They raise issues only to question them, a point driven home by the askew music. It doesn’t make for the most direct, or exciting, of sounds. But by embracing hip hop and also standing outside it, the album lends the genre a perspective it could use.

If the new music has the consistency of loose porridge, the lyrics prove just as watered down.

Turn Blue may not rock as resoundingly as past works, but the added soul in Auerbach’s vocals, and the extra beauty of the tunes, give the album a slow-burn warmth.

It has just eight short songs, and the material isn’t about to eclipse “Thriller.” But it does a service by adding worthy songs to Jackson’s canon. Even better, it makes him sound, once again, alive.

The relationship between the music and Albarn’s voice deepens the album’s theme.

Like most star collaborations, this one shoehorns in some ill-suited, name-brand guests--like Gloria Estefan and R&B’s Miguel. Santana’s glistening leads compete with, rather than complement, these artists. Some tracks feel as awkward as Match.com first dates.

It’s a flinty, raw and ravaged recording, like some audio equivalent of a message in a bottle long ago tossed into the sea. It may be hard to listen to but it lends the disc an arcane charm.

Due to the depth of LaMontagne’s talent, any recording by him has automatic conviction and appeal. But Auerbach’s sound proves too defining, making the star seem like he’s trying to squeeze into another man’s clothes.

The new Honest goes for something more personal and earnest, though many of his rhymes lack the nuance to make those revelations more than rote. Luckily, there’s enough depth in Future’s spoken, and sung, verse to lend them the vulnerability they demand.

It lacks the philosophical breadth of previous Wilson songs like “Free Life” or the wit of his masturbation ode, “Get a Grip.” But there’s more than enough here for pop stars to plunder, aided by its rich points of view.

Regardless of the musical style, Kelis’ vocals manage a rare balance--between maternal nurture and a lover’s caress.

The music on Lower Reaches follows the pattern of all three Currie solo albums. It’s slower and more ballad driven than his zippy work with Del Amitri. But he does kick up his heels in “Bend to My Will,” which recalls the Eagles' hit "Already Gone."

If the music still plays to the lighter side of power pop, it’s more animated and edgy than either musician has managed in too long a time.

Many of the other stars sound like they want to crawl inside Browne’s throat, the better to get closer to the mind that created such exquisite work. Even the most reconsidered renderings make sure never to get in the way of the words.

Each [Fillmore volume] presented a wholly different side of the icon’s genius. But only Fillmore captures the apex of his adventure, a time when an already middle-aged Miles managed to out-freak even the freaks.

Heard in what would have been Cash’s 82nd year, the songs find this icon embracing Music Row conventions without losing his soul.

There’s no getting around the fact that his versions of “Feeling Good” or “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” pale compared to those of Nina Simone and Roberta Flack.

The band’s songs are as dense to listen to as they are to contemplate.

As great as the tune ["Wake Me Up"] may be, it’s Blacc’s voice that hooks you. It’s substantive, searching, and full of the depth modern soul men too often lack.

For the new disc, they clarified their sound with a stripped-down lineup. It’s one of their hardest-rocking releases.

Throughout the album, Michele doesn’t so much sing as trumpet like an elephant eager for the charge. Her voice has more need than vulnerability, more anger than understanding.

They're featherweight takes on retro-'70's pop soul, together creating just the summer album we need in a winter that won't quit. But if the album's puppydog need to please goes down with ease, it's effect evaporates nearly as quickly.

Atkins’ songs have enough range to recall a Kurt Weill art-song in “It’s Only Chemistry.” But it’s her voice that ties it all together, with a sound sure enough to let the vulnerability of her words proudly show.

St. Vincent proves on her new work that self-conscious and odd grooves can move you, too. Many songs find joy and invention in goose-stepping rhythms and hard, or even dissonant, shards of guitar.

The new album--Beck’s first in more than five years--has its own melodies and sonic palette. It’s even more fully dedicated to its draggy beat and diffuse sound than “Sea Change.”

It helps that her smooth voice sits so comfortably on the songs, content to illuminate their fine tunes rather than over-embellish them with flash.

The music Lake Street makes draws from 1930s jazz, ’50s rockabilly and doo-wop, as well as ’60s blues and soul. The title track idealizes that last mix. It could slip easily onto Bonnie Raitt’s best, early discs.

Taken as a whole, Hotel Valentine creates a trip of a disc, referencing the ghosts of old New York while exorcising them into something new.

Kooper did a good job of balancing the guitarist’s seminal material with worthy rarities.

Listening to Uncle Tupelo’s maiden album in this newly expanded form both underscores its essential power and points up the arbitrariness of its watershed reputation.

Listening again proves it to be that rarest of beasts: a perfect work. There’s not a chord, lyric, beat or inflection that doesn’t pull at the heart or make it soar.

As always, Cash’s vocals aren’t brimming with character, but their tidiness suits her observational lyrics and considered personality. Together, they lead her home by a route laid out clearly enough to show just how far she strayed.

Never a subtle singer, Jones attacks her soul anthems like a blunt force instrument. That’s fine, since nuance isn’t called for here. Force is, and Jones has enough of it to thrill. That still isn’t enough to drag the Dap-Kings out of the shadows of their idols.