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.

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.

His latest album, Country Music, is Willie at his finest, characteristically understated and effortless.

The effect shifts from sophisticated to just short of snooze inducing as the disc wears on and what starts out as tasty ends up as more of the same when the vibe stays locked in its classy, stylish, chill out groove.

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

How many times you’ll return to it is questionable, especially for power pop fans, but it’s a logical extension from the chamber accompaniment of the album’s opening songs and shows Folds to be even more gifted than many of his followers thought.

Listeners with liberal tastes and open ears will find enough quality music here to satisfy them for as long as it takes to plow through and absorb it all, which could be a while. Those new to the band will likely find their head spinning too quickly to grasp it all. But no one will complain it’s boring.

The hitch in the album is the hit-or-miss probability of the listener connecting with the quizzical story, wrought in obscurity.

Admirable though the attempt may be, I’ll Be Your Mirror too often misses its mark.

Modern Art stands as one of Sweet's most mature works, displaying his unique gifts as a songwriter and musician.

There is something here for almost everyone making this a unique if inconsistently satisfying glance into the mind of one of pop's most fascinating and under-appreciated artists.

It works. And not just because Tilbrook's high and mellifluous voice has only ever-so-slightly thickened and Difford's lower register--used for great deadpan effect on "Cool For Cats"--defies aging concerns, but because these effortlessly clever, tuneful and pithy songs never got their full due in the U.S.

Votolato's clear eyed honesty about what seems to be a crumbling long-term relationship as reflected in often nature inspired lyrics, is thought provoking, melancholy, remarkably personal and ultimately revealing of sober truths many have felt in the same situation.

This is unquestionably slow going and perhaps best taken in smaller doses, but it’s ultimately rewarding for those willing to take advice from a guy whose darkness and internal demons have remained key components to his emotionally naked creativity.

The full-band electric tracks have many intriguing elements, including a vibe that captures the wonder of Crazy Horse while infusing that chunka-chunka sound with skittery guitar riffs and other young-blood input. But the new-era tunes tend to be marred by seriously clunky lyrics.

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

Though Title Fight may have accomplished what they wanted to achieve on Hyperview, it seems the group is still searching for that ideal combination of aggression and peace.

The retro inferences of this one male/two female trio's name appear prominently in their spunky, punky, fuzzed out, garage rock.

These United States' lead singer Jesse Elliot has a scratchy, affected voice--maybe a super-strung-out Ryan Adams, if you're looking for a point of reference--which makes for a varied listening experience: Sometimes you want it to lead you to the Promised Land ("Just This"), sometimes you just want to make it stop ("Ever Make You Mine").

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

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

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.

While The Lemonade Stand offers mostly familiar fare, it also makes for a genuinely tasty treat as well.

As is, our appetite has only been whetted and not satiated.

Even if there isn’t much meat here and the concepts are obtuse at best, the oddly titled Enderness (the beginning “T” is conspicuously, and intentionally, missing), taps into an enticing, low-key vibe that’s just as satisfying and far more personal.

At a conservative 35 minutes, there’s little fluff. Still, some songs feel longer than they are and the sheer abundance of words is sporadically exaggerated and tiresome.

Beat Poetry Survivalists is a bold first step, and if some of the songs don’t quite hit the mark, it’s only because the two are intent on taking their partnership to certain extremes. And because risk sometimes leads to recklessness, a few missteps are not only inevitable but also forgivable.

Even the most rock 'n' roll track, "Bobcat Goldwraith," starts with and then later, after much cacophony, unravels to reveal the same building blocks underneath. The plinking and plunking riffs of No Ghost prove inescapable. That isn't necessarily a bad thing, mostly because what follows those riffs is done so well.

If you’re already a fan of Banhart’s recent work, this slots firmly into that leisurely, often lovely vibe. He has shifted away from the quirky “freak folk” of his early years into something just as odd, even subversive, around its edges, but far more relaxed and enjoyable.

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.

It takes some commitment, and maybe a little homework, to get the most out of the album.

It's a pleasant, moody, laconic bordering on snoozy, stripped down affair that never breaks a sweat or escalates into a gallop.

Your enjoyment is decidedly dependent on how you appreciate her sweeping, multi-octave singing and tunes that reflect the give and take of relationships in ways that make soap operas seem subtle.

The outfit gets points for releasing an album comprising new compositions (minus Petty’s tune), which helps establish them as more than another ABB cover act, albeit one with undeniably valid credentials.

Ultimately, Lukas is carrying on Willie’s tradition, pushing the outlaw boundaries his famous father established in the ’70s and proving that the musical apple truly does not fall far from the tree.

