There is always room in the world for another well written, classy pop-rock gem, and with Chasing Yesterdays Noel Gallagher proudly delivers 10 of them.

Whether one considers it an intimate experience, an organic encounter, an essential additive, or simply a cash-grab, it’s ultimately up to the listener to decide its worth.

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.

Other piano-based narratives like the closing “Angel Blues” are delicate, pretty, and charming, but edge dangerously close to schlocky and don’t play to Lofgren’s tougher talents. Thankfully there’s enough solid material here displaying Lofgren’s impressive vocal, instrumental, and songwriting qualities to punch another notch on his belt of good but not great albums.

Ultimately, there’s not a single song here that fails to resonate or emphatically evoke emotions.

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.

The Visitor, his collaboration with Promise Of The Real, is broad and all-encompassing. If there is one unifying factor, it’s that the subject matter can be roughly described as Young’s unflinching look at the state of the world, in all its abject beauty and squandered promise. Don’t call it a comeback, but damn if it doesn’t feel like one.

Black and White America is a laudable musical statement, and a much needed reminder of how prodigious Kravitz is at melding together rock and funk.

In flirting with frivolity en route to the sublime, the Magnetic Fields too often sound frivolous.

This remains a cool, downbeat and shadowy version of the duskier side of Americana.

Even at only eight tunes clocking in under a half hour, this is a sincere, heartfelt and often riveting performance that might bring those who had lost the Adams map back into the fold.

On stage, the stretched out pieces allow the group to more seamlessly stitch their tapestry together, a talent that isn’t quite as effective in this occasionally inspired but just as often hectic studio set.

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.

When Volume 3 soars above its status as just a nice summer soundtrack are the moments when Deschanel lets some deeper emotions break through the carefree demeanor of the songs.

It’s a decisive step forward in their sound.

X presents Ed Sheeran in somewhat of an identity crisis. Still, it’s fascinating to hear him work out whether he’s a hopeless romantic or just a guy who thinks romance is hopeless.

Those previously not exposed to Browne’s music, or fans of these performers he influenced, can start here for a terrific taste of one of America’s most stunning and keen lyricists.

Ultimately despite, or perhaps because of, its minor ambitions, Classics succeeds on its own terms.

Ultimately, this set succeeds because of how natural and effortless it feels. Like Petty’s writing, these songs seem to emerge fully formed. Tasjan appears at home in this sonic environment.

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

Even if they may sound dated, there’s a reason these tunes are collectively considered as additions to The Great American Songbook.

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.

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

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

Even non-ZZ Top fans will appreciate the vitality and exuberance that jumps out of every track and those who have followed Gibbons’ 45 (and counting) year career should be delighted with this energetic if temporary change in direction.

This scrap of a record is nothing more than something a hardcore collector adds to the library for completion's sake.

The slick varnish he [producer John Agnello] slathers on doesn't do this group any favors. Still, the melodies stick to your brain like flypaper.

High Hopes plays very much like a sequel to Wrecking Ball, but Springsteen is less angry and blameful, more cheerfully weary this time around.