The Man With the Iron Fists OST is a strong album and certainly the best Wu-affiliated product since Only Built 4 Cuban Linx... Pt. II, but it never strives to be awesome. And for a RZA project, that means it can't be great either.

Smalhans is a reliably generous gesture from an artist that takes pleasure in indulging himself and his audience.

Deer Creek Canyon is a deft fine-tuning of her meandering rustic tendencies, the tweaks so minor and carefully placed they're at first nearly imperceptible.

Rave Age makes you wish you were listening to other songs.

This album sounds every bit as absurd, chaotic, and exhilarating as it did 14 years ago.

Critcheloe's songs and productions are pleasant and utilitarian-- if any of these came on at the right moment on the right dance floor, you'd wanna dance-- but ultimately insubstantial, fizzing out of one's memory almost as soon as they're finished playing. Still, there are some nice touches.

It's not unlike the effect of the Grateful Dead or even drone music, where subtle changes within a much bigger system provide thrills beyond the surface. That said, Atra Mors isn't an easy or amicable listen.

Even if Burning Daylight occasionally slips into shtick, Cowgill is still a good songwriter who can evoke a dark mood and the big, warm, beating heart underneath it.

Rather than dismiss Just to Feel Anything as a mistake, perhaps it's better to think of it as a mixed detour, one that some of the band's followers might in fact welcome.

The main issue here is a distinct and debilitating lack of craft.

We're left with some pretty pictures for our refrigerators and some worthwhile domestic jams, but little to be excited about.

Vasquez's knack for atmosphere was there from the beginning, but he's becoming a better, more defined songwriter.

The many guests on Young Hunger prevent the album from getting too bogged down in schmaltz, adding color and texture to the record.

The overly fussy, played-too-safe System Preferences seems to be begging for a bit of Earlimart's old weirdness, an oddly placed bridge, a couple of bum notes, a "Burning the Cow", something. Without it, this record winds up feeling a little too perfect for its own good.

Loneliness aside, Come Home to Mama is not a somber affair. Credit's partly due to new producer Yuka Honda from Cibo Matto, who freshens up the sound considerably.

There's no overall sense of narrative to Order of Noise, but the depth of the production leaves itself open to interpretation.

The moments of goodness and light here bump up against plenty of songs that are depressing or otherwise unseasonal-feeling. You're happy to get the present, but it's not exactly what you would've asked for from Santa.

Holding all of this together, as always, is Riley's sharp humor.

Hands of Glory possesses an almost academic quality, as though Bird and his cohorts were presenting a musical essay about endtimes imagery in country music.

What puts listeners in a difficult spot is that, no matter how infuriating it gets, Matricidal Sons of Bitches is clearly the product of serious compositional intention; it's not an accidental mess.

There is a lot of loud, full-bore belting. It's a little showboaty and on occasion his voice threatens to overpower the song itself.... Still, not a note of Magic Moment rings false.

Even though it operates under the familiar laws of Mayer's universe, Mantasy's appeal largely comes from how self-contained and individual each cut is.

DeMarco writes about life--both the heavy moments and the mundane ones--with economy and newfound grace.

Meek has made the move from mixtapes to the majors with a solid vision.

Cold of Ages is a big leap forward for a band that had already started out a few steps ahead of the pack.

On their proper full-length debut, a sound in danger of stagnation has been brightened and reconfigured in appealing ways.

Landing is an apt reflection of an artist restarting after several years, but without sacrificing the eccentricity that initially made him such a compelling figure.

Everything great about Neil Young, electric guitarist, is on full display, his singular tone veering from feral growls and feedback to blistering fury while the other three egg him on with subtle, perennially underrated counterpoint.