The record is so soft and slow it can veer into the sleepy. That wasn't a problem with Turn Up the Quiet, whose stillness was compelling, so This Dream of You winds up shining a light on the accomplishment of the final album Krall and LiPuma finished in his lifetime. Together, they knew which songs to select to create a complete listen. What remained behind is nice but not quite absorbing.

It's clear that Working Men's Club are talented and there are a couple songs here that work as singles, but in the future they need to discover their own sound and let go of their tight grip on the past, both distant and recent.

At 23 tracks, there's a little something for everyone, and although A Day in a Yellow Beat could benefit from some pruning, it is not without its rewards.

The songs stick to their chosen path, Wall doesn't deviate from his plaintive croon, and the stark setting starts to sound a little dull as the album lopes from one song to another.

Fittingly, it feels almost more nostalgic than modern. Young's voice quivers slightly and by supporting himself with just a guitar, he seems slightly fragile, a quality that gives these simple, straightforward covers a subtle new dimension.

Stripped of any studio sheen, the songs hearken back to the siblings' early work when they were still sculpting their heartfelt hipster hobo aesthetic.

A curious misfire that trades strength and confidence for second guessing and stylistic uncertainty.

Breach, is an inward-looking set of songs written during a deliberate period of isolation. Later recorded in Chicago with producer Brian Deck and Steve Albini, its slightly more expansive sound is evident on tracks like the lush "I, Nietzsche" and spiky "Alapathy."

Nowhere near their best effort, What Is There still manages to retain enough of the widescreen essence of its predecessors to transcend its fixation on sonic baubles.

Even with the R&B-leaning roster of guests -- Jill Scott and Snoh Aalegra are also on board -- Alicia is Keys' most moderate work, seemingly hedged with an objective to appeal to as many listeners as possible. There's at least no doubting the artist's intent to heal and uplift, and she puts it across with some of her most nuanced vocals.

For all of Orca's nods to heavyhearted ennui, its expressions of despair, regret, and disappointment fail to rise above vague, superficial levels.

Without fleeting moments of bad taste, Perry does indeed sound mature, but she's also not quite as fun. That's a conscious choice, though. Smile is intended to evoke memories of her frivolous younger days while pointing toward a sustainable pop future.

The material tends toward routine, but Braxton's elegant distress cuts through everything with conviction.

Energy peaks early. The loping and gleaming "Lavender," a meeting with brash Channel Tres, and the atmospheric garage scuttler "Who Knew?," featuring Mick Jenkins in wholehearted singer mode, have enough homing power to illuminate Club Lonely.

The Baby's combination of breezy melodies and vulnerability makes for an engaging listen well worthy of the promising designation.

While first-timers to this era would be best served listening to the parent album first, existing fans who can't get enough of that LP will find Club Future Nostalgia to be an absolute blast.

Whether or not the Allman Betts Band will make any hard left turns from their chosen path remains to be seen, but two albums in, their dogged adherence to family and cultural traditions remains their defining feature.

Good Luck, Seeker is not one of the great Waterboys albums, but it is an adventurous one with enough standouts and strange magic to go around.

It's not an altogether bad record and it ends on a bright note with two of its best cuts -- "Bad Advice" and "Deliver It" -- but for all of its amiable intentions, it comes across as short on personality.

Ganser's lyrics stick close to themes of dread, tension, and uneasiness, and every song finds a slightly different musical avenue to get to the heart of those heavy feelings. In this way, Just Look at That Sky manages to be engaging without losing cohesion, anchoring its various chaotic instrumental approaches to a dismal emotional core.

A fluid continuation of 2018's appropriately titled No Sounds Are Out of Bounds.

After releasing a couple albums that showed the Washed Out sound could be altered in interesting ways, coming back with something that's textbook chillwave can't help but be a letdown, no matter how pretty and soothing it can be.

The lack of musical and emotional evolution doesn't necessarily hamper Born Here Live Here Die Here -- it was designed as slick entertainment and that's exactly what it is -- but it does suggest Bryan may be playing with some borrowed time.

Such Pretty Forks In The Road simmers, never boils.

The shift PINS made from their brash debut Girls Like Us to the more eclectic sounds of Wild Nights proved that they can change things up successfully, but it makes their lackluster transformation on Hot Slick even more head-scratching. While the album has some promising moments, after a five-year wait, it's a little disappointing.

"In Your Eyes" isn't quite tonally of piece with the rest of Rated PG but as it's one of Gabriel's most famous songs, it belongs here and helps put into perspective how so much of Gabriel's film work leans toward the artier side of the spectrum.

Though the first two volumes of Meet the Woo lacked the bombast of Smoke's iconic singles, they demonstrated candor in their representation of the drill heavyweight; SFTSAFTM, by contrast, tarnishes the rapper's visionary style with predatory glitz as everyone jumps for a piece of the pie.

