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.

None of these improve on Russell’s superlative, often raw and profound recordings. Perhaps if fans of these artists are inspired to dig into his albums, that’s a worthwhile outcome for this well-intentioned, yet frustratingly inconsistent collection.

This Is The Kit are content to dwell in more solitary spaces, but given the ethereal arrangements and Rhy’s carefully considered input, Careful Of Your Keepers emerges as an affecting effort, with layer after layer of melody and mystique. Not surprisingly, This Is The Kit ensures all the pieces fit together fine.

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.

The percolating pop of “Home Again,” “Caught By Night,” “818,” “One Chance,” and “Libertude” are but a few of the examples of the catchy and quirky nature of Hammond Jr’s individual offerings.

High Flyin’ offers an interesting insight into one of Young’s many outside ventures and a good representation of a brief chapter in his ever-changing trajectory that hasn’t been shared to any great extent before. On the other hand, it doesn’t represent any dramatic change in his template, as the replay of his aforementioned classics confirms so convincingly.

The sound is of bootleg quality, with audience comments and an occasional cough evident in the mix. Nevertheless, given the set list that’s spread out over the two discs, it does make for a worthy archival addition.

Taken in tandem, All Roads Home makes for an enjoyable outing, one that gives each musician an opportunity to take center stage while demonstrating a small sampling of their individual wares.

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.”

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

Listening in one sitting can get tedious since few tempos rise above a muted whisper. Individually the songs play like scenes from that indie movie. Curious, stimulating, and worthy of pondering … if you’re in the mood.

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.

A sturdy but far from a revelatory example of Creedence rolling through a dozen hits and album tracks without much fuss and virtually no connection with the audience for a meager 42 minutes.

Not surprisingly, these Orwellian soundscapes don’t make for a particularly easy listen. ... It’s that collusion between sonics and strife that makes The Invisible Light radiate so remarkably.

The ambition is admirable, but a schizophrenic quality pervades the effort overall. The dramatic shift in sound makes it hard to get a handle in terms of either consistency or feel. Perhaps the two are merely feeling each other out and taking advantage of their options. Whatever the case, 18 still seems like an odd assortment of numbers at best.

Without stronger, more diverse material, the whole frustratingly becomes less than the sum of its parts. Notwithstanding its good intentions, Sage Motel doesn’t resonate as forcefully as it should, especially in light of the amount of work clearly instilled into its creation.

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

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.

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.

Those in tune with Cowboy Junkies’ storied circumspect will likely find Songs of the Recollection an interesting outgrowth of the band’s desire to expand their parameters and offer homage to their influences. In that regard at least, these Cowboys appear to have corralled another winner.

It takes a few spins for the tunes to register as some seem more like provocative set pieces than songs. But once they do, the thoughtful lyrics and sometimes diffuse sonics kick in.

There aren’t any catchy melodies, the song structures are loose, often amorphous with a stream of consciousness flow, and the muted ambiance of the 32 minute, live in the studio set isn’t for everyone. ... Lindeman and her band play music as if no one is around and the tapes aren’t running. That’s a difficult task, but one this album accomplishes with class and style and an honest intimacy impossible to dismiss.

Arched and anthemic, it’s pumped and primed with drama, mood, mystery, and intrigue. It’s a sound that’s strikingly similar to his old ‘80s contemporaries—Echo and the Bunnymen, Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, and the like.

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 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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

The fact that all the songs segue seamlessly together adds to the intrigue, while at the same time reducing the entire album to a series of hazy soundscapes that mostly come across as a bit of a blur.

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.

There are no musical revelations but recreating the groove of the terrific In Yo’ Face! The History of Funk series of sadly out of print compilations from Rhino is harder than it sounds.

Everything on the appropriately titled Romantic Images goes down smooth with any edges polished to a fine sheen. Those familiar with the music of Tennis will naturally gravitate to this collaboration.

Faithfull simply shares her dry recitations with poise and proficiency.

It’s all quite exquisite, gorgeous, charming… and a little bland. Each selection confines to the group’s established low key vibe. But that gets monotonous after a while, even as instruments drift in and out of the mix and tracks such as “Song of the Bell” and “I Lie Awake” up the energy and guitar reverb to include delicate, slightly edgy psychedelics.

The heightened level of fury and overall frustration about the state of society is admirable. Some might say there is not enough of it in today’s music. But that needs to be balanced with songs which beckon you back for another listen, an aspect of the confrontational No Gods No Monsters that too often falls short.

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.

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.

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.

Sun June defines its enigmatic, shadowy sonic borders but never pushes beyond them, which causes the disc to occasionally lapse into tedious uniformity as it progresses.

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.

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

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.

Campbell seems reluctant to imbue a significant imprint of his own. It leaves little that hasn’t been rehashed dozens of times before. That makes Wreckless Abandon nowhere neither as daring or distinctive as its title otherwise implies.

It might also be argued that Hey Clockface is Costello’s attempt to redefine himself as a more mature performer, one cognizant of the fact that he has an aging audience seeking subtlety and sentiment. Indeed, as the title suggests, time is ticking away, ensuring relevance becomes more a priority than rambunctiousness.

