Skip the heavily lifting and split the record into smaller chunks, which makes it easier appreciate the songs for the obvious care that Eisold has put into them.

Editors show they're ready to take over with the spacious, stately love-conquers-all tune "The Weight of the World" or the pop-philosophy of the twitchy, pulse-pounding title track.

Wynonna Judd takes what appears to be a quirky assortment of songs she enjoyed while growing up and unifies them into a consistent and appealing album with her roomy vocal warmth and expansive personality.

Green Day's latest is a collection of powerful songs worth waiting nearly five years for.

Almost every dramatic synth swell, exploding snare and multi-tracked "Yeaaahhhh" has been done better elsewhere.

The first Lemonheads record in 10 years makes a great case for meat and potatoes, verses and choruses, distortion pedals and minimal production.

Mandy Moore faces the same challenge any other singer-songwriter does: delivering songs that are consistently compelling. She does a decent job of it on Amanda Leigh.

As shimmering and energetic as anything the group released during its late-'80s prime.

The songs are lively and well put together, but sometimes they could be a little more fun.

A subtler, smarter album with a considerable capacity to get you moving.

A tight collection fueled by glints of the rock, soul and country that came out of FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals, Ala., in the '60s and '70s.

No one does puzzle-pop quite like the Fiery Furnaces, and despite the multi-genre pileups and lofty literary pretension, when they get it right it's enough to forgive them for when they get it wrong.

Whereas its early tunes built from twitchy verses to shout-along choruses, the new material skews glossy and nondescript.

A carefully manicured, but still lively assortment that highlights her substantial vocal strengths.

Play It As It Lays is a satisfying, engaging album that deserves to stand apart from the Boss-related madness that's sure to overtake it.

Despite the catchy moments, The Orchard is not a distinctive record. In fact, aside from showcasing Duquette's inventive, propulsive drum work, the only chance the album takes is that it doesn't really take any chances.

He gives indulges that portion of his muse on the instrumental-centric Play while also managing to deliver a collection that is consistently lively and fun.

He's alternately reflective, rueful and accusatory, and he combines all three on 'I'm Sorry Baby, But You Can't Stand in My Light Any More.'

"Tha Blue Carpet Treatment" and its no-frills West Coast productions are refreshingly focused on Snoop, not his guests.

What's experimental for K-Os is not necessarily new. That caveat aside, his willingness to add a few new tunes to his hymnal make this album, in many respects, the "Joyful Rebellion" he boasted about before.

His sun-and-fun lyrics can be saccharine and anachronistic, but his complete lack of artifice helps to sell the sticky likes of 'Forever She'll Be My Surfer Girl.'

The current reigning male vocalist of the year for both major country music organizations sticks to that blueprint for Just Who I Am: Poets & Pirates, taking no chances on a collection full of slick, predictable hooks and an easygoing manner.

But at its core, the album is no great departure. It's the same seamless amalgam of pop, folk, country and R&B Sexsmith has perfected, like influences and admirers Elvis Costello and Nick Lowe, as poetic and thoughtful as it is tuneful.

Williams finds himself on the respected electronic label Tigerbeat6, raising expectations even higher. He more than meets them, navigating ably through sugary tracks tempered with a dark streak.

The ballads that apparently deal with Rowland's ex-fiance, Roy Williams, are the broken heart of the album: They also eschew subtlety (lyrically, at least), yet the results show Rowland has artistic depths that keeping up with the Knowleses doesn't inspire.

The good songs are great, but the empty bluster on some of the others overshadows the spunky personality that made Clarkson a draw in the first place.

It plays like a late-career recap of all that's come before, referencing both the bubblegum synth-pop of its early days and the self-conscious black-leather sensuality of its 1987-1993 creative peak.

At its best, Keep It Simple is a comforting dispatch from the fairyland where folky soul Morrison masterpieces like 1971's "Tupelo Honey" were born.

The Killers only stumble here with the nearly seven-minute closer 'Goodnight, Travel Well,' a sleepy meditation on all things cosmic that's hopelessly lost in space.

His gloomy tales are not silly, but neither are they especially threatening, despite Cooper's mildly fetishistic focus on the predatory instincts of a character who spends most of his time wallowing in self-assessments.

For as combustible as they are, the songs are catchy and conducive to repeated listening.

It's a poignant record, but McCartney balances his recollections with reminders that life is still about what's happening here and now.