In attempting to strike a balance between the raw, emo-punk approach of their debut with the more streamlined indie rock of Natural, Everyday Degradation, they've revealed that their biggest problem isn't settling on an identifiable sound, it's their inability to write a truly memorable song.

Bigger Love sounds cobbled together compared to Love in the Future and Darkness and Light, two of his most recent and inspired albums, with opportunistic and unconvincing stylistic curveballs, no two tracks sharing the same production credits, and few clear standouts.

First Rose of Spring is sweet and elegiac, a record that sways gently in the breeze, only picking up its pace when it's time to swing through a cover of Jimmy Dean's "Just Bummin' Around." Original songs are few and far between here.

It's not an ambitious album, nor one of Hayman's best, but it's as cozy and welcoming as its title suggests.

The songs are carried with energy and control, and even while the influences can be glaring, Gentle Grip is so well constructed -- and so fun -- that it stands on its own.

Civic Jams is comforting in a way, but it generally conveys a sense of wanting to get back into the real world and feel the thrill of discovery and the excitement of shared experiences once again.

Yachty's progress mostly shows up in his drive to push his music to new places, but he takes steps backwards by overpadding Lil Boat 3 with too many similar, unnecessary tracks.

Those days are far enough in the past to make this entire MTV Unplugged an exercise in nostalgia, a sentiment underscored by the rose-colored solo song "Once," but Liam is still in fine form, making this record an endearing and entertaining listen for anybody who shares fond memories of the glory days of Cool Britannia.

While WUNNA deserves points for its cohesiveness and impressive highs, its padding proves its downfall: the album's closing run means it remains a pick-and-mix affair, rather than a definitive statement.

Headroom's biggest strengths lie in its juxtaposition of relaxing grooves and unpredictable textures rather than in its core songwriting, but it delivers just enough of all the above to make for both compelling headphone listening or urban-afternoon ambiance.

Neither country nor Americana, Peck is a hip outsider who is now rubbing shoulders with the anodyne likes of Thomas Rhett, Morgan Wallen, Blanco Brown, and the Jonas Brothers, a group that makes for a passable enough half hour of entertainment but collectively don't add up to a cohesive or surprising country-pop aesthetic from Diplo.

Good Intentions is redeemed slightly by its incrementally improved production choices and impressive list of guest artists. The strongest songs on the lengthy album are those when NAV's juvenile lyrics and generic performances are enlivened by more talented artists dropping in to collaborate.

While his observations on anxiety are astute, much of the record is given over to the kind of harmless romantic synth pop that does little to distinguish itself among the deluge of similarly smooth pillow talk scattered across the genre. Not quite as left-field as it wants to be, Salvat's follow-up still offers a reasonable amount of pop appeal.

The tracks that follow are, simply put, eclectic. At times, almost frustratingly so.

Too close to the original to be a worthy reinvention, and too flawed in execution to feel like a successful homage, although this will almost certainly remain the only Elvis tribute album to include a sample from Aleister Crowley, at least until Jimmy Page gets around to making one.

This collection is a nice gift for fans who wanted all these stray tracks gathered up in one easily accessible place and shows that Drake's cast-offs aren't far from his keepers and his minor moves are still worth following just in case he comes up with something genius. Nothing here quite rises to that level, but overall, it's a solid entry in his ever-growing catalog.

The Mother Stone falls into a busy and confusing tangle of parts that becomes exhausting after a while.

Of the two, Ghosts V: Together is the one to help lift spirits and calm the soul, a welcome escape from the tension and paranoia of the real world.

Ultimately, Put the Shine On is a very CocoRosie album -- while it's not totally satisfying, it's another example of how they always challenge themselves and their audience.

Where Stevens and Peel Dream go wrong is by not adding anything distinctive or interesting to the mix. All that's left is a nostalgia trip that comes across like the Rutles minus the jokes or Beatlemania minus the mania. Somehow Agitprop Alterna is even more pleasantly derivative than their first album, and that's saying a lot!

As fine as that is, it comes from someone who is capable of better work, and though this is still recommended to fans, it's ultimately a good album from someone who has been consistently great in the past.

Blame It on Baby is pretty evenly divided between strong songs and duds.

At times it almost feels like an alternate-history tendril of pre-Kid A Radiohead that kept its groove going into the coming decades. While those layered textures, pulsing beats, and unfolding guitar loops are fine, it's EOB as a reflective acoustic singer/songwriter that provides Earth's most authentic moments.

Recalling names like Tomberlin and especially Julien Baker, Ellis' melodies are much less memorable than her plaintive sentiments, likely limiting Born Again's appeal to the heavyhearted.

