The songs work best individually, though, and the tune Gang Of Rhythm is admittedly stronger when paired with visuals.

While Alone is a big ol’ mishmash of varying quality, it is, for the time being, the closest any of us will get to Cuomo’s former songwriting charm.

Selway sounds like a space-age Badly Drawn Boy, only less lovable. His melodies are simplistic, his lyrics amateurish. If he weren't in the band, it'd be easy to write him off as a Radiohead rip-off.

Singer Glen Hansard moves from quiet introspection to earnest Jeremy Enigk-like wailing and back again, all the while reminding you just how rewarding a listen The Cost is.

Overall this is a testament to Wilson's endless creativity.

While it may not stand up to the rest of Hatebreed’s canon, it does a great job of promoting some smaller acts that the average fan may not be aware of, and is a must-have for those antsy for new material.

The few folksier, guitar-plucked numbers, however, are a touch formulaic and over-familiar.

This is fairly arm's-length music--more about beat and texture than emotional confessionals.

With an emphasis on covers, the overall mood is frustratingly lighter than Winehouse's two studio LPs. It's missing the pointed wit, energy and hard-fought candour that marked her best material, but her considerable vocal swagger is unmistakable.

It comes off sounding like a transitional recording, but with Son Volt any change is welcome.

Diamond's song selection will hardly shake anyone's world – two each by the Beatles and Randy Newman – but he has the vocal power to make many cuts his own.

Emotionally raw, [Dirty Laundry is] far more intimate than her sexier songs, proving that her best recipe for success is baring her soul rather than her bedroom secrets.

Edmonton’s the Faunts have livened up on the punctuation-happy Feel.Love.Thinking.Of., moving away from the floating dreamscape world of their filmic M4 EP.

The disc sometimes lacks sonic oomph, and the mid-section is less unique, borrowing new wave staccato guitars and sing-yelping styles from fellow Victorians Hot Hot Heat. Things pick up again at the end with three slices of relaxed indie pop.

He’s a competent emcee, especially when speaking about the struggles of young African Americans, but he’s in need of a good producer to rein him in.

On the whole, L-Shaped Man feels like a boring exercise: a band performing post-punk idolatry (Root Of The World could pass for poppier Public Image Ltd.) instead of bothering to try anything new.

Too often Bloc Party aim for an overly expansive epic Coldplay quality that compromises the focus of their songwriting.

Depeche Mode have dropped the best album of their career.

Reanimation never sounded so lifeless.

Occasionally, songs sound a little too derivative of older Scream, but Gillespie's desire to look inward feels genuine.

While half the fun is spotting the differences between the original and the remake, Where Have You Been All My Life? is also an excellent intro to Villagers, a summary of five years in one album.

Gucci's head-down focus on honing his signature sound is admirable, but the monosyllabic stuntin' gets old fast, and flashes of lyrical or melodic invention are scant. Disappointing coming from a man with an ice cream cone face tattoo.

It appears Patti Smith could've benefited from an outside observer when choosing songs.

The album is laden with a nostalgic longing that’s never as compelling as the cinematic leanings.

Without a doubt, this is his poppiest album--but he still holds on to his penchant for a good vocal-less groove.

It’s refined, poised, sweater-and-scarf music to settle down with in advance of winter’s messy hysteria.

There's enough decent material on Sawdust to exempt Brandon Flowers and his Vegas boys from cynical gap-filler accusations.

Sadly, Talk About Body has the flat, dated electro-pop sound of Le Tigre, who are still a few years away from needing a rebirth.