If there's a scattershot quality to Always and Forever, that seems partially due to the band just dumping a decade's worth of ideas. Either way, it's their liveliest record and possibly their most interesting to boot.

Ultimately, this is likely to satisfy only the most devout sects of Brown's and Tyga's fan bases.

While there's much here Gill can point to with pride, more than a few fans are likely to feel they didn't get what was advertised.

Few of the songs are worthy of life outside the context of Empire, yet it's impossible to imagine the program, an unequivocal hit, being half as appealing without them.

The relatively sparse ambient instrumentals, frequently unpredictable as they twist and turn, are almost as fascinating. Even the relatively tranquil sections seem slightly turbulent.

The band manages a reasonable re-creation of the Ramones-esque sound the band delivered in its salad days. But if Zero comes within driving distance of the classic sound of the Rezillos, it seriously misses the mark in terms of feel.

While Butler may have the chops to captain his own ship, he'll need to put some more water behind him before he can successfully steer the beast into port.

Too many other tracks have one too many verses, could have used bridges, or been left off altogether. Ol' Glory may reveal a bigger, more multi-dimensional sound for Grey and Mofro, but at what price progress?

These cuts ["Let Your Tears Fall," "Good Goes the Bye," and "Nostalgic"], along with the title track, manage to strike the right balance of Kelly's indomitable character and fresh electronic beats but overall Piece by Piece sounds a shade too desperate, which means it winds up having the opposite effect than intended: instead of sounding like a new start, Clarkson sounds a little bit behind the times.

A Thousand Miles of Midnight spins new soundscapes from the moody frameworks of Lanegan's original recordings, bringing his electronic influences to the forefront and confirming the strength and versatility of Lanegan's work.

Projections, Fairhurst's first album, designed more for home listening than for dancefloors, is relatively listless, sometimes torpid, and often sounds more like a project than a form of expression.

Future Brown clearly know what to synthesize and how to select. The whole here, however, is less than the sum of its parts.

The electronic bedroom pop inventiveness of his earlier EPs and debut has been replaced by plaintive bedroom pleas on this misguided second effort.

Carey's strengths are in building enchanting musical landscapes inspired by the beauty of the natural world, but presented here as a more straightforward piano-and-strings songman, his shortcomings are revealed.

Patched together and seemingly out-of-character as it is, the singer's fourth album does have more going for it than her third one did.

The soundtrack to Fifty Shades of Grey winds up as something conventional: high-thread count seduction with nary a hint of menace, suitable for any romantic evening you choose.

Sure, most fans of the duo will reach for the original album 9.99 times out of ten, but it's hard to look askance at the playful spirit behind the album and the thoroughness of Cornershop's complete deconstruction of one of their career highlights.

The EP should be approached like a sequel -- with low expectations. Had this arid content preceded Syro, a fair portion of James' fan base would have likely written him off.

It may bear the mark of Venom, but it lacks the heart-stopping toxicity of its inception.

I Sell the Circus is the debut album from Ricked Wicky, the latest in a long line of projects from Pollard, which finds him in a straightforward rockin' mood while also indulging his fondness for classic hard rock and progressive influences.

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.

This stuff can't touch Adrian Younge's Venice Dawn project, which released the dynamite Something About April in 2011, but it has its own charm.

Ultimately, it's just this kind of self-flagellating, dark-hued rock aesthetic that's worked for Papa Roach for well over a decade, and despite whatever passing styles or trends in pop music they've ignored in the process, it's a sound that seems to be working for them.

My Garden is a mix of colorful party anthems and substantive, pull-no-punches ballads with warmth beneath the surface.

The album might scare off some fans who were reeled in by his perky pop songs, but it might find a home with those who like their pop seriously murky and gray.

Kudos to the group for deciding to do a little remodeling, but it might behoove them to keep the original floor plans, as the current arrangement feels a little out of character.

By Shonen Knife's standards, Overdrive does sound like some sort of hard rock album, and the attempts to make like Kiss, Thin Lizzy, or Deep Purple come off better than one might expect, though Yamano's guitar skills are less impressive than those of the average metal axe slinger.

As this train barrels on, there's the sense that the record never really started and will never really end, but such full-throttle indulgence may indeed be what some fans want, for there is a whole lot of bang for this buck.

Ot overall the compilation, with all its good intentions, pales in comparison to the originals and will only strengthen the urge to hear Russell's wonderful songs again after listening to this well-meaning but flawed collection.

The series is still going strong with Punk Goes Pop, Vol. 6.

Texturally, there's not much of a surprise but The Dream Walker does have its own distinct momentum.

He seems like a featured artist on his own album, which would be standard issue for other producers turned artist, but not Guetta.

Nico & Vinz are lite bubblegum worldbeat pop, and will try on any fashion just as long as it might bring them a hit.

The band's overall distaste for sound quality will probably put some listeners off, as much of the record sounds like it was recorded in real time on an old Tascam four-track in somebody's basement, but King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard possess enough pop acumen and oddball charm to lure even the most unsuspecting psych-rock fan downstairs for a taste.