The Garden are definitely not for everyone and the Shearses' talent for disguising their actual talent behind pranky hipster exercises can be irritating, but repeated listens reveal more craft than they'd probably like to let on.

Cobbled together in the style of a compilation rather than a cohesive album, it's a wonky, slightly disappointing collection that provides diamonds and duds in equal measure.

There is some good material here and they've certainly taken their reunion record somewhere unexpected, but as a whole, Citizens is a bit of an inconsistent mess.

An album that requires patience and willing immersion despite its relatively short length, it succeeds in transporting if not transforming.

Taken together, Thumb World is the type of album that should make for an entertaining, weekend-afternoon diversion with a timely world view. Recommended for playlisting: "Bad Algebra."

Landreth and Field bring out the best in one another. They are symbiotic in their restless energies and experimental visions, and have consistently delivered excellence together; Blacktop Run is no exception.

Maybe broken into a series of singles or a couple of EPs it would have been more palatable, but in this form it's just too samey and underwhelming to make much of an impression

Ultimately, the outcome is similar to Drift: while the band's anything-goes spirit is admirable and their passion is unmistakable, they simply sound much better when they're rocking out, and the other songs are just not as interesting.

Delayed for over a year, Treat Myself lacks some of the effortless charm of her debut as Trainor trades her breezy singer/songwriter energy in favor of a sophisticated production style that sometimes threatens to lose her in the mix. Still, there are plenty of fun moments.

Theory of a Deadman (or just Theory, or TOAD) have never tried to disguise their commercial aspirations, which is probably why they continue to peddle platinum-selling wares, but the polish-to-passion ratio here feels way, way off.

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.

Music to Be Murdered By sees Eminem pulling himself out of Kamikaze's wreckage somewhat, though he still falls victim to moments of willful dumbness and a tedious self-obsession that's become par for the course. On the album's best tracks, there are still hints of the fire that made Eminem a rap legend.

Bonny Light Horseman resembles a somewhat above-average indie folk effort, not at all bad but not of lasting impact. Maybe they should have messed with this stuff a bit more.

R.Y.C. is scattered and uneasy, but considering its subject matter and the emotions it expresses, it seems like it couldn't have turned out any other way, so it sounds undeniably genuine.

Choruses, riffs and harmonies sound familiar because they're cribbed straight from some of the Replacements' best-known songs. The genuine sweetness and naivete that made this bald-faced theft more forgivable on earlier albums is harder to find here, leaving songs that are catchy enough but ultimately feel like hollow impersonations of someone else's work.

For the most part, this approach works about as well as it did on their early releases, resulting in a warm but weary amalgam of the Everly Brothers' innate musicality and the Avett Brothers' homespun approachability with a touch of Elliott Smith's downcast ruminations tossed in for good measure.

The makeshift album drags, even with its stylistic diversions. Bad Vibes Forever is less a testament to how XXXTentacion helped shape the wave of rap during his brief career and more a bottom-of-the-barrel-scraping of partially cooked ideas he left behind.

He certainly talks like he wants to make music that stands the test of time and really matters to people; if that's ever going to happen, he'll need to make records go beyond pleasant and enjoyable. Despite the handful of songs that touch of his potential for greatness, Fine Line isn't quite there yet.

Strictly speaking, there aren't many unheard tracks here. Everything from the Spying Through a Keyhole, Clareville Grove Demos, and The "Mercury" Demos sets are here, along with a brand-new mix of the Space Oddity album by Tony Visconti, one that restores "Conversation Piece" as part of its sequence. Setting aside the new mix of Space Oddity, that leaves 11 tracks out of 75 that are making their debut here, including several that have never been bootlegged and a couple that weren't even known to exist.

Front-loaded with mostly forgettable trifles, the album is saved by this bountiful back-end, which plays like an early prediction of a potential greatest-hits collection.

Williams may like to act like a bad boy but at his heart he's a sentimental cornball and, ultimately, he winds up making mawkishness seem merry on The Christmas Present.

Like the online living some of the rappers rail against, the album can be fatiguing with extended periods of exposure, and there's an excess of information to process.

There are quite a few moments where they come close to a meaningful hybrid of their past and present, some that are truly wonderful. Unfortunately, there aren't enough of these, and it's just as easy to remember Girl's misfires, questionable choices and half-baked lyrics as its successes.

The Order of Nature is a good showcase for the individual talents of Jim James and Teddy Abrams, but somehow the two halves don't always make an ideal fit, though all parties concerned certainly deserve a tip of the hat for ambition and audacity.

Springsteen's earthy phrasing helps ground these songs and makes for an intriguing, occasionally moving complement to the main album.

The mood here is much bleaker than the previous album, and there's more of a feeling a desperation in Jason Molina's vocals.