Even completists might quibble with the fact that several of these bonus tracks appear to overlap those on the previous edition. The fact that two additional covers are included — a loose cover of “Money,” expanded from the 40th anniversary extra, and an extended read of “Rock Me Baby,” each well in keeping with the blues motif that encompassed the album overall — may be cause for persuasion, although certainly not on their own

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.

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.

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 mixed bag, although one that those who have loved Tea for the Tillerman since it came out might appreciate. Perhaps not surprisingly, the new one doesn’t exude the magic that made Stevens a worldwide star five decades ago. Those who haven’t heard it should start there.

While there are dreary aspects to much of What Is There, the general vibe, and slick, meaty production, is one of a moderately hopeful future.

Perhaps the input of a full band or an outside producer would have curtailed some of Scott’s more impulsive, if well-meaning, tendencies and made this a more cohesive experience. They may not work, but give him credit for trying.

While her singing remains strong and she is emoting about issues close to her, these tracks would benefit from more musical muscle. Regardless, even if Total Freedom isn’t her finest work, it’s encouraging that Edwards has returned to releasing new material and doing what she does best.

Fortunately, there is some respite with “June 21” and “The Aphorist,” both of which allow the raucous proceedings to take a brief pause. Yet even there the turgid trappings aren’t entirely abandoned. There’s a clear sense of foreboding imbued in each of these offerings and the darkness and doom continue to linger throughout.

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

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.

Hunt is at his most exciting when he fuses the past and the present (“Let It Down” truly shines bright) into ambitious creations that hint at even greater promise ─ but his second offering is largely a mixed bag.

Whether or not this will be Bulat’s breakthrough record remains to be seen. The sound sustains the suspense, but rarely does it leap out at the listener. It hardly matters though. Are You In Love? answers its own question with every repeated encounter.

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.

With Say Nothing the band takes enough steps to both developing their lyrical content and staying musically contemporary to please hard rock fans who weren’t born when their debut was released and may have no idea who Ted Bundy, or even Nickelback, is.

This is a fun listen but also feels like a way for Hatfield to amuse herself, romping through a dozen interesting, far from essential interpretations of the Police’s music in 45 minutes as she works on new material.

The live 25-song audio concert is a solid performance, but the just above bootleg sound is compressed and tinny. The band plays only a few songs from their IRS days while reprising all but three Monster tunes. The hours worth of mostly instrumental demos, where a Stipe-less trio tests riffs and grooves without actual songs behind them, are pleasant but forgettable. ... Fans will be intrigued by the crisper sound of the [remix] where Stipe’s vocals and Peter Buck’s guitar – cranked up for the majority of the disc – are better defined.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Although the style is more Knitters than X, the rawness to these tunes makes Shovels & Rope seem like ornery, indie folk-rockers.

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.

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.

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.

Generally missing, though, are hooks that bring you back for another listen. The songs are melodic and easy on the ears if not particularly memorable.

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.

Workaholic producer Dave Cobb keeps Shooter’s sound polished proving that for better, and sometimes worse, Shooter Jennings can play by the country-rock rules when he wants to.

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.

At just over a half hour of music, we’re not getting anything fresh here--no outtakes, studio chatter, demos, remixes, nothing--which, in this day of easily being able to build your own playlist, seems at best like a waste of time and at worst a greedy cash grab aimed at those who can’t figure out how to create this themselves.

The result is sometimes sublime, sometimes noisy and chaotic.

There is a chilly, somewhat detached vibe that often overtakes the material, making it a challenge to unpack each of these dense selections on an album that’s easier to appreciate and admire than enjoy.

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.

There are echoes of Bjork (a major influence), Depeche Mode and the earlier, more melodramatic tendencies of the Cure. While that references the older aspects of Wayman’s music, there’s also an enduring, durable and somewhat ageless vibe that keeps this from feeling retro.

A full orchestra occasionally adds more bloat to an already over-the-top sound.

While the playing remains somewhat generic and you can’t imagine the group without Price fronting it, Free Yourself Up refines and defines Lake Street Dive’s accessible, retro-leaning, radio-friendly pop aesthetic.

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.

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.

Overall this is, perhaps not surprisingly, a mixed bag with enough impressive, even stirring moments to make it a moderately recommended listen, albeit one that too seldom validates its intent of bringing homespun country grit to the John/Taupin songbook.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Even though their vocals aren’t always suited to each other, this set of mostly covers (some previously recorded by the participants), works relatively well, as long as you’re not expecting too much.

Boy in a Well remains a missed opportunity for The Yawpers to raise their lyrical game, one that could easily have been rectified with more attention to packaging and explanatory details that are mysteriously and frustratingly MIA.

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.

The optimism of Lust For Life is a pleasant surprise, though the album is still painted in the same shades as Del Rey’s previous releases. At times it’s some of her best material, but it seems like a record best experienced in pieces than as a proper whole.

With a two-pack-a-day voice that combines the hard boiled/craggy rectitude of Tony Joe White, Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson and especially Waylon Jennings, anything Walls touches feels authentic and lived-in.