For the most part, it works. But "Warrior Man," a jumbled idea that could've been a great song, is the sort of cautionary tale that keeps this album from matching Shame, Shame's standards.

Travis is to be commended for keeping the faith and coming up with another batch of quality songs that, if not their best stuff, isn’t far from it. But like the album’s unimaginative title, there’s little that pushes any of the band’s established boundaries into new and fresh sonic areas.

Now, 47 years after his passing, music Hendrix never authorized is available, warts and all, in a package that, for all of its captivating moments, still exudes the faint yet noxious whiff of wringing every last dollar from his dedicated fan base.

Some songs suffer from being underwritten and overplayed. Still, there are enough impressive moments to ensure that, at least on stage, they will detonate with the passion and soul the Tedeschi Trucks band generates at every show.

Jennings' songwriting is at its best in Minnesota when reflecting this troubling sense of uncertainty and contradiction.

It feels like the band is playing it a tad safe here.

If Dream Attic is any indication, recording studios may soon be as irrelevant to Richard Thompson's career as big record companies are.

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.

At times this slick party vibe sounds like Hall & Oates at their least soulful, which is to say the music has an inevitability to it that initially feels fresh, but starts to wear thin when it’s clear the entire album is cut from the same glitzy cloth.

While the songs aren’t the most complex ever written, even among The Whigs’ catalog, they are perfect for cruising with the windows down.

Okay, Ringo hasn’t made his masterpiece, but then again, a guilty pleasure can be worth savoring in itself. As most of his Starr-struck admirers generally conclude, it can be rewarding to zoom in albeit momentarily, rather than opting to completely tune out.

With nearly 80 minutes of music that will make you hear these 17 tunes in new ways, and in most cases drive you back to the originals to stare and compare, this is one of the few covers sets that pushes boundaries but still remains respectful to a classic band and its bulging catalog of timeless music.

Musically, the occasional horns, a fuller production, and a more structured overall approach makes this eighth release the tightest, most focused Felice Brothers album yet.

Ultimately you wish they would have put more effort into what seems to be a really relaxed, yet not lackadaisical release.

What she’s come up with isn’t always completely successful, but it keeps you wanting more.

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.

These songs may take a few spins to connect and early fans of La Sera may need to open up to accept the revised style. But most will appreciate Wisenbaker’s higher profile input and Goodman’s ability to remain distinctive in the La Sera guise while maintaining the music’s chameleonic qualities and urging it forward in her still dreamy fashion.

After a listen to Love Letter, it's clear that only a true maestro can pull off a line like that. Let's leave such proclamations to the man himself.

Simmons makes little attempt to vary her template. Eventually, despite the pleasant pastiche, the music all starts to sound the same. Absent any real shift in tone or tempo, the overall impact tends to be somewhat muted.

A nice summation of Chris Cornell's career up to this point, Songbook makes for a fine springboard into the next creative chapter of his life.

As befits his sideman status, McLagan is neither a particularly riveting vocalist nor songwriter--some of his lyrics are rudimentary bordering on simplistic--but he makes the most of his limitations by sheer heartfelt resolve.

It all seems more diverse than it actually sounds, and true, the band borrows plenty, including some room to play around with the sound, but Thank You Happy Birthday transcends its genres, and would be better simply labeled as a solid second step.

In other words, if you’re looking for a good time disc to get your party started, you could do worse than slapping this on, turning up the volume and letting Snider and his pals kick start the fun.

Mission Bell is hopefully a transition record for Lee, one that shows him at the crossroads of polished, packaged pop tunes and the grittier gut-wrenchers of artists like Nelson and Williams.

No one expects sing-along, hit single material from the edgy, thought-provoking Heap, but this seems excessively random.

Existing Wilson fans will find this an enjoyable enough diversion, but even they will have to admit, it’s a little flimsy and simply not up to the high water mark Wilson has set for himself.

Blackberry Smoke continues to deliver with the assurance and dependability that their fans have come to expect. At this point, their chief priority seems centered on maintaining their dixie designs.

It's a solid, not spectacular album with a few very fine songs.

There’s plenty going on and most is worth hearing even if Milia’s artiness occasionally gets in his way.

While this is surely not for everyone, those whose tastes aren’t constrained by traditional notions and are willing to go with Ziman’s somewhat oblique, even aloof flow, will find plenty of reasons to spend the requisite time getting comfortable with her unique style and genre expanding approach.

Consistency doesn’t count for much, but that may indeed be the point. Juice is a refreshing reminder that it’s better to sound a bit unhinged than to always be so common and consistent. For their part, Born Ruffians serve up all of spontaneity their spirited style allows.

The Light Saw Me provides an intriguing proposition and may in fact end up as the album that eventually gets Boland and the boys the attention they so decidedly deserve.

