Given the four years since the band's previous album (and arguably its defining moment), one can't help wishing it didn't sound quite so effortless. A little more elbow grease would have gone a long way.

Possibly Hatfield's best work since her solo debut.

There are moments when Feels Like Home feels too maudlin ("Humble Me") or overly subdued ("Carnival Town"), but it's a generally winning collection of finely polished (albeit innocuous) gems.

It's a pleasant surprise for those who feared that the group's glory days were long gone.

The songs comprising both parts of Love Is Hell constitute the worst songwriting by Adams ever stamped with a price tag.

That's the problem with Skull Ring: It's the work of an artist who should be looking within himself to create a modern-may masterpiece, rather than trying to catch a spark from either his chart-topping successors or the band he once fronted so triumphantly. Both acts, in their way, give a whiff of desperation.

In streamlining the elements of B.R.M.C., it jettisons the wrong half of the equation, eschewing substance for angular, affected form.

Trampin' is an improvement on Gung Ho, Smith's previous release, if only because she hasn't sounded this committed and politically charged in years.

Heron King Blues may lack spark and consistency, but it's a decent (just not essential) addition to the Califone catalog.

If it ultimately feels as if it's slightly less than its predecessor, that's because there's a sense of the band's acting out more in order to try and show how outrageous it can be.

An over-baked confection that falls well below its primary chef’s abilities.

The Trouble With Being Myself is solidly produced, if too safely MOR to stand beside Gray's debut, and it doesn't exhibit anything close to The Id's sense of risk.

If Spooked isn't Hitchcock's most visceral effort, its spare acoustics make it nonetheless a diverting and likeable listen.

Heroes to Zeros may not wholly reconcile mainstream expectations with the Beta Band's desire for personalized expression, but it does come as close to aligning those twin poles as anything the band's recorded thus far.

Penn’s most unified sounding record.

Despite running out of gas down the stretch, Ben Kweller is still a validation of its creator’s burgeoning gifts.

It's not earthshaking, but it manages a small cocktail of politics, jazz, and well-produced indie-rock that you can refer to as "jams" without feeling embarrassed.

On My Way lacks the spastic spontaneity of Sha Sha, and falls short in the lyrical department.

While the record finds Earle at his most outspoken, it also finds him treading water stylistically, comfortably wearing down the same groove he's occupied since 1997's El Corazon.

While it might not push the experimental envelope as forcefully as some critics or fans would like, it nonetheless sounds as vital and vibrant as any pop-rock record released this year.

Missteps aside, Magic Time delivers that familiar blanket on a chill winter’s day vibe, and Morrison fans will thankfully bury themselves under it.

If Youth and Young Manhood was Kings of Leon tentatively using well-tested implements, Aha Shake Heartbreak is the sound of a group boldly forging a unique identity from common tools that have been stripped of all pretense and decoration.

The warmest, most life-affirming album of his still-budding career.

Another solid addition to Jurado’s commendable catalog.

Regardless of his less than subtle studio technique, Bravitz remains one of the most resourceful and bracing artists in his field.

There's a rigid sincerity to his work that refuses to allow him to drift too far from the statements of purpose he so carefully lays down in the studio.

PGMG is at its strongest when trafficking in one particular base emotion: Anger. It's when the band attempts to emote on a frequency dominated by the likes of Bright Eyes and Dashboard Confessional that the group gets into trouble.

Snow Patrol's most direct and aggressive album yet, a clear and decisive bid for the kind of wide mainstream appeal enjoyed by the Coldplays of the world.

Its many high points and its sheer diversity (think of it as the ultimate pre-assembled mix tape) are enough to gloss over any minor transgressions.

The old masters have aged gracefully with the times: no longer following or leading the techno/electronic movement, but rather operating within their own realm of digitally manufactured bliss.

Considering that Fillmore isn’t drawn from a single show, it’s baffling as to why the slower numbers are bunched together and the more exhilarating songs pushed nearly an hour into the listening experience. As a result, the album falls somewhere between Thin Lizzy and Zeppelin on the double live barometer.

Knuckle Down holds together quite well, revealing an artist still developing a powerful and engaging self-analytical aesthetic.

Largely tosses out the loopy musical excursions and surrealistic pillow fights of past albums for a tighter, sparer approach.

I Com thus presents a new model for electroclash artists: it still exhibits some hallmarks of impersonal club music, but it also offers a (presumably genuine) glimpse inside the private diary of Miss Kittin.

