Robbie Fulks at 53 might be a kinder, gentler version of the rascal of old, but one who has perfected balancing touching, reflective ruminations and a sardonic outlook with effortless aplomb.

It’s a fine line between revival and parody, and he walks it well, cowboy boots and all.

While the set of songs on this album may not count among the best of McCartney's career, they definitely provide a pleasurable listen for both casual fans and ardent supporters alike.

These acoustic performances are laid back but sizzle with the soul of the blues.

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.

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.

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.

The production is clean and not overly slick but the memorable hooks with sweet harmonies come fast and often, resulting in a relatively subtle set that at just 30 minutes leaves you wanting more.

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.

Roots folk doesn't get more organic than this.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

This melodic yet dynamic punk seems to have been created in the early '80s, a high compliment and one the band is likely to embrace far more than the realization that the disc's title is impossible to fulfill.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Melodies take longer to reveal themselves and choruses don’t have the natural hooks Loveless has crafted before. Which just means you’ll need to spend additional time exploring the songs, mulling them over, absorbing the lyrics and letting their more elusive charms sink in.

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.

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

[A] superb if somewhat restrained There’s a Blue Bird in My Heart.

This rampant musical eclecticism is fun and keeps things from getting boring but it’s also occasionally too scattershot, even though most of the players remain the same throughout.

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.

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.

It’s tough and grimy but you have to wonder how many others are out there bashing out similarly trashy rock who haven’t gotten Booker’s breaks

Unless you are a White fanatic, the few hard to find selections generally aren’t compelling enough to purchase lots of songs easy to obtain. That makes this an interesting but hardly essential stop-gap release until White’s next official project.

While others in the Americana field get stuck in a groove, that will never be a problem with the Sadies and Northern Passages is a worthy entry in the notable catalog of a now-veteran act who refuse to be pigeonholed.

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

Faithfull simply shares her dry recitations with poise and proficiency.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A closing cover of Sam Phillips’ plaintive and rarely heard ballad “Where is Love Now” shows the group knows how to dig for a great song, even if the originals that dominate this disc aren’t immediately as accessible. This isn’t the band’s finest (half) hour, yet it’s great to have them back.

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.

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.

None of these cropped and re-imagined takes are drastic enough to add huge insights into Bush's output as they do her finicky outlook on her own work. Work that is, generally, great in any context.

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.

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.

The King of Limbs is Radiohead's Sky Blue Sky–a reliably enjoyable record that follows a heightened run of musical genius.

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.

Those less focused might find their attention taxed, but this is a meticulously crafted and uncompromising work that shows Henry to be at the top of his game releasing challenging music not made for prime time.

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

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.

With their extended songs, complex– some might say obtuse– lyrics and Geddy Lee's piercing vocals, Rush largely plays to a cult audience.

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

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.

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.

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 "big-in-England" quartet's fourth release is more of the same that made them so admired overseas;ie trippy yet expansive psychedelic Brit-pop sung and played with attitude (some may say ego), a whip smart attention to melody and an arena sensibility/swagger that screams "rock stars."

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

This remains a moderate leap forward for them and indicates an adventurousness they will hopefully explore further on forthcoming albums.

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.

Even with the slight stench of commercialism tainting this release, and some sub-par material Good Times! exudes enough, well, good times to capture what made the Monkees so much better than their teeny-bopper peers and maintained a dedicated fan base for five decades. If this is their final recorded bow, at least they’ll go out in style.

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.

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

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.

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

This is not to say that this golden anniversary collection doesn’t do a perfectly respectable job. .... But with only one album of original material since the compilation in 2000, and a startling lack of liner notes in the 23-page booklet (the previous one boasted a book twice as long and far more comprehensive), there is little reason for this to exist other than to rake in some bucks by repackaging content any fan already has or for whoever doesn’t already own this material.

Some of his best observations get lost in the full-throttle approach of songs like "Ecce Homo" and "Still Life With A Hot Deuce And Silver Platter." It isn't until the album's second half that pace slows, some open spaces appear in the music, and Stickles' rants come into clearer focus.

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.

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

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.”

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

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.

It’s hard to shake the nagging notion that this hews too closely to a classy, not-so-subtle advertisement enticing more customers onto future trips. Despite those reservations (pun intended), there is enough wonderful music here for even landlubbing Americana fans to enjoy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Everything here is painted in varying shades of gloom and lit by flickering candle flame, but every now and then, illuminates something quite gorgeous.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Existing fans will find enough to satisfy them, but newbies should choose from earlier Los Lobos works for a better understanding of what makes these guys so special.

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

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.

This is clearly for existing fans; those new to Oldham’s expansive, often confusing catalog are advised to start elsewhere. But if you are already converted to his stridently uncommercial musings, these once difficult to find performances make a wonderful addition to what is likely your already extensive Oldham collection.

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.

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.

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

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.

Top notch session musicians including guitarist David Garza and Me'Shell N'Degeocello on bass along with a few namedropping guests such as Robert Plant and Patty Griffin help flesh out these eleven often moody, reflective tunes, making this her most accomplished album to date.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We’re treated to a combination of short, instrumental segments and lyrically-driven, radical, long jams that sound familiar, yet unpredictable enough to demand further listening

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.