No fear on this album, none. It's an all-out emotional outpour, from the ballads to the rockers, a focus that makes sense in its own way.

These are not recognizable as songs in the traditional sense; there aren’t choruses, verses and bridges, or really much structure. Rather they are pieces, seemingly of a theatrical play for the ears, where Burnett waxes poetic and philosophical on a variety of disturbing topics.

And so it goes for nearly 40 minutes. Clearly, this is not easy listening, but neither is it impenetrable either. Rather, Oberst’s naked presentation and generally obtuse concepts feel genuine and are worth mulling over for a deeper understanding of his expressive and largely enticing thoughts.

Ultimately, Second Nature finds Lucious at a precipitous point in their combined career, a reckoning of sorts that calls for reconciliation and resolve. Then again, if they can keep grooving on propulsive momentum, there’s a good chance they’ll succeed through sheer willpower alone.

Some may prefer an even more stripped down approach but these tunes benefit from a bit of polish which also helps distinguish Williams from her family’s gruffer music.

The CD chops out the voluminous chatter, which is one of the strengths of the 1 3/4 hour DVD, but works just fine for on-the-go playback of a dynamic concert.

Nothing breaks four minutes with each selection displaying not just catchy, crisp hooks but production (by him) that captures these songs with a sneaky sheen and rather slick polish. He is most convincing though when the music shifts towards a tougher gospel/swamp vibe as on the self-referential “Take a Long Hard Look.”

It maintains an unblemished feel overall, one that stays true to Lund’s traditional template.

For all of his disparity, he still holds to some basic pop precepts and a style and stance that find him staying within the realms of a giddy musical motif. There’s little not to like, and those that appreciate abject originality plied from a generally left-of-center persona ought to find K Bay a mostly pleasing proposition.

Far from coming off as a dry and didactic exercise in replicating an ancient style of playing, Carolina Chocolate Drops has instead reinvigorated old-time music for 21st-century ears.

This Loud Morning offers an irresistible balance of pop and rock to satisfy existing fans and entice new ones to Cook's musical camp, especially those oblivious to Cook's season seven Idol win.

Perhaps the greatest strength holding The Olms debut together is it’s total lack of pretense: it is what it is... just because. And on that level, it works just fine.

Sun Midnight Sun, which deftly combines all these forces--bluegrass, folk, indie rock, pop, country--into something that sounds smooth and comfortable in its identity, where others might just sound jumbled.

Roots folk doesn't get more organic than this.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the scattershot musical smorgasbord, Calexico delivers a fitfully enjoyable album, one with enough artistically entertaining moments to make it worthwhile, even if its overall approach is more unfocused than festive.

Van feels fed up and disgusted, intense and focused, on Born To Sing: No Plan B, but unfortunately, the songs, more often than not, end the conversation there, leaving just a few hard knock lessons and some pretty jazz.

For all the eccentric performances and approaches, it’s hard to warm up to these songs.

Existing fans won’t be terribly disappointed since there are just enough high points spread throughout the 11 songs to keep the faith. But even they might agree this is far from the act’s best work and even a few notches below its more creatively stimulating predecessor.

There are highlights here but not enough to leave all but the most rabid Black Crowes fans hoping for much better from a once riveting frontman who can’t seem to consistently catch that ever elusive groove he so effortlessly used to harness.

God Willin', while a pretty record and certainly head and shoulders above so much of what has been released this year, it is nearly completely bereft of the emotion that we've come to expect from LaMontagne.

Coming in at six songs and a lean 22:30 run-time, Blake Shelton's All About Tonight is what I imagine being in the studio audience for an average sitcom would be like.

This will be a good record for backyard barbecues and beers, but not for much serious listening.

When Wayne is on, he's one of the best in the game, but on Human Being he's just killing time with sub-par versions of his far more popular songs – this is a completely superfluous release that lacks the relevance and immediacy of his mixtape works and the quality-control of his albums.

See My Friends proves, if nothing else, that there's simply no force on Earth malevolent enough to destroy a good Ray Davies ditty.

Ultimately the album is easier to appreciate as an unusual, occasionally successful and diverting artistic project that tries to make sense of Davies’ love and apprehension about America, than it is to enjoy.

The verbal intensity and reaching for the back rows attitude seldom pauses long enough for the listener to catch their breath.

A predominantly lush, lovely rendered debut that is never less than pleasant. Unfortunately, it’s seldom more than that either as these amiable tunes drift on a dreamy haze that threatens to slide into a memorable chorus or melody, but seldom does.

Production by the professional but slick and synth loving Jeff Lynne sands off the rough edges where Walsh used to thrive.

It’s far from prime Rundgren and there’s little doubt that most of this would sound better with a full band instead of Rundgren’s “I’ll do it alone and save some money” keyboard dominated music.

Regrettably, Break The Spell never fulfills its mission of delivering an unabashed rock effort and genuine nuggets of musical magic are few and far between.

[A] well meaning but ultimately disappointing release.