The Invisible Invasion is far from a masterpiece... but it encouragingly signals a definite progression in the Coral’s thematic and arrangement skills.

This stylistic-tryout grab-bag exposes a quartet that has yet to find a voice solely its own.

What sounded fresh and spontaneous a decade back now seems labored and wearying.

Monkey House doesn't contain as many excellent songs as Thirteen Tales (which enjoyed more memorable hooks and catchier lyrics), but it is, unquestionably, the group's most thematically grounded and bracing record to date, celebrating and critiquing the messiness of the music world as effectively as any album in recent memory.

True to form, there's a fair amount of unexploded duds mixed in with the direct hits.

An immaculately crafted, every-note-in-place recording that is as confidently executed as it is formulaically inoffensive.

Back to Me is a solid successor to Failer, though at some point Edwards is going to have to toss aside the sour-relationship crutch if she truly wants to distinguish herself from the rest of the country-rock crowd.

This is mature, considered, powerfully expressed stuff, anti-hipster in its refusal to draw explicit attention to itself, commercially questionable in its lack of instant-gratification melodies and structures. What a breath of fresh air that is.

Sleep/Holiday finds Gorky's sticking to its idiosyncratic pop guns.

Fall Back Open builds its Brian Eno-esque architecture into a warm, vulnerable document of searching and fear of connection, resulting in a pleasantly engaging and subtly memorable offering.

Stylistically, In Case We Die is like a Jackson Pollock drip painting, chaotic and bustling.

Another excellent offering.

Easy Living simply lacks the scope and gritty, lived-in detail that made Skinner’s first two efforts so appealing.

Musically, this is as solid a hard-rock offering as fans of Motorhead and obscure Swedish crunch fans could ask for. Lyrically, however, Probot is a different story.

Space-rock aficionados will dig the zero-G atmosphere, but it meanders through excessive pockets better left unexplored.

Pixel Revolt doesn’t reconcile the political and personal, and that may be the point. But it nonetheless makes for a frustratingly uneven listening experience.

There aren’t as many memorable cuts as on Adams' stellar solo debut, Heartbreaker, but Jacksonville City Nights reveals an older, more seasoned performer.

A compellingly listenable record whose thematic signal points add up to one of the very, very few viable theme/concept albums composed solely of cover tunes.

Despite taking few chances thematically or musically, the reincarnated Son Volt delivers a tight, nothing-wasted set.

Gentle harmonies and twinkling keys dot most every track, and Conor Deasy's relaxed vocals never get in the way of the band's engaging melodies.

Taking the Long Way wraps its still-raw emotions in sweet satin sheets of breezy, middle-of-the-road pop. While there are still some country elements, the album mostly exists in that top-down netherworld of Sheryl Crow albums and Tom Petty's "Learning to Fly."

For the most part, the album's money shots -- the singsong guitar of "The Hardest Part," the eerie U2 evocations in the assured chorus of "White Shadows" -- are fleeting, strung together by unremarkable verses and remarkably generic lyrical sentiments.

The most frustrating aspect of Idlewild is its lack of energy.

Ultimately, Black Cherry lacks the unified flow of Felt Mountain, primarily because the band hasn't divorced itself completely from its past sound.

Despite the intervening years, Quarry sounds cut from exactly the same cloth as the last couple of Morrissey albums, which is to say that at best, it represents a bit of a holding pattern and at worst, it continues the slow artistic decline begun with 1995's lackluster Southpaw Grammar.

Ultimately, The Tipping Point is an ironic title, given the fact that the Roots sound like a group recharging its batteries rather than triggering a momentous shift in how it approaches its music and the world at large.

Whiskey Tango Ghosts is a supremely intimate, homespun album, one that isn't meant to arrest the senses so much as it strives to assuage the pain of turning on the nightly news and being bombarded with grim tidings on a global scale.

It's a stronger album that those from Heat's Interscope period, and while songs like "Party Mad" and "If It Ain't Got Rhythm" no longer sound new, they do have their own rewards.

Unsurprisingly, the track list is all over the map, stylistically, technologically and qualitatively.

Even by the standards of Black's previous Catholics and solo offerings, Show Me Your Tears is a disappointment.

Other than a few impressive moments... Push the Button proves less than inspiring.

The majority of the vocals are so tweaked and treated, morphed and modulated as to simply lose any sense of the man himself.

Promising but safe.

