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.

The production is lush, the songs are well-written and Lewis can certainly sing. It’s just a boring record that hews too closely to the modern album template with a couple of hits and a bunch of filler.

'I Don't Even Know What Time It Is' sums up the whole record, stranded between sublime '80s guitar-pop and the more recent smarminess of Arctic Monkeys and Art Brut.

Mellencamp's folk-leaning rock style remains as distinctive as it is uncomplicated.

Throughout the CD's 10 tracks, Wino lets his personality show.

The English duo's cheeky moniker implies some kind of inferiority complex, and while Owen is certainly not immune to wallowing, he spends the group's sophomore album examining loneliness and isolation through a number of different lenses.

The problem is that the ballads - a key to the crossover longevity Ciara desires - are almost uniformly limp.

It's a slick collection heavy on pop hooks and packed with glossy guitars and studio-perfect bass and drums. Too perfect, in fact: these 12 songs have had all the personality produced right out of them.

A noodling version of the Truckers' own 'Space City' wanders a little too aimlessly to close, but Potato Hole overall is a subtle album with enough fire to prove that Jones can still bring the heat.

Even when they're abrasive, though, the songs are fascinating for what they show about the band's creative process.

Planet Earth has its moments--he is Prince, after all--but instead of muscling their way forward, most of these songs seem content to stay where they are: firmly in the middle of the pack.

Much of this album is leaden and lumbering, with the vocals mixed low (thanks, Albini) and gummy bass tugging at curtains of distortion, but there are shining exceptions.

This time, Madonna is just another singer drawing on the chart appeal of Timbaland, Timberlake and Pharrell, which makes this particular piece of candy taste like a sour ball: It's appealing to fans, but it's not for everyone.

As it is, it merely stands him in good stead amongst the many contenders for his throne.

Had the album been inspired by any other play, that ambiguity would be a problem. Given the vagueness of the source material, however, Burnett's interpretation makes perfect sense.

While few have ever actually accused the singer of using good judgment, Chinese Democracy shows him to be a man who, however divorced from reality, hasn't lost the instincts that once made him great.

Left to his own devices, Gahan, a mediocre songwriter at best, is forced to rely mostly on personality. Hourglass, his second solo album, is more a collection of moods than tunes.

A vehicle for his much-improved vocals, strong enough now to carry some songs.

Skin of Evil may come off as an unwieldy curio at first pass, but lingering listens will reveal the gripping gothic undertow of Mercer's warts-and-all songwriting, even for newcomers.

That leaves the expected collection of highly buffed beats, a dozen producers deep, which occasionally generates material that ranks with Mariah's best.

It's too bad the best songs here don't really match up with her best performances, but that's nothing new for Spears.