Stitched together as it is, One of the Best Yet is a priceless benefaction. Premier was no doubt compelled to see it through for himself and the memory of his deteriorated union with Guru. That regard for the Gang Starr legacy is felt throughout the set, a gratifying listen for anyone who can get past Guru's incapacity to authorize it.

There's a slight de-emphasis on his lyrical genius, but that's fine. It's clear that Ronnie Wood & His Wild Five love playing this music and that palpable joy makes Mad Lad a fine time.

The tracks do an excellent job at establishing a mood, but a lot of them don't particularly go anywhere. Leaving meaning. is a decent album, but ultimately it sounds like a sort of reset or palate cleanser that will hopefully lead up to something greater.

At times, Le Bon and Cox hit on something entertaining or interesting, but it's far from essential work from two of the best songwriters of their era.

Altogether is perhaps the lightest and most pop-oriented release in the band's canon, doubling down on bright guitar tones and jazzy chord voicings, and relying even more heavily on lush synth parts to augment their sound. While its feather-soft tone flirts with the smooth banality of easy listening, parts of the album are far more clever and well-structured than first impressions might suggest.

As elegant as they are, the melodies don't easily lodge in the subconscious, but the bigger problem is that the production -- by Lynne, who plays virtually every note on the record -- is airless and precise. This dryness is a remnant of the digital age, where every element in a recording is exactly in the right place, and if it's not quite a drawback, it does mean From out of Nowhere can be a bit of an uncanny valley: it's close enough to a genuine item to satisfy, yet different enough to disarm.

A sleepier song like "Blue Spring," which features pedal steel and sparse, strummed guitar, only provides contrast within a very narrow range of expression here, like when eyes adjust to dim nocturnal lighting, then notice the shadow of a stray moth.

Often, his good cheer comes across as corny, a situation accentuated by the big, bright surfaces -- it's the work of pros who are working at home, seeking only to please themselves. As the spirits are sunny and the songs tuneful, it's hard not to find What's My Name ingratiating, even though much of the album is so good-intentioned, it's silly.

Aside from a few monochromatic shades, there's not a lot of variance here and each track arrives at its four- or five-minute terminus at roughly the same languorous pace. For a project based on amorous and sensual pleasures, Cigarettes After Sex feels a little too one-dimensional.

The music sometimes coheres on an individual track level, but Screamer pushes buttons too hard. All of its strident hooks and big beat confrontation wind up being exhausting: it sounds like a band screaming at you to pay attention for the better part of a half hour.

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.

While the band sometimes flirts with modern sounds -- witness the overheated neo-new wave beats fueling "High Steppin'" -- they usually default to an affectless folk-rock that shows a considerable debt to Bob Dylan.

Starcrawler seem less like they want to lead you astray and more like they're acting out in hopes of getting their parents' attention, which isn't always good for these songs. But the music on Devour You is just raw and sweaty enough to conjure up some forgotten after-school special about falling in with the wrong crowd, and if that isn't hitting a bull's-eye for them, it's at least somewhere on the target.

While newer production tricks add some kick to DaBaby's formula, stagnant lyrics and monotonous flows present him as an artist unwilling to change; swamped by slushy imitations of his best work, the gems on Kirk aren't given the platform to shine.

Similarly to how grungy Gen-Xers both co-opted and rejected the music and aesthetics of their boomer parents, on Emerald Classics Swim Deep conversely embrace and slough off the remaining dust of '90s Brit-pop nostalgia. They may have been inspired by the music that was at its peak around the time they were born, but they aren't going to drown in its wake.

Love & Evol is an uneven whole. Some of it sounds more tinkered with, more assembled than played. While there is plenty of imagination woven into these tracks, one wishes for more organic cohesion between the set's independent halves.

Spirit Counsel is an ambitious but focused masterwork of Moore's expansive and specific approach to experimental instrumental music.

The record gets better when the sci-fi murk lifts and a song comes into focus, which happens more often on the second half, when Simpson relaxes enough to offer up a bit of good ZZ Top funk ("Best Clockmaker on Mars") and a blues shuffle ("Mercury in Retrograde"). But songs aren't the point of Sound & Fury. As the title makes plain, it's all about the sound and fury, noise that grabs hard and eventually softens its grip.

When it's good and the band comes across as confident and focused, it feels like they made the right choice to head off into the pillowy dreamland. Other times, when a duff synth sound or a tinny drum machine lets them down, it's hard not to miss the traditional Moon Duo approach.

Although Robertson's delivery often veers toward the hammy -- he relishes the B-movie gangsters on "Shanghai Blues" and hisses out “hardwired for sex” as if was a snake lying in the grass -- there are pleasures to be had in this upscale affair.

The musicians find a common ground within the eerie mysteries of old folk tunes and turn those strange sounds into something reassuring, if not quite comforting.