From the album’s clunky title which is simply a list of all 13 tracks with no punctuation, to its incessant use of a brittle, dated drum machine (could Doughty not afford to hire a live drummer with the money he raised from fans to finance this?), most of this feels calculated, deliberate and stiff.

Buffalo Killers aren’t offering you anything you haven’t heard countless times before. Whether or not you want to pick up the phone to have that conversation again will be determined by how much you value novelty.

As much as the veteran musician should be complimented for his work ethic, he can do better than the overall competent but unexciting Tomorrow’s Daughter.

The bulk of these songs feature clichéd lyrics and arm-waving call and response construction.... That said, there is talent and maturity in the song craft, production and playing.

Only rabid Dan/Fagen fans need apply. Everyone else should hang onto their money and spin the still timeless and definitive original recordings.

Nobody's asking the Killers to restock their eyeliner, but if they insist on making everything so over-the-top, it would serve them well to crack a smile every now and then.

It's such a disappointment when something you hope is going to be great is, well, such a disappointment. That's the case with Dreams, the latest album from Neil Diamond.

Where Cale would experiment with horns, vibes, female backing vocals and even restrained orchestration, these tracks stay rooted in a respectful if rather heavy lidded closet.

Overall the Haden Triplets don’t bring enough of anything special to these songs to make the album an overall success.

Matthew Sweet is a journeyman musician whose impressive resume speaks for itself. On the nearly solo Catspaw though, his insistence on being a one-man-band, seemingly dismissing input for songs and especially production, would benefit from other objective ears.

As it stands, it’s another entry in Young’s bulging catalog that, like Storytone, Greendale, Le Noise and others, you might play once or twice to see what he’s up to, then return to far more listenable classics like Rust Never Sleeps.

Nothing here hasn’t been done many times before, and much better, by either the original artists (do we need a shockingly feeble-voiced Willie Nelson dueting with Lauper on his “Night Life”?) or others closer to the country aesthetic.

As it stands though, Foxygen bit off more than they can chew, leaving ...And Star Power as an occasionally interesting failed experiment.

It’s hard to imagine anyone other than extreme DM reactionaries finding anything here essential besides the abovementioned tracks [“Soft Touch / Raw Nerve” and “Soothe My Soul”], the stirring “Secret To the End,” and the mid-tempo “Broken.

The songs are pretty, well-written and well-constructed, but the album as a whole lacks the vitality that would give it necessary variety.

Ultimately, it takes a real curmudgeon to dislike this often enchanting, rosy-cheeked, harmony laden alliance, even if you wish it was better. It also does little to display the vocal talents of Kelly Jones who has a handful of terrific albums under her own name but whose own style gets lost here.

Though it’s by no means essential, McCartney 3 will likely still win over legions of compulsive Macca collectors.

Lovett sounds so tired on all of these songs. All those years with Curb weigh heavily on him, which makes Release Me less of a triumphant good-bye and more of an unceremonious shuffle out the door.

Tiger Suit wears a different skin than her previous recordings, and the highs and lows are obvious.

The veteran guitarist's 36th album is a predominantly instrumental set that tries too hard to do too much over its hour long length.

As far as this legendary foursome's new offering, Content, is concerned, well, at least they're not simply cruising on the laurels of their formidable back catalog, and to be fair, Content is no worse than other recent comeback albums by fellow post-punkers Mission of Burma, The Buzzcocks, and Wire.

In the end, this album just doesn't make it.

More often these tracks wander in search of melodies that seem frustratingly out of reach.

Grey and his band’s drive, energy and enthusiasm go a long way to selling this music but at nearly an hour the effect is diluted. Leaving a handful of the weakest cuts in the vaults and honing the best parts from some of the others would have resulted in a stronger outing.

There aren’t many hooks to latch onto, his emotional tenor is difficult to gauge, and although his four-piece band works hard to vary its sonic palette, no amount of electronic drums, thickly-layered synths, Spanish guitars and theremins can cover a humdrum set of songs.

While we give Young a pass for getting new music out, and worthwhile moments are scattered throughout these 10 tunes (that don’t break 40 minutes), just as often you’ll lunge for the track-skip button in exasperation of hearing a major talent and unquestioned cultural icon who has spread himself too thin.

This whole idea might be a little overdone for everybody by now.

While it doesn’t come close to their best work, there is enough spunk and pluck on Mystery Glue to provide the Parker faithful with confidence that better work remains in him.

If you buy Bingo! expecting to hear some burning blues, or to hear another of the Miller hits that may have excited you in the '70s, you'll be disappointed either way

Give Mayer credit for keeping his languid country pop organic and as rootsy as someone with his honeyed voice can sound. Yet that only reveals the mediocre quality of the bulk of this material and is no excuse for his sleepwalking performance of it.

Ultimately, Back To Land is a little too much “vibe” and not enough “oomph”--a not unpleasurable 40-minute cruise, but one which sometimes feels lo

The lack of thematic diversity strikes another blow. Certainly, songs about being unhappy with relationships are nothing unusual. However, the ability to write anything meaningful or refreshing about the subject is quickly exhausted on Mine Is Yours.

