This Loud Morning winds up as an album that's primarily textural mood music for the morning, and one that's not all that loud either.

While it's often an absorbing listen, it's hard to fathom this appealing to anyone but the terminally obsessed.

Knight has a certain hunger to his performance, giving these steely, cluttered soundscapes a semblance of warmth which makes it a far cry better than the cold calculation of The Block.

Because the Fratellis are no longer rushing toward the finish line, In Your Own Sweet Time can seem a little stiff and fussy, but the group's instincts remain sound, and that helps turn this album into something handsome instead of something stuffy.

Afraid of Ghosts isn't as immediate as some of his other records, but it will suit the needs of anybody craving a record that sounds like Ryan Adams used to make them back in the day.

Jeniferever shows some serious potential on this album, but much of it remains to be realized.

It has to be said that the overall experience is far from Yung's magnum opus, but it is the sound of a young band finding its feet in a meaningful way, breaking down past experiences, and creating a record that isn't restricted by preexisting ideas of youth.

The band are an almost classic example of one element working incredibly well and another almost tripping it up as it goes. What works is the group's collective ear for those previously mentioned sounds and styles, which the trio plays excellently throughout.

This is Bowie in his mode as a crowd-pleasing professional, playing with considerable charm and skill, offering no surprises but plenty of pleasure: it's not the first album that will come to mind when thinking of live Bowie, but as it's playing, it's hard to resist.

Broken Bells is an honest-to-goodness debut album--there are as many promising flashes as frustrating moments here. Mercer and Burton have obvious chemistry, but they need to blend more for true alchemy.

Her earnestness is nearly as appealing as her prettiness, a quality apparent in both her voice and her surroundings.

While the songs are sturdy enough to withstand such gentle rocking, this is a vibe record, the sound of an old pro playing not because it's necessary but because it's fun.

Ultimately, listeners who can embrace the idiosyncrasies of Rothman's voice and the throwback production (don't miss the Kristin Kontrol track, "Jordan," for that niche Casio-and-saxophone sound) will find an intriguing if hit-and-miss set of underlying songs with strokes of classic Brill Building and sophisti-pop.

Wildfire is the work of a determined singer/songwriter who prizes craft over poetry or introspection. Platten specializes in skyscraping melodies and big, bombastic surfaces and these are the elements that not only fuel Wildfire, they distinguish it from the singer/songwriter's clear antecedents.

I-Empire is an easier record to like than "We Don't Need to Whisper," as it marks a very small, very tentative progression toward DeLonge realizing that he can expand his sonic and emotional horizons without abandoning the pop songcraft that remains his greatest strength

If you can get past that feeling and embrace the polished, shiny surfaces, and satin-jacketed AOR clichés, then Love Sign delivers a pleasing dose of nostalgic, good-time (almost) rock & roll.

Songs are built with obvious hooks and structure, and are lyrically intimate, keeping them in line with the slick electro flavor and emo sentiments of Miike Snow and VHS or Beta.

The Empire Strikes First isn't a return to Bad Religion at its most vitriolic and unstoppable -- whether that could ever really happen is unclear, and probably unnecessary.

It does seem like a step backward for them, and it doesn't help that there aren't as many memorable songs here as there are on the debut.

While it's a pleasant enough listen, the entire album falls short of the potential opulence hinted at by its best tracks.

Even when London muddles quasi-philosophical gibberish and pro-fellatio sentiments on "Water Me," the hooks and basslines dig deeper. It's more creative, too.

There are no hooks, nothing to suck in the many adults that liked Clarkson's first two records.

Catfish Haven, led by the booming voice and songwriting of frontman George Hunter, seem to have all the right ingredients in place to be something really special, so it's a bit mystifying why this second full-length feels like it comes up just a bit short.

This is pure NPR music, all neo-jazz melodies and martini-lounge flourishes without the sly bite of its predecessor.