Between the grounded sweetness of her singing and the quirky naturalism in her lyrics, songs like the throwback-style 'Anyone but You' develop a naturally appealing sophisticated country.

The album may lack the emotional heft of the Cure's more patient, atmospheric recordings, but should it wind up being the group's last, it will be remembered as more than an unnecessary footnote.

Lanegan and Campbell are different creatures, but they have the same concept of cool.

Songs bleed into each other and meander all over, underscoring David Kesler's spidery writing with crackling, sample-laced arrangements.

It’s as entertaining and theatrical as the music is rough and compelling.

It's a strong album that rarely skimps on gut-churning guitars.

For all its sorrowful beauty, "West" is often excruciating to hear as Williams mourns the death of her mother and a stormy relationship that ended badly.

The result is a restless hybrid that never completely settles into the groove that has defined the singer and guitarist's best albums.

Anything that reduces Pink's in-your-face presence, and that includes a preponderance of slowed-down, tarted-up examinations of divorce, is probably an ill-advised move.

A more indulgent but less fun record [than its predecessor].

"Black Pompadour" suffers from split- personality disorder.

Even when the guys indulge in cheesy temptations, like the piano at the end of 'Lawless River,' it's usually in the service of making their catchy, extroverted anthems even more so.

Less conceptual and experimental than its predecessor, it's a moody album, loaded with dark imagery and moments of torturous self-doubt.

Libertad, is another riff-happy collection of big, juiced-up rock songs perfect for summertime thrashing.

SlipKnot's fifth album finds the nine-piece alternative metal band at an unquestionable creative peak--but the effort may only further alienate some of its diehard, shred-metal fans.

Doherty's second album with Babyshambles, is a fine effort and marked improvement on his first post-Libertines sally, but its explosiveness is held in check by an unfortunate air of self-awareness.

The moments where Lennon lays himself most bare... reveal there's still a gulf between his own pop and his father's universal sound.

These are full-band songs, with prominent piano, and it sounds more like guys playing in a room than the careful construct of a recording studio. That's a good thing.

Situation actually represents Terfry at his razor-sharp best; it's a disc that should appeal to any fan of good hip-hop, indie or otherwise.

Mostly, though, the album is noisy jumble of competing sounds and ideas, none of which ever develops fully enough to make MAYA into as cohesive a statement as her first two albums.

It's a smarmy affair, and there's a compelling interplay between his wild-eyed desperation and her cool, clean sheen of thumps and melodies.

Keith Urban's music and the themes that fill it rarely stray from predictable territory, but his pop-friendly country constructs are fueled by outsized charisma that keep them consistently above the pack.

Subtlety was a defining characteristic of her first two records, and it carries over onto "Not Too Late," where even the differences are understated and discreet.

The everyday-ness of the songs makes them easily relatable, but, like a commute where traffic and weather happen on the 10s, the album starts to feel routine by the end.

Much of "Turn the Lights Off" is inspired by '80s artists who wanted to sound like they were from the '60s.

The vocals come in a robotic monotone on 'I'm Losing My Mind,' and there's not much holding together all the rhythm on the opener, 'The Feeling.' It just shows that finding the right mix between melody and rhythm is a delicate balance, but these dozen tunes strike it more often than not.

While the new material will hardly tarnish the band's legacy, it won't add much, either.

Off-kilter humor is a trademark of Samberg's, though, and while most of the songs here won't have much staying power, they're funny enough right now.

Songs of Mass Destruction is a crop of solid, occasionally over-refined songs in which she consistently delivers lyrics with grand flourishes even as she lends them powerful intimacy.

Besides his singular style on the mike, it's Busdriver's willingness to challenge orthodoxy that's most refreshing.

These relatively simple power-pop songs aren't always big or memorable enough to support their grand conceits.

The Scottish singer builds on the promise of her first album with Drastic Fantastic.

Her songs and the ways in which she works them frequently lack distinction, and though an artist whose appeal is rough edges doesn't need to be sophisticated to be effective, neither should she be quite so ordinary.

The collection's 17-song canvas is sufficiently broad to hold the spirited, honky tonk-laced jaunt of the title track and the softly pulsating, organ-laced gospel of 'If Jesus Walked the World Today.'

Calling on producer Steve Fisk, current Wilco guitarist Nels Cline, and members of Vetiver and Evangelista, Toth conjures a down-home vibe that sinks in slowly but surely.

With so many stylistic shifts, there's no easy description for the kind of album My Morning Jacket has created, so let's leave it at this: Evil Urges is the sound of a great band that's only getting better.