A few moments almost save this from moving into the “better luck next time” pile.

Writing this review would be so much easier if you didn't seem like such a nice dude and if you hadn't had such a disaster fraught year so far. we'd totally let into you about that Miley Cyrus duet and probably scold you for including that atrocious remix of the Rock of Love theme, but frankly, we can't. Not now anyway.

In one sense, it’s commendable that The Strokes are so willing to branch out and take on different styles, yet the effort often sounds overplayed or undercooked.

In its original, and here remastered, 10 track format (a somewhat superfluous if clean 5.1 remix, audio only DVD is also included), it’s every bit as memorable, timeless and nearly as entertaining if not quite as challenging as Astral Weeks.... But hearing so many working versions of these songs can be a trying, time consuming yet occasionally enjoyable experience.

The album’s first five songs are dire and depressing—somber, sobering, dark, and downcast. ... It remains to be seen if his audiences will want to sing along in order to maintain Mellencamp’s misery.

The Chili Peppers try to strike that same balance on their latest, I'm With You, which may turn out to be a minor installment in their canon but still accomplishes the impossible.

The lack of the Spector-ish sound, while understandable--Ronnie’s marriage to Phil was legendarily troubled--along with material that is far more powerful and enjoyable in its original form, makes this an experiment that fails on most levels, in particular from Scott Jacoby’s ill-fitting production and sonic approach.

It’s inoffensive, unobtrusive, innocuous and difficult to hate. But it’s also hard to get excited about as these songs quietly fade into the background like the music of the generally forgotten acts of the ’80s Rouse tries to emulate.

It shows his restless ambition as an artist, but not his ability to make a great, lasting musical statement.

Ultimately this is a missed opportunity to either unearth obscure, under the radar gems from this era or push Krall outside her comfort zone with challenging interpretations that reveal new meanings in songs we already know by heart.

There are no crescendos, no peaks or valleys. It's a straight line all the way through, which, as we all know from watching medical dramas on TV, can only mean one thing--the lack of a pulse.

Despite two new numbers near the end of this album, New Blood feels, despite it's occasional avant-garde touches, like another holding pattern from an artist who has not been particularly prolific since his 80s commercial heyday.

Noah and the Whale are a fine band, but they seem to have lost their direction.

If this underwritten, over produced debut for Capitol (after being affiliated with Columbia since 1973) is the best he can muster up in six years, it’s sad to say, it’s time to consider retirement.

These indie rockers chug along with sufficient energy but few have memorable melodies or hooks. Tucker’s words, while well meaning, are often simplistic and preachy.

Like his recently unpredictable behavior, it departs from what we’ve come to expect of him: gut-born artistry which connects on a human level. With this LP, he comes off concerned with fitting into an ideological mold, leaving no room for honest feelings and guided prose.

North seems destined to forever relegate Matchbox Twenty into the next generation of unremarkable dad rock.

On Indie Cindy, there’s not a lot of danger, or passion--or excitement for that matter.

Taken individually, the songs resonate better. But lumped together the effect is claustrophobic and cheerless.

The end product is an incoherent jumble of occasionally pleasant soft folk with mind-numbingly aimless pieces that seem arbitrarily constructed with little direction or focus.

The problem is that the band seems to want to go mainstream as it stood in 1995. As a result, they've lost a lot of what made them unique.

Rather than sticking to his bread and butter, Busta had his sights set on bold instrumental choices that he didn’t mesh well with, trendy samples that came across as tacky, and far too few awe-inspiring or substantive performances. And because of that, Blockbusta fell short of what it claimed to be.

Another Country has far too many moments that will have them lurching for the track-forward button while admitting this once talented songwriter needs someone to tell him when his reach exceeds his grasp.

Bridges' rough baritone talk/sung voice just doesn't connect with songs and production that seem lazy, if somewhat less self-indulgent than other successful actors who try to make their mark as singers.

It's all pleasant and inoffensive but with production that sounds phoned in based on market research, little is memorable.

This is a tough listen and not in a good way. Most of the songs are little more than unfinished sketches, most just over a minute long, waiting for more inspiration to be completed.

As 25 Years proceeds, the music grows fussier and increasingly self-impressed in its jazz and world music flourishes, yet even as Sting's voice grows slightly deeper and more textured over the years, he never really evolves or develops as a solo artist.

Farrar’s emotionless approach and the muted instrumentation--issues that thread through all of Union--stultifies any sense of urgency, leaving the listener neither moved nor motivated to do anything other than drift off to sleep.

Elsie sounds like a step down from his Gaslight Anthem fare, lacking the emotional and regional details that make that band's songs sound so lived in.

The Green Album ends not with that bang, but with the whimper of Matt Nathanson's "I Hope That Something Better Comes Along" and Rachel Yamagata's "I'm Going to Go Back There Someday."

Dancing Backward sounds more like a Buster Poindexter album than a Dolls one.