It may not be an album most would expect from Neil Finn, but it’s clearly the one he wanted to make.

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

Matthews’ ageless voice remains warm and inviting as he winds his way through this hour long set, creating a wistful yet never regretful mood.

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.

Maybe Jagbags would be better if it were tighter, but you’d lose the crucial impression of a man whose primary mission is now to entertain himself.

Live At The Cellar Door sounds like Neil Young with his head down playing to an exceedingly polite crowd.... But the real gems here are the pared down Everybody Knows tracks.

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

There seems to be a slightly less edgy approach to these ten tracks, some of which could have used a dose of the hyper-caffeinated style TDM3 whip up in front of an audience.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It’s a logical extension of their earlier work that’s easier on the ears without watering down the inherent craftiness of the vibe or, even worse, selling out.

There’s no dancing allowed but anyone looking for a calm come-down after a night at the clubs, London Grammar speaks your language.

Bergquist is in wonderfully relaxed voice and the open production by Joe Henry allows her vocals--a mix of Sheryl Crow, Rickie Lee Jones and even Billie Holiday at times--plenty of room to explore the bucolic shadows and light of the material.

Golden Suits’ debut brims with great ingredients, but leaves us more excited about Nicolaus’ next effort.

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, Crash My Party is melodiously rewarding despite its sporadic lyrical missteps.

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.

If this sounds like something of a scattered mess, it is, but it’s a charming one and well worth a go-round for the more adventurous listener willing to let themselves take a wild and wooly trek back in history.

This is an impressive first effort for the multi-talented Johns who is clearly determined to avoid spending his life in the shadows of others.

Everything is wrapped up in a breathless half hour and except for titles that aren’t quite as controversial as the immortal “I’m Not a Sicko, There’s a Plate in My Head,” this makes similar groups such as the veteran Fleshtones sound like Taylor Swift.

Removed from the plot, the edgy swamp/country music score doesn’t connect with the powerful and gripping intensity of the show.

Amidon’s plaintive, boyish vocals make up in character what they lack in uniqueness.

Over production is a constant issue with these tunes, as Stewart (who co-produced) layers guitars, horns, backing vocals and too much of everything on melodies that, by and large, are strong enough to stand on their own in more stripped down arrangements.

Kelly is a tenured veteran songsmith who creates melodies, if perhaps not hooky ones here, that grow on you like kudzu, intentionally creating an album that is greater than the sum of its parts.

Richey’s doe-eyed, bittersweet approach perfectly captures the hurt and regret in her material, but you may wish there were more glimmers of light to offset her somewhat bleak outlook.

The Flaming Lips return with one of their most challenging, yet cohesive records to date.