Keys plays it far too safe here: There's nothing that will offend, and the content is patently generic enough that almost anyone, lovelorn or heartbroken, can build a personal soundtrack of romantic woe from its raw materials.

Split the Difference simply isn't very engaging.

Clips and clatters, glitchy mechanics and breathy cooing have displaced the beautiful melodies that are Múm's strong suit.

It convincingly exhibits the breadth of affection Costello has for homegrown American musical forms, but lacks a tight-enough center to stand among his sturdier, more disciplined works.

Allison Moorer abandons the glossy textures and pop friendly hooks of her last album Miss Fortune for a grittier, more lived-in sound on The Duel.

To the 5 Boroughs is continuously distracted from its titular dedication by political concerns, severely dampening not only its replay factor but also proving to be the least fun album the normally surefire trio has made.

Blink-182 is a challenging listen, although not for the reasons one usually associates with Blink-182.

Reznor doesn't attempt to bludgeon the listener with either overreaching musical ambition or awkward lyrical poignancy, making With Teeth that rare animal: a Nine Inch Nails record that doesn't force a false sense of visceral urgency.

The musical stretches Spearhead makes go a long way toward making Everyone Deserves Music a memorable, even highly recommended affair, but the sanding down of Franti's rougher edges just prevents it from being an essential album. Spearhead fans deserve more consistently inspiring fare than they get here.

True, most albums lag in the second half, but the lag here is so noticeably at odds with the intelligent goofiness it follows as to almost negate it.

It's his most consistently rewarding effort in recent memory.

It's a sonically interesting, lyrically diverse collection.

How We Operate earns points for stylistic adventurousness but, unlike In Our Gun, doesn’t meet its self-imposed challenge with the strongest batch of tunes.

Keep on Your Mean Side is a solid debut from a duo with enough moxie to shamelessly retread their myriad influences without coming across as so annoyingly derivative as to negate its brash, anything goes energy.

It may not be the most exciting work you’re likely to hear this year, but as a lazy-afternoon chill-out record, it should have few peers.

Barring a few notable exceptions, these are the songs that either weren’t good enough or didn’t fit into any of the New Jersey-based group’s proper releases.

A refreshing and revelatory palate-cleanser.

The sound of a band throwing itself relentlessly at the limitations of its genre.

While it may not be the orgiastic smorgasbord of pop delicacies The Fiery Furnaces aimed for, it's nonetheless one of the most ambitious pop albums released this year.

More than 40 years of combined experience results in an album that works well as music for the road or for a party thrown by discriminating baby boomers.

Yes, there's a fair amount of filler here... But District packs a number of bouncy, accessible car-radio stocking-stuffers.

Where Teaches was brash, Fatherfucker is dim; where Teaches was shocking in its gender-bending, sexually charged language, Fatherfucker is bland, repetitive and obvious in its attempts to turn standard conventions upside down.

There's no denying the disc's unbridled energy, and those who pine for a return to the booze-fueled days of '70s rock must find immense pleasure in Get Born's finer moments.

The concentrated unity of form and content that elevated sterling sophomore effort Bows & Arrows has been replaced by a footloose approach to songwriting and style that fails to mesh.

The butter-drenched vocal harmonies can be overwhelming in spots, but each of the principals involved brings enough of his songwriting savvy to the table to make The Thorns a guilty pleasure of pure California dreamin'.

She manages to gush with happiness while still maintaining a clear focus on her craft, thanks to the unwavering integrity she brings to her lyrical phrasing and musical arrangements.

Once the contrivance of The Forgotten Arm’s vaguely sketched plot device crumbles, there are still solid tracks to be found.

It's difficult to listen to the album without coming away with the impression that it should really be two different records. Casablancas' disaffected monotone increasingly seems to belong on a different record from the assured sounds of a band slowly feeling its way out of its pigeonhole.

Yr Atal Genhedlaeth sounds like a one-off; a palette cleanser for the Furries’ frontman. It doesn’t rise to the level of Rhys’ work with his day job, but then again, it isn’t meant to.

Untilted lives up to its title, finding Booth and Brown unbowed in their belief that clinical repetition and street-smart hip-hop beats can coexist in the universe. But it’s a big universe, and there are times when locking onto the exact coordinates Autechre’s transmitting from can be a long, cold and lonely chore.

There’s little doubt that Chaos Theory does what it's meant to do: provide solid background noise to special-ops, night vision-wearing virtual stealth warriors. Compared to the rest of Tobin’s catalog, however, it’s merely a mildly engaging diversionary maneuver.