Upon first listen, No Line on the Horizon seems as if it would be a classic grower, an album that makes sense with repeated spins, but that repetition only makes the album more elusive, revealing not that U2 went into the studio with a dense, complicated blueprint, but rather, they had no plan at all.

If the show doesn't quite manage to be memorable, it is certainly engaging, a worthwhile 38 minutes even if it doesn't quite have much more than a historic hook to warrant repeated plays.

With On Desire, the Drowners sound more confident and more in tune with each other as a band, but they still remain captives of their influences. They're evolving, but at a pace that may never yield any new fruit.

There's nothing wrong with a change of pace, but there's a startling lack of depth in either the words, which are entirely too literal, or the music, whose hooks are at once too obvious and not ingratiating enough.

It's hard not to walk away with the feeling he's capable of better than this.

Such an intense, sustained focus does mean Positions succeeds in sounding sexy but it doesn't do much outside of that: apart from the title track, few songs stand out as individual songs, the rhythm and productions are all painted in shades of grey, and Grande disappears into the setting of her own design.

Concentrating on a traditional rock lineup with bombastic "screaming at the stars" vocals, the Michigan group may not be breaking any new ground musically, but they are determined to make some of the biggest sounding music around.

Never Gone [is] a solid adult contemporary album, which will please both BSB diehards and the dwindling ranks who wish that the glory days of Jon Secada never ended, but its relative strength does highlight one problem with the album: this kind of music doesn't sound quite as convincing when delivered by a group of guys as it does by one singer.

A bumpy, oddly compelling restart, Purpose should hook open-minded pop fans who previously paid him no mind, and it could even win back some of those who wrote Bieber off years ago.

The range in quality here indicates that superior work is in reserve.

Ashnikko is part rage rapper, part feminist pop star, part disaffected rocker with emo-goth tendencies, but still somehow categorically none of the above, donning a new mask for each new expression.

How Do You Burn? suggests he needs a fiercer and more energetic team of underlings if he's going to remain a force to be reckoned with.

Pink Friday 2 lacks the cohesion and self-editing that would make it a rightful follow-up to her 2010 mainstream arrival. As it stands, Pink Friday 2 is another collection of Nicki Minaj songs, most of them exhilarating and fun, but some forgettable or awkwardly placed.

Neither horrible nor great, Time of the Assassins is an unassuming album, a working holiday that was probably more enjoyable to make than for anyone besides die-hard Strokes fans to hear.

It's another conventional rock record, thrashing guitar hooks and throbbing bass lines are in place, but frontman Max Collins has lyrically improved.

With each multi-layered cut, the trio shows pop songwriting skills not often seen in such cookie-cutter times -- especially in the particularly staid field of alt-rock.... this bold album takes you on an aural adventure of strings, guitars, and hooks paired with intelligent lyrics and taut instrumentation.

Once fans shift into the proper gear, [Go] really shows that these guys are capable of something more expansive than anything they've done before.

While Currents would have made a decent Kevin Parker solo album, people coming to the album and expecting to hear the Tame Impala they are used to will most likely end up quite disappointed.

Cheek to Cheek is a record where the music and even the songs take a backseat to the personalities.

While their willingness to experiment is admirable, despite the fact that they've gone overboard with their overdubs, the overabundance of studio polish leaves one to wonder if it's not because the songs just aren't as strong this time around.

Motley Crue has been trumpeting their hedonism for so long and so loudly that it's become more of a caricature than a way of life, and while Saints of Los Angeles is the best thing they've laid to tape since their codpiece heydays, it's more of a walk down memory lane/sunset strip than a legitimate call to arms.

An easy recommendation for fan club members and/or serial killers. Everyone else has two or three better Cooper concepts to devour first.

Enjoyment of the Rapture's Tapes necessitates unfamiliarity with the majority of its contents, indifference to acute sequencing and, naturally, deep interest in what the band views as classic and fresh.

The Waterfall suggests maybe My Morning Jacket would be better off doing a few things well rather than losing their way down several different paths.

