There’s a sense of playfulness on I Don’t Wanna Die (In The Hospital) and NYC – Gone, Gone that’s missing from Cassadaga, and enough catchiness to keep radio stations happy (even if said track happens to be an ominous ode to a dying boy), but it’s on the achingly simplest of songs where Oberst’s familiar splenetic growl returns at last.

For everybody else, an album of atmospheric repetitions and meandering jams likely won’t be overly exciting.

The biggest problem beyond the recycled rhymes is the production. There are lots of beatsmiths on hand here, but none even come close to doing what the Neptunes did for them on their proper albums.

By rights, this should feel cloyingly sentimental, but Vandervelde’s musical virtuosity means it’s beguilingly exotic, particularly album opener 'I Will Be Fine'--an insomniac’s echoey hymn to the pre-dawn hours.

Well sharp.

While they could tone down the synth on their next effort, this disc definitely lives up to the hype.

No sophomore slumping here.

Great sleepy Sunday-afternoon music, but it could have been more than that.

These three suites get under your skin in a good way, none more so than the final track, a haunting gothic tale of sororicide sung by fellow Vermonter Sam Amidon.

Gillespie will definitely need it [a new Mamma Mia-loving audience] once long-time-Primals fans hear all the twee synth-tweaked frivolity and snappy handclaps where the sleazy, distorted rock ’n’ roll jams should’ve been.

Taking a tip from William Cooper’s conspiracy theory tracts, Nas deftly delivers attention-grabbing rhymes with a sickly slick flow yet offers little backup for his inflammatory insinuations in the way of persuasive substance.

Those who’ve come to associate him with theme songs to bad car commercials should check his reawakening on this late-career turnaround.

Everything moves in linear fashion backwards, with only Danger Mouse’s bold battering saving Beck from a horrifying relapse into dreary Sea Change melancholia.

Don’t count on hearing any lively back-and-forth exchanges, though, they’re clearly too respectful of each other to risk stepping on any toes in public.

The other brilliant move was producer Martin Terefe’s idea of going to Havana to dub on a Cuban brass section trying to fake Memphis Horns-style head riffs. They never get it quite right, but what they come up with works perfectly as a brightening counterbalance for Sexsmith’s darker inclinations.

It’s slightly less menacing, yet without a discernible drop in power, which should go down well in the burbs without alienating their hipster metal following.

The insightful tunes are cleverly composed, with a sharp sense of wit and a comprehensive knowledge of the game.

Unfortunately, Coppola hasn’t got Winehouse’s writing or vocal chops and Pallin clearly lacks Ronson’s knowledge of hit song construction.

Sure, the beats bang like crazy, but the songs are emotionally hollow, thematically one-dimen­sional and conceptually lifeless.

'Buzzards And Crows' is a natural opener with its whirly fairground sounds, and 'The North' is a pleasant enough ballad, but when Barat croons, “Yeah, I get the fear, but I couldn’t be bothered” (just one of the many incomprehensibly suburban lyrics in this forgettable collection), the sheer laziness says it all.

A track like 'Weed, Blow, Pills' shamelessly promotes narcotics and, even worse, goes Mike Jones on us to get its redundant point across, ultimately cementing the main problem with this album: nauseating repetition.

While there are still plenty of swooshing sounds and heady instrumentation, it’s refreshing to see that Sigur Rós can do more than create aural landscapes.

I have seen Esco­vedo’s future, and its sound is rock ’n’ roll.

Without shattering any paradigms, they’ve assembled a very listenable collection of songs that’d be a welcome addition to a Starbucks summer playlist.

For Mötley Crüe, every new record is a Faustian deal: their former glory as 80s hair-metal badasses in exchange for sustained economic success in a diminished, lame-ified state.

The surprising question about the new recording by the RZA as alter ego Bobby Digital is not whether the outlandish masked get-ups, goofy comic strip scenarios and uninspired rhymes will undermine his credibility as the Wu Tang overlord, but whether he’s lost his production touch.

G. Love sounds at home pouring his heart out about his grandmother and making bong-smoker anthems, but a few numbers sound clichéd.

If this isn’t the band’s best yet, it’s still damn good.