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.