On Soft, Bodan is assisted by several producers, and while the backdrops range from light drum'n'bass to the kind of stark and lurching beats heard more commonly on labels like Tri Angle and Modern Love, the album isn't quite as scattered as the singles.

The Ting Tings aren't quite ready to grow up and stop partying, but the maturation on Super Critical takes them out of the "overbearing pop flash in the pan" category and suggests they may have even more interesting statements ahead of them.

By and large, the featured performers--mainly McCartney's peers, including his good friend Steve Miller, Billy Joel, Bob Dylan, Brian Wilson, Jeff Lynne, Roger Daltrey, and Willie Nelson, but also a handful of younger performers and old pros, too--stick to both familiar tunes and familiar arrangements, which means The Art of McCartney often gets by on sheer enthusiasm

The Buzzcocks haven't lost their touch as a live act in the 21st century, but The Way makes it clear these guys need to recharge their creative batteries before they attempt another studio album.

Nick Jonas is at its best when Jonas plays it straight, when he relies on his eternal Prince and Stevie Wonder fixations, which give him not only a fairly rich palette to draw from but provide him with a good direction to channel his melodic skills.

The hardcore fans might notice the difference but, apart from those three songs, there's not much reason for them to pick this up because Forever consists of songs they've purchased many times over.

Rhubarb Rhubarb, sounds like a condensed version of their first.

As it is, BRONCHO need to head back to the studio with some Red Bull and a producer who can light a fire under them, because judging by their first album, they can do better than this.

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.

Chamberlain sounds like he's exorcizing some demons with Sleepwave, and he's doing so in the style that comforts him the most.

Despite a few bright moments, Motion is disappointingly bland--especially since Harris has made plenty of memorable electro-pop before and after his EDM makeover.

By delivering this big, sloppy valentine to everything he is and everything he loves, he's not being neat but he is true to himself.

A large portion of Black Metal resembles the kind of lo-fi, quantity-over-quality, solitary works of eccentrics who would have been at home in the mid- to late '80s on labels like Factory Benelux, Creation, or, well, Rough Trade.

This kind of work doesn't make for an album which one is inclined to return to for repeated listening.

If Florida Georgia Line feel anonymous, that's not a bug: by design, they're playing to the largest possible audience, so nobody should be surprised that Anything Goes is so broad it avoids such messiness as personality.

Honor is the first album where Rancid sound obvious, like on the heavy ska "Everybody's Sufferin'," where the lyrics about how everybody's suffering are delivered in cornball Jamaican accents. It's the first time they sound empty, too, like they're going through the motions with little or no passion driving them.

It's an album less for blasting out of car radios and more for dusty Sunday afternoons and at times, it can feel a bit dulled by its own weight. Still, it's nice to hear the band stretching out and evolving, and even if Keep You requires a little more patience there is still much to like about it.

Tell 'Em I'm Gone confirms that Yusuf still has the talent and passion that made him a star as Cat Stevens, but the efforts to find a new sound for him don't quite work, and Rubin doesn't quite catch the light but emphatic touch of Yusuf's salad days; maybe a full reunion with Paul Samwell-Smith would be worthwhile for Yusuf's next album.

Undoubtedly, she has the charisma and chops to be convincing on both bubblegum and ballads but 1989 is something else entirely: a cold, somewhat distant celebration of all the transient transparencies of modern pop, undercut by its own desperate desire to be nothing but a sparkling soundtrack to an aspirational lifestyle.

His father's son through and through, Baxter Dury not only sounds a bit like his old man Ian, he is attracted to a similarly chintzy production that pushes attention away from the arrangements and to his words. This is especially true on 2014's It's a Pleasure.

The energy she put into these versions helps make up for the vocal shortcomings and audible use of Auto-Tune.

Some of the styles are undeniably tacky but, hey, bad taste is part of Idol's legacy and Kings & Queens of the Underground touches upon that garishness along with his exaggerated swagger, fondness for hooks, and an irascible snarl, and that makes it an autobiography even if it never tells a story.

Ware continues to express a multitude of emotions with superb elegance. The material, unfortunately, is on a lower plane.

The album effectively sets a mood but tends to lack the richness and labyrinthine quality of the previous album. It's too direct, skeletal, and mechanical to function as more than background listening.

There's only one track with any forward motion, and it's the overly slick and one-dimensional "I'll Be Back." Otherwise, Otherness is mostly murky and overcooked ballads, without hooks or much emotional impact.

As a songwriter, Ubovich still seems to be getting his sea legs; many of these tracks seem to be more about jamming than delivering melodies that will stay with you after the record comes to a close.

While there's some charm in the fact that Seger is loose enough to keep his ends untied, Ride Out is hobbled by that exacting production: conceptually, it's something of a ragged mess and it'd benefit from sounding like one.

By emphasizing melody and feel over art and angst, Lambert's come up with a debut that goes down quite smoothly.

Unfortunately, the final product often feels joyless and manic, and many listeners may give up before sitting through the entire beast.

While Sweet Talker's lack of a clear artistic voice makes it wildly uneven, it just might be loud enough to regain American listeners' attention.

The results are approximately as scattered. Gray's obvious comfort level and charm, however, help compensate for the less than ideal quantity of magnetizing material.

