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.

In its original, and here remastered, 10 track format (a somewhat superfluous if clean 5.1 remix, audio only DVD is also included), it’s every bit as memorable, timeless and nearly as entertaining if not quite as challenging as Astral Weeks.... But hearing so many working versions of these songs can be a trying, time consuming yet occasionally enjoyable experience.

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.

The Chili Peppers try to strike that same balance on their latest, I'm With You, which may turn out to be a minor installment in their canon but still accomplishes the impossible.

The lack of the Spector-ish sound, while understandable--Ronnie’s marriage to Phil was legendarily troubled--along with material that is far more powerful and enjoyable in its original form, makes this an experiment that fails on most levels, in particular from Scott Jacoby’s ill-fitting production and sonic approach.

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.

It shows his restless ambition as an artist, but not his ability to make a great, lasting musical statement.

Ultimately this is a missed opportunity to either unearth obscure, under the radar gems from this era or push Krall outside her comfort zone with challenging interpretations that reveal new meanings in songs we already know by heart.

There are no crescendos, no peaks or valleys. It's a straight line all the way through, which, as we all know from watching medical dramas on TV, can only mean one thing--the lack of a pulse.

Despite two new numbers near the end of this album, New Blood feels, despite it's occasional avant-garde touches, like another holding pattern from an artist who has not been particularly prolific since his 80s commercial heyday.

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

If this underwritten, over produced debut for Capitol (after being affiliated with Columbia since 1973) is the best he can muster up in six years, it’s sad to say, it’s time to consider retirement.

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.

Like his recently unpredictable behavior, it departs from what we’ve come to expect of him: gut-born artistry which connects on a human level. With this LP, he comes off concerned with fitting into an ideological mold, leaving no room for honest feelings and guided prose.

North seems destined to forever relegate Matchbox Twenty into the next generation of unremarkable dad rock.

On Indie Cindy, there’s not a lot of danger, or passion--or excitement for that matter.

Taken individually, the songs resonate better. But lumped together the effect is claustrophobic and cheerless.

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.

The problem is that the band seems to want to go mainstream as it stood in 1995. As a result, they've lost a lot of what made them unique.

Rather than sticking to his bread and butter, Busta had his sights set on bold instrumental choices that he didn’t mesh well with, trendy samples that came across as tacky, and far too few awe-inspiring or substantive performances. And because of that, Blockbusta fell short of what it claimed to be.

Another Country has far too many moments that will have them lurching for the track-forward button while admitting this once talented songwriter needs someone to tell him when his reach exceeds his grasp.

Bridges' rough baritone talk/sung voice just doesn't connect with songs and production that seem lazy, if somewhat less self-indulgent than other successful actors who try to make their mark as singers.

It's all pleasant and inoffensive but with production that sounds phoned in based on market research, little is memorable.

This is a tough listen and not in a good way. Most of the songs are little more than unfinished sketches, most just over a minute long, waiting for more inspiration to be completed.

As 25 Years proceeds, the music grows fussier and increasingly self-impressed in its jazz and world music flourishes, yet even as Sting's voice grows slightly deeper and more textured over the years, he never really evolves or develops as a solo artist.

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.

Elsie sounds like a step down from his Gaslight Anthem fare, lacking the emotional and regional details that make that band's songs sound so lived in.

The Green Album ends not with that bang, but with the whimper of Matt Nathanson's "I Hope That Something Better Comes Along" and Rachel Yamagata's "I'm Going to Go Back There Someday."