This is the recording that the homogenous Dream Harder failed to become. It's ambitious, moody, surreal, and relevant.

Whereas the first solo effort was somewhat lo-fi and reminiscent of Lou Barlow, Golden D, which is named after the musical chord, focuses on rock -- the hard and fast variety -- and suggests Sonic Youth and Sex Pistols.

Styrofoam represents the part of the Morr Music roster where the first three letters of the label's name might as well stand for "middle of the road."

Luda hasn't slipped into the complacent lap of luxury as deeply as some of his fellow platinum contemporaries, but it's evident that he's not as hungry as he once was.

While parts of Too show FIDLAR trying to find their footing, it's all part of their evolution and is not without its charms.

The long-awaited release from former Grateful Dead icon Bob Weir's jam band Ratdog shouldn't disappoint hungry Deadheads.

For the most part, The Soul Sessions, Vol. 2 does feel right: it has the form and sound of classic soul while never acknowledging that R&B continued to develop past, say, 1972. For an audience that agrees with that thesis, this is fun.

Self-describing their sound as "fight-pop," the impossible-to-type Scottish six-piece Dananananaykroyd stay true to their word on second album There Is a Way, which appears to be waging a war against staying in tune, coherent lyrics, and the concept of subtlety on 12 anarchic tracks that attempt to pummel listeners into submission.

The Björk-based art piece works better when consumed as album number two.

Sometimes, this approach is entirely too slick, particularly when the rhythms are pounding too hard on 'Wild at Heart' and 'You Said,' but at their best, Gloriana can evoke the forgotten charms of '70s studio-centric soft rock in both its mellow and rocking incarnations.

Between the Senses rests with honesty and a tenderness similar to the likes of the Verve, but without pretense.

Summers and Weikel's talent and craft are all over The Helio Sequence, but this music is more than a bit short on inspiration, and the finished product sounds less like music they had a passion to create than something they were put up to--which is just what they tell us it is.

It doesn't take long to notice that the men of Camper Van Beethoven were having a lot more fun up north, while El Camino Real finds them playing with a technical skill that puts their early classics to shame but sounding curiously short on the joy and spontaneity that were once this band's trademark.

As Boeckner repeats the words "I have no feelings" in the last song, he seems to be driving home a point. Prior Handsome Furs outings had a lot more emotion behind them.

The faintly cosmopolitan dance-pop grooves and finely measured ballads offer few unexpected turns. They're set apart more by a lack of gospel and soul, consequently rendering Love Goes plain by Smith's standard -- unfortunate for an artist whose instrument is anything but that.

Musically, it's closest to Adore, yet it's a distant cousin: if that album hinted at '80s synth rock and goth, this re-creates the spirit and sound of 1986, right down to the robotic pulse of the rhythms, the cold, slick surface of the production, and the brooding, self-absorbed atmosphere.

Even if the songs on Walls aren't the most distinct or memorable, they come from a place of authenticity that's genuinely heartwarming and enjoyable. Like any other settled adult, he's perfectly content to stick to the reliable and Walls winds up being the most mature and natural of the ex-1D bunch.

It's a remix album not for fairweather travelers but rather the hardcore Little Monsters, the kind who love every gesture grand or small from Gaga, but it also displays enough imagination to appeal to those listeners who fall into neither camp and are only looking for some darkly elastic dance.

Of limited appeal, but appealing nonetheless.

Muse continue to make unrelenting hardcore art rock; Absolution is a tad cheesy, a bit too grandiose in its ambitions, bursting at the seams with too many ideas, and thus exactly what any Muse fan craves.

As with their last album, the prominence of the violin continues to diminish, but what the strings lack in ubiquity they make up for in impact, making an impression when they appear rather than just fading into the background. This kind of refinement of their sound paints a picture of an older and wiser Yellowcard whose members are confident enough in their abilities that they can step away from the gimmick that initially set them apart from the pack and let their songwriting do the talking.