Matthews finds a skillful balance in his lyrics between off-handed whimsy and deeper reflections, and the others back him with a tighter version of the instrumental interplay that has made them one of the most popular American bands of the past 15 years.

The beats are tight, the rhymes are tighter and the ladies seem like they're having fun without trying too hard or taking themselves too seriously.

Not all the songs work as well... But Adams dials in the sound of vintage Willie on a new version of "Sad Songs and Waltzes," and suddenly the pairing seems positively inspired.

The album as a whole is a tad precious, but the songs are pretty and Campbell's voice is subtly captivating.

Evolver delivers what it promises: A singer, songwriter and musician pushing himself to grow. This is a good first step.

While he's a fine creator of moods and verse-long vignettes, Malin often has trouble stretching a cohesive narrative for the length of an entire song.

Despite a slew of hit singles and eye-popping sales figures, Britney Spears has never released an album as coherent from start to finish as her latest, Femme Fatale.

A wide-ranging sampler of female compositions on which Moorer mostly provides subtle touches and an abundance of cool presence.

The preponderance of slow jams makes sense, given the introspection on display, yet none of them stands out enough to remind you that Brandy is more than just human.

A full-length debut strong on deft, cheeky wordplay and blessedly free of the usual hip-hop clichés burdening her American counterparts.

His voice is as yearning and creaky as ever, at once aged and childlike, and if the music doesn't always have a lot of weight, Lytle's songwriting remains pleasantly distracting on the surface and thoughtfully sublime upon closer inspection.

The 42-year-old Kansas native continues to mine that vein on her 10th studio album, "Shine," but although her singing is still strong, polish and predictability are its defining traits.

This is grown-up rock, with an adult swagger, from one of today's most gifted songwriting bands.

While the slow-into-snappy single '7 Things' is an obvious attempt at a follow-up, and although much of the disc tends toward the same mildly punky pop (much of it co-written by Cyrus), there's an unwelcome familiarity to the hooks, a sense that Breakout is actually just a mash-up of moves tried and discarded by Lohan/Duff/fill-in-the-Disney-diva-of-your choice.

This is the grittiest album the band has yet put out.

A muddled mess of convoluted textures that is at times, frankly, unlistenable.

Noel Gallagher comes up with a half-dozen tracks as good as the classic-rock epic 'The Turning,' or 'The Shock of the Lightning,' which swaggers as confidently as Oasis did a dozen years ago.

'Like You'll Never See Me Again' is a reminder, amidst the clutter of many cooks on As I Am, that perhaps Keys was best as she was, after all.

The hooks are less immediate as well. Songs like 'Carry You' and 'Here it Goes' retain the compact force of past band gems, but too much of Chase is afflicted with a degenerate case of sameness.

Hagerty's chords radiate like heat from hot concrete, forging shapes from the nothingness, like an audio mirage. So it goes for most of the album's 33 minutes.

Some of her tunes are more steady than sizzling, but when she taps into the likes of the soaring, synthesizer-driven 'I'm a Fire,' her smart combination of rich personality and kinetic energy invites a trip to the dance floor.

This is agitprop the old-fashioned way.

At its core, The Party Ain't Over is a strong testament to Jackson's enduring talent, and White's vision for how best to deploy it. Even though Jackson was never actually gone, it's a pleasure having her back.

The trio's new wave-inspired songs may be derivative--and sometimes too derivative, as on the corny, Cars-lite opener, 'B.B. Good'--but they simply sound fresher.

A little more texture in his vocal approach and songwriting could elevate him from able, level-headed craftsmanship to the realm of signature music, but in the meanwhile he has built a fresh supply of appealing tunes on a solid foundation.

The songwriting is weaker than on her previous two albums, though there are plenty of sugary pop hooks and a slick, punked-up guitar sound that exists solely in $1,000-a-day recording studios.

"The Cost"... comprises 10 tracks that range from hopeful (but triumphant!) to sorrowful (but triumphant!) to morose (but triumphant!).

These new tunes are lovely, thoughtful and gentle, though they don't quite match his best songs.

"Empire"... isn't quite as refreshing as its self-titled debut, but it again finds the U.K. quartet strutting off in its own direction, oblivious to the ridiculousness that sometimes characterizes its compulsive bids to be hip.

The 46-year-old Kentucky native rejoins the production team from her breakthrough on Little Wild One and spins a broad spectrum of rock tapestries married to warm, personal musings centered on a common theme.