This is mood music, so little jumps out as the songs melt together. But a little goes a long way.

This pleasant set of smooth honky tonk finds a sweet, somewhat slick path and never wavers as it coasts through eleven slices of radio ready country.

Born and Raised a prime example of the John Mayer paradox--it's good enough to satisfy even his most casual fans, but the old-school Mayerisms that remain will only anger his detractors.

The energy level Soundgarden maintains is certainly admirable for a band whose members are all hovering around 50 years old, but this fairly narrow focus on capital-R Rock songs and little of anything else results in a homogeneity that keeps it from offering the level of depth or surprises that the band's previous albums held.

Faithfull simply shares her dry recitations with poise and proficiency.

Lyrically, the concepts are obtuse and diffuse, but with all the effort Little Scream and co-producer/multi-instrumentalist Richard Reed put into the soundscape, it’s likely there are some intriguing concepts here, if you can untangle them.

Keith's plenty good enough and smart enough to do a lot more than ably cover the bases on his annual albums whenever he wants to.

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

When all is said and done, Angles could make for an exciting introduction to a new chapter for The Strokes, or it could be a disappointing swan song.

Consider Shook an example of auditory excess plied with aural intrigue.

Like the music of Nick Drake, these subtle songs creep up on you after repeated listenings. Their supple strains, low key choruses and overall atmospheric vibe gradually become intriguing and often hypnotic. Still, a few upbeat selections would have helped make this medicine go down much easier.

It’s all interesting, at least once, and there is plenty to chew on in these nine tracks. How often anyone other than Scott fans will want to hear some of these again is unclear.

Collingwood's nasal vocals–part charming limitation, part annoying affectation–can wear thin, even when sweetened by pristine guitar arrangements and perfect backing harmonies.

Buckingham knows his true strengths. Seeds We Sow waves goodbye, just as it began: with quiet meditation.

Vices & Virtues combines the best and most memorable elements of Panic! at the Disco's previous two full-length releases, and the end result is their catchiest and most accessible effort to date.

Basically, you know if you want to buy this album already, and if you do want buy this album odds are you will really enjoy it. But if you aren't familiar with either artist don't bother--there are better Orb records and there are better Gilmour records, and even though Metallic Spheres is quite enjoyable, we wouldn't recommend it for newbies.

When Feels Like is at its best, it’s a reminder of how exciting it can be to plug into a distortion pedal and let it rip. In its lesser moments, that’s still more or less what it is.

Despite a few missteps, Volunteer is a worthy next chapter for a group that continues do its best work when finding new ways to tell old stories.

With the exception of the occasional detour into heartbreak ("I Don't Do Lonely Well") or empathy ("Black Tears"), it can feel like he's doing the same stylized smalltown-conjuring over and over, to the point of hollowness.

This commercial shift seems a deliberate way to attract a larger audience, sell more albums and raise her star profile. In doing so, it often, but not always, dissipates much of what made her talents so distinctive to begin with.

Like most of Doe’s solo work, this one grows on you.

Even though this is unlikely to appeal to hard core Black Keys or Arcs fans, the songwriting effort (the sweet, sensitive “Never In My Wildest Dreams” could have come from Burt Bacharach’s pen) and detailed creativity of the arrangements is impressive.

The result is sometimes sublime, sometimes noisy and chaotic.

She's spellbinding when she's on--aided by her penetrating and often-literary lyrics. But when her singing meanders too long without focus, you forget she's there--her energy dissipates and she blurs into background, leaving her dependent songs with nothing to do but await her return.

You may wish the songs were a little tougher (the Wilco frontman might have spread himself too thin writing the entire album), but Tweedy’s words preach without sounding overly preachy. The backing musicians effortlessly find a funky/soulful groove and even at low boil, Mavis Staples remains a force of nature.

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.

There are enough moments when everything clicks to make this a pleasant, intermittently compelling listen. But it’s hard to shake the nagging feeling that it could have been much better with a starker instrumental edge and less processing.

The best moments on Faster find a reasonable niche between Fish pushing her boundaries and including enough roots music to keep earlier followers from abandoning ship.

The Ascension, Stevens’ eighth studio album over all, and the follow-up to his highly lauded outing Carrie & Lowell, diminishes the accessibility factor in favor of a more amorphous imprint, one that finds all manner of effects and an ever-constant shift in sounds that drift through practically every selection.

It’s an impressive start to what seems to be a promising career for Jay Som, an artist ready for the next step to build atop this remarkable and often striking self-constructed first release.

Neal Francis’ balancing act of meshing a retro mindset with a modern sensibility doesn’t always work, but when it does, his music reflects a fresh, if not always compelling, perspective.