The musicians still churn out standard-issue heavy metal thrash à la Metallica to support Chüd's nihilistic pronouncements, usually sung in an enraged howl.

A clutch of unapologetically hedonistic singles in 2017 kept the Bomptown rapper visible and also pointed toward the approach taken with his third proper album.

The crossover material leaves the album sounding a little stiff, and "No Tomorrow" seems manufactured to the point of feeling artificial, but if Attack! Attack! were aiming for commercially viable pop-punk, they hit the nail on the head with this one.

It all adds up to a solid record, one that will surely appeal to Crowes fans who have no patience for Deadhead flourishes, but one that could use a little bit of flair on the edges.

Quite frankly, this is the record that NIN should have released if Reznor had wanted to capitalize on the success of The Downward Spiral.

Given Brown's talents, it could have been much more.

There's just enough that's worthwhile on this album to hope that Hank3 doesn't fully abandon this concept, but this is a far cry from what he does best, and even serious doom fans are likely to find this is pretty ordinary.

Die-hard fans may appreciate the musical switcheroos on The Worm's Heart, but others may not understand the need for them.

Adding the pluses and minuses, it's clear that Waiting for Something to Happen isn't a failure by any stretch, but it is something of a disappointment.

Not everyone who digs Donovan's more rock-oriented projects will connect completely with How to Get Your Record Played in Shops, but if you want to experience his musical vision in primal form, this merits your time and attention.

Pearl and Eatherly don't escape their past entirely on Break It Up, but they're well on their way to waving goodbye to it.

Though it has plenty of appealing moments, it just doesn't capitalize on Morrison's vocal and star power.

Blue Sky Noise, with all of its spit-shine and modern rock luster, may not move mountains outside of its own pained and heavily marketed demographic, but as long as superhero movie franchises remain profitable, bands like Circa Survive will be there to play over the credits.

It's all a pleasing time warp without turbulence, one with songs built more to evoke the past than to last in one's memory.

Drenched in Auto-Tune and more frustrated than a ringtone rapper should be, Lil Durk turns in a surprisingly down effort with Remember My Name.

Boomkatalog.One is a clever marriage of technology, creativity, and straight-up sass that gets away with being much more enjoyable than it might deserve.

The most natural and relaxed John Hiatt album in years...Hiatt's voice has never sounded better; its course edges sometimes straining for high notes works perfectly with this craggy, unpolished music.

Sometimes things get a little too sweetly sleepy, but at its best this is a handsome, enjoyable listen.

As it is, Doo-Wops & Hooligans is an uneven debut that shows why Mars is likeable and popular, but doesn't tap into his full potential as a writer or producer.

Sure, it could've been worse, but it also could've been slightly different.

They sound more focused than on any of their ten previous studio offerings. Certainly, what's here is not for everybody, but this jumpy, well-constructed little set may even get Phish fans excited.

This may not be their best offering, but it's a truly fine record that offers plenty in the way of satisfaction.

The stylistic similarities are pretty undeniable, and not necessarily to Josiah's advantage--but the elder Wolf has enough of a distinct voice (and enough to say with it) that Why?'s fans will definitely want to give it a listen--and those who find Yoni a bit too dizzyingly cerebral might take more kindly to Josiah's sincerity and directness.

Outside of the Bacharach album, it's his best in a long time. But in order to know that, you will have to have dilligently listened to everything from Spike on -- and if you got off the bus around then, it's harder than ever to get back on.

A string of songs that, like Luna, hints at greatness but never seems to choose the fork in the road that might take them there.

Milian's weakness remains ballads; the few that are here are more like placeholders that merely apply some forced variety to the album.

It gets closer to the spirit and sound of what Hucknall loves.

This is the kind of album that appeals primarily to hardcore fans looking for a new spin on the familiar; in other words, this is unlikely to convert EDM listeners to the pleasures of Linkin Park.

To a large extent, the music on Shine a Light confirms this to be true, proving that the band retains a remarkable alchemy that has deepened over the years.