music.

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

When Critical Equation isn’t trying too hard to solve those mysteries lyrically or complicate matters musically, it’s prime Dr. Dog. And that’s more than enough.

Dropping a few songs would have made this stronger overall, but there is no escaping the spooky, druggy vibe created over the course of an hour’s worth of pretty yet eerie and ultimately edgy music.

Ukulele Songs is lovely as it breezes by, but it doesn't promise a very long shelf-life.

Produced by Amos, this lushly orchestrated set is at times equally compelling and dynamic, plus effectively demonstrates Amos' acumen as a musician, vocalist, and tunesmith (a scarce commodity these days).

In the end, Charleston, SC 1966 doesn't break any rules or new ground, and probably wasn't meant to.

Versatile may ultimately be a minor addition to the Irish icon’s swollen catalog, yet it’s another example of Van Morrison’s inimitable flair as an interpreter and arranger. It’s hard to imagine spending over an hour with these 16 tunes and not coming away with an appreciative grin and an acknowledgement of the singer’s timeless talents.

Other than the oddball horn infused Mexican polka “Tienes Cabeza de Palo” that sounds like Tom Jones taking an excursion south of the border, Call Me Insane plays to established strengths.

Strange, inexplicable and uncomfortable are descriptions the Femmes’ are likely proud of. Their ageing indie audience expects nothing less and should be more than happy to check into this hotel of last resort.

In the moving disc closer "Mimi Song," she asks her listener to "tell them about me when I'm gone" and to "remember me." With an alluring album such as this one, that request shouldn't be hard to do.

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.

On Dark Arc, the craftsmanship and lyricism reveal a uniquely singular band informed by Appalachian mountain music and the explosive recklessness of punk.

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

These indie rockers chug along with sufficient energy but few have memorable melodies or hooks. Tucker’s words, while well meaning, are often simplistic and preachy.

It’s an excellent live document, and though it’s devoid of otherwise familiar material, it brings attention to an unlikely artifact that deserves renewed attention. Consider this a most remarkable return.

There is still a lot to like on Welcome 2 Collegrove. Wayne is still rapping like he is in his prime as an artist, as his auto-tuned, crooned flow will never get old. Add to this the ever-amusing, boisterous flows from 2 Chainz, which contrast well with Wayne’s delivery. It just feels like, at times, a sharp-minded executive producer could have done wonders for the rhythm of the track list.

Even though Deer Tick's punky, yowling take on hillbilly country-rock is a close relative to Diamond Rugs' own sound, it's more of a first cousin than an identical twin, and the few songs that deviate from the Deer Tick template are some of the album's most enjoyable.

Neil Young and Crazy Horse, when they're at the top of their game like they are here, can make music of any origin rock.

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.

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.

It's clearly a labor of love but should also help Walker's tunes (and extensive career) get discovered by Snider's younger, hipper fan base.

This well-intentioned exercise in nostalgia is an enticing 52 minute ride (three more are on a the deluxe edition), and if it sends Gen X’ers back to the archetype versions and keeps them out of the karaoke clubs, it’s more than done its job.

There is always room in the world for another well written, classy pop-rock gem, and with Chasing Yesterdays Noel Gallagher proudly delivers 10 of them.

Whether one considers it an intimate experience, an organic encounter, an essential additive, or simply a cash-grab, it’s ultimately up to the listener to decide its worth.

Farrar’s emotionless approach and the muted instrumentation--issues that thread through all of Union--stultifies any sense of urgency, leaving the listener neither moved nor motivated to do anything other than drift off to sleep.

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.

Ultimately, there’s not a single song here that fails to resonate or emphatically evoke emotions.

In one sense, it’s commendable that The Strokes are so willing to branch out and take on different styles, yet the effort often sounds overplayed or undercooked.

The Visitor, his collaboration with Promise Of The Real, is broad and all-encompassing. If there is one unifying factor, it’s that the subject matter can be roughly described as Young’s unflinching look at the state of the world, in all its abject beauty and squandered promise. Don’t call it a comeback, but damn if it doesn’t feel like one.

Black and White America is a laudable musical statement, and a much needed reminder of how prodigious Kravitz is at melding together rock and funk.

In flirting with frivolity en route to the sublime, the Magnetic Fields too often sound frivolous.

This remains a cool, downbeat and shadowy version of the duskier side of Americana.

Even at only eight tunes clocking in under a half hour, this is a sincere, heartfelt and often riveting performance that might bring those who had lost the Adams map back into the fold.

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.

Ultimately the album is easier to appreciate as an unusual, occasionally successful and diverting artistic project that tries to make sense of Davies’ love and apprehension about America, than it is to enjoy.

When Volume 3 soars above its status as just a nice summer soundtrack are the moments when Deschanel lets some deeper emotions break through the carefree demeanor of the songs.

It’s a decisive step forward in their sound.

X presents Ed Sheeran in somewhat of an identity crisis. Still, it’s fascinating to hear him work out whether he’s a hopeless romantic or just a guy who thinks romance is hopeless.

Those previously not exposed to Browne’s music, or fans of these performers he influenced, can start here for a terrific taste of one of America’s most stunning and keen lyricists.

Ultimately despite, or perhaps because of, its minor ambitions, Classics succeeds on its own terms.

Ultimately, this set succeeds because of how natural and effortless it feels. Like Petty’s writing, these songs seem to emerge fully formed. Tasjan appears at home in this sonic environment.

Removed from the plot, the edgy swamp/country music score doesn’t connect with the powerful and gripping intensity of the show.

Even if they may sound dated, there’s a reason these tunes are collectively considered as additions to The Great American Songbook.

The end product is an incoherent jumble of occasionally pleasant soft folk with mind-numbingly aimless pieces that seem arbitrarily constructed with little direction or focus.

Dancing Backward sounds more like a Buster Poindexter album than a Dolls one.

Noah and the Whale are a fine band, but they seem to have lost their direction.

Even non-ZZ Top fans will appreciate the vitality and exuberance that jumps out of every track and those who have followed Gibbons’ 45 (and counting) year career should be delighted with this energetic if temporary change in direction.

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

The slick varnish he [producer John Agnello] slathers on doesn't do this group any favors. Still, the melodies stick to your brain like flypaper.

High Hopes plays very much like a sequel to Wrecking Ball, but Springsteen is less angry and blameful, more cheerfully weary this time around.

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.

More often these tracks wander in search of melodies that seem frustratingly out of reach.

There are highlights here but not enough to leave all but the most rabid Black Crowes fans hoping for much better from a once riveting frontman who can’t seem to consistently catch that ever elusive groove he so effortlessly used to harness.

For those who, like Thomson, also yearn for the charmingly constructed sounds of classic singles which remain timeless slices of memorable music, and others wanting a taste of those songs in a contemporary setting, Heartbreaker Please finds Teddy Thompson nailing that elusive style with deceptive, impressive ease.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the scattershot musical smorgasbord, Calexico delivers a fitfully enjoyable album, one with enough artistically entertaining moments to make it worthwhile, even if its overall approach is more unfocused than festive.