Through it all, The Great Awakening feels like a far-off summer lightning storm: all low rumbles punctuated by occasional flashes of grandeur that tease something major awaiting without delivering a single drop of anything with impact.

George Strait, 66, continues to churn out reliably mediocre albums guaranteed to top the country charts.

Sadly, forced lyrics and too-on-the-nose productions (bedsprings in "Ooh La La") are a killjoy.

Sixth album Used Future revs up behind "Deadly Nightshade," an ass-kicking rocker showcasing the local quartet at its bombastic best. Alas, the Sword doesn't stay in its wheelhouse. While "Book of Thoth" and "Twilight Sunrise" stick the same landing, the title track swims in the neo-classic rock waters in which the band has recently waded, now gone tepid.

For the fair-weather Bowie fan, his Berlin years are probably the least favorite next to Tin Machine, but to the rabid appreciator, this time frame is arguably one of his best.

Unfortunately, the 4-CD deluxe reissue doesn't offer much that accentuates beyond the original.

Rose rolls a unique blend of honky-tonk and Sixties soul, yet her vocals throughout underwhelm against the backdrop of seasoned Nashville veterans.

Methyl Ethel's sophomore LP begins promisingly enough. ... Then things go south. "Act of Contrition" and "Groundswell," whose slogging beat and island vibe sound wildly out of place, are clunkers.

Branan can't quite bring it full circle in matching the music to his emotions. The results leave the listener craving something a bit more substantial.

While closer "My Dream Is Yours" picks up the pace, the album pulses inward and outward, meditative, trapped in one place.

Neal restrains throughout, even on the aggressive moments of "Evil's Rising" and poppy stutter of "Difference," but closing triptych "Mountain Town," "Million Dollars," and "Sante Fe" lulls with folksy ballads and harmonies that drop any earned momentum.

Not without failings, such as the power ballad "Destroyer," the lower points temper the album's explosiveness.

Less swelling, more sand pits, the moments of crescendo here are few and far between.

M83 are master recyclers of Eighties soundscapes on 2011 double-album Hurry Up, We're Dreaming. First offering since then, Junk attempts the same, but jumps the shark in the process.

The now-South Carolinians intermittently evoke that inaugural 2006 disc by employing a fresh producer, Grandaddy mage Jason Lytle, who stamps his former band's downtrodden space rock into BoH's festival formula.

The young Brit's debut LP calls into question whether he's the next great electronic singer-songwriter or the worst bedroom-emo dubstep producer.

Tunes borrowing from Oasis and Echo & the Bunnymen via the clean, anthemic sound producer Dave Sardy provided for Jet, the UK quartet doesn't even try to sound new.

The band hits all marks on melody and dynamics, but the furious passion that drove their past work sounds muted.

Bishop's voice is typically smooth and Cobb's production sizzles on occasion, but save for soul-pop ditty "Too Late," Ain't Who I Was never catches fire.

Touches of Simon & Garfunkel lift "Catalogue" and "Gold," but the lingering harmonies feel more forced and measured than natural.

Full of punch, the album still never quite reaches its destination.

Lacking the band's prior specificity, too much of the album languishes in uncommitted sprawl.

Yuck's sound soared from the start, each release sounding stellar--Stranger Things included--but a lack of novelty is rearing up.

Top-loaded with mildly engaging songs drawn out past the point of intrigue, Multi-Love sorely misses the psychedelic fancy that informed its predecessors.

To the Sword's credit, variety pulls its sense of melody to the forefront, though die-hards may find the subsequent loss of energy an uneven trade. Yet "change or die" applies to the Sword as much as anyone, so if the tweaks of High Country act more as window dressing instead of a new structure, the additions enrich a manor in need of upkeep.

Formulaic song-structure stagnation lingers since the group's 2005 lineup overhaul and subsequent lackluster LP, Wilco (the Album). In Fact, the sextet borders on complacency in its rock-ribbed space-rock safety net, despite that music's surface eccentricity and innovation.

Sparse renditions here add zero insