It's warmly, immaculately recorded, featuring a wealth of tasty cocktail pop atmosphere perfect for sipping wine on the couch late at night or reclining with a book in a bay window on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It's fine, it's dandy, and it's completely inessential.

Unless you are a White fanatic, the few hard to find selections generally aren’t compelling enough to purchase lots of songs easy to obtain. That makes this an interesting but hardly essential stop-gap release until White’s next official project.

While her singing remains strong and she is emoting about issues close to her, these tracks would benefit from more musical muscle. Regardless, even if Total Freedom isn’t her finest work, it’s encouraging that Edwards has returned to releasing new material and doing what she does best.

There's an undeniably unsettled, even creepy gothic quality to her noir approach that takes hold early and gradually ratchets up as the eleven tunes gently tangle and unwind.

At times, the sudden shifts are rather dizzying.

Even though a handful of tunes seem forced, for the most part, Rateliff’s material and the brassy, bossy attack work well enough together to suggest this was a savvy career move, both artistically and commercially. Next time, if the songs mesh better with the arrangements, he might have a classic on his hands.

These intimate performances are not made for the masses or background listening, and are all the more potent for that.

Even though there's nothing here Randy Travis didn't do first, McCreery flies the C&W flag proudly, singing hummable cherry picked songs that spotlight his impossibly deep voice and backwoods spirit.

The fact that all the songs segue seamlessly together adds to the intrigue, while at the same time reducing the entire album to a series of hazy soundscapes that mostly come across as a bit of a blur.

The optimism of Lust For Life is a pleasant surprise, though the album is still painted in the same shades as Del Rey’s previous releases. At times it’s some of her best material, but it seems like a record best experienced in pieces than as a proper whole.

[A] superb if somewhat restrained There’s a Blue Bird in My Heart.

For every well-placed mandolin run or B-3 organ riff, there's something equally tacky to balance things out.

This melodic yet dynamic punk seems to have been created in the early '80s, a high compliment and one the band is likely to embrace far more than the realization that the disc's title is impossible to fulfill.

The production is clean and not overly slick but the memorable hooks with sweet harmonies come fast and often, resulting in a relatively subtle set that at just 30 minutes leaves you wanting more.

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 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.

Songs with poetic yet plainspoken lyrics about found love and lost souls twist in unusual directions and often take a while to absorb. But repeated spins are rewarded with sharply realized words atop melodies that, like most of the gems in his catalog of eight solo albums (along with work in the previously mentioned bands), entice you back for more.

A beautifully fashioned, classy and meticulously crafted background music, perfect for Sunday brunch among the NPR crowd.

After a few spins, some melodies seem a little less meandering. That’s part of the charm for this predominantly acoustic indie folk that feels as honest and truthful as it sounds.

There’s no dancing allowed but anyone looking for a calm come-down after a night at the clubs, London Grammar speaks your language.

Typical of these compilations, some interpretations work better than others.

Glasper's formidable jazz chops are the album's constant attribute.

There is lots to enjoy here as long as you keep your expectations in check and aren’t looking for a rollicking new Heartbreakers release.

The breezy, rhythmically complex melting-pot approach still plays a pretty big role on Candela, Mice Parade's eighth album, but more than ever, Pierce seems to have a vested interest in letting some graceful whooshes of shoegazer noise take over where necessary.

It’s hard to follow any Ry Cooder assisted act, but Outlaw coalesces around his own, more intimate sound. We can always use an honest, unpretentious Sunday morning album to enhance the usually easygoing mood, and for those moments Sam Outlaw’s unassumingly enjoyable Tenderheart hits the mark.

No fear on this album, none. It's an all-out emotional outpour, from the ballads to the rockers, a focus that makes sense in its own way.

These are not recognizable as songs in the traditional sense; there aren’t choruses, verses and bridges, or really much structure. Rather they are pieces, seemingly of a theatrical play for the ears, where Burnett waxes poetic and philosophical on a variety of disturbing topics.

And so it goes for nearly 40 minutes. Clearly, this is not easy listening, but neither is it impenetrable either. Rather, Oberst’s naked presentation and generally obtuse concepts feel genuine and are worth mulling over for a deeper understanding of his expressive and largely enticing thoughts.