If In Flames' last decade of material has been your cup of tea, than Siren Charms is likely to sit well with you, but for those still holding out for a return to the glory of their work from the '90s, the wait continues.

As a Vaselines album, V can't help but be disappointing. None of the unpredictable magic they used to be able to conjure, in the distant past and on Sex with an X, is on display, and they seem to be resigned to the fact that they are just a good rock band now.

They want to be everything to everyone and, in attempting to do so, they've wound up with a record that appeals to a narrow audience: fellow travelers who either thrill at the spectacle or dig for the subtleties buried underneath the digital din.

Like much of Boratto's previous work, it's all superbly crafted but not much of it leaves a lasting impression.

While Hold on Pain Ends is generally well played and well produced, little new ground has been broken and by and large it comes across as a fairly standard, mainstream pop-oriented metalcore record.

Intriguing but muddled, Tyranny puts plenty of musical distance between Casablancas and the Strokes, but too often it lacks the clarity to be anything but challenging in the wrong ways.

The band's laconic, devil-may-care charm is evident throughout the 11-track set, but they seemingly lacked the follow-through to ensure that their deal with the cloven-hoofed and bifurcated-tailed swindler included the ability to conjure up some hooks.

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

It seems like he missed an opportunity here to really put his well-earned gravitas into a genre that would be ripe for it. That the rather mundane and conservative A New Testament is the end result of his country explorations is a bit of a shame.

Electric Youth's debut is a well-constructed, carefully thought-out debut that belies its long gestation process and will make people who fell in love with them thanks to the Drive soundtrack very happy in a melancholy kind of way.

If the songs on PlectrumElectrum don't stick the way those on Art Official Age do, it's nevertheless a quiet thrill to hear Prince spar with worthy partners, as he does throughout this record.

If the album doesn't offer any startling surprises along the lines of the furious "Black Sweat"--there's not much abandon here--there's joy in hearing Prince embrace his lyrical eccentricities as he accessorizes his smooth jams and coiled, clean funk with such oddities as laser blasts and spoken introductions from what appear to be British nurses.

While it's nice to see Rowe explore more, all the stylistic gymnastics leave Madman feeling, at times, a bit disjointed. Despite this, the album is easily the singer's most accessible and eclectic record to date.

Ultimately, Dead Man's Town is a good idea executed poorly, an effort to peel back the veneer from Springsteen's songs that manages to toss away much of the core at the same time.

Though the complete stylistic overhaul is admirable, the earliest results of Ices' experimentation with her new sound are pleasant at times but less than gripping overall.

Aiko can be maddeningly platitudinal and singsongy, but her one dimension is a specific balmy backdrop provided by no one else.

Coming from the creative hotbed of modern-day Berlin, it seems like they could have pushed the envelope a bit more.

The album feel as though it's fighting with itself, ultimately leaving the record feeling more conflicted than confrontational.

The dreamy otherworldliness of Kenedy's voice transforms even the tunes that border on upbeat scrappiness into lush dream pop.

Given the atmospheric and diaphanous makeup of most of the tracks, along with titles such as "Casiopeia" and "Redshift," Whorl is more likely to enhance stargazing than to provoke movement.

He has highs, he has some lows, but spends most of his time somewhere in between--largely because he's doing it the same he always has.

Hello, the group's second issue for Alternative Tentacles, highlights the rock side of this noise rock ensemble more than any of their previous albums.

This set makes one yearn for (some of) the prog excesses of old; Heaven & Earth is the most creatively challenged and energetically listless record in Yes' catalog.

Five choice covers and five new originals that flirt with the fantastic, yet avoid an unnecessary trip down the rabbit hole.

The Wytches show some genuine promise on Annabel Dream Reader, but they need to come up with a few more ideas of their own in addition to the many clear influences they draw from.

Compared to the originals, or even the better covers released during the intervening years, these versions are pleasant if sterile.

Lacking any of the imagination of previous albums, The World We Left Behind feels brilliantly disappointing, almost to the point of undoing the good work that came before rather than just standing on its own as a weak album.

Through several clumsier moments, it's evident Robinson's still getting the hang of making music that translates outside clubs and festivals. Going by what he has accomplished and what he aimed to achieve here, his development should be fascinating.

At this stage, Body Count haven't changed much, and really aren't likely to, which means that if you were on board with their earlier work, then Manslaughter has even more rap-influenced metal to fuel your rage. However, if you weren't sold on these guys in the first place, this album isn't likely to change your mind.

The story itself is compelling, but musically the album hovers somewhere between bland acoustic roots pop and overly earnest alt-rock.

After eight albums that synthesize post-rock, home-listening electronica, and dub, the trio otherwise aren't up for much of a shakeup in their approach. None of the remaining seven instrumentals is novel, but they're all enjoyable on some level, cunningly shaped as ever.

It's all perfectly pleasant and a convincing testament to what Clapton learned from Cale, although its silvery monochromatic shuffles suggest J.J. was a little more one-dimensional than he actually was.

Such overwhelming softness means The Morning works best as mood music, setting the tone for either a lazy day in bed or a productive day at work, or any number of activities that take place during the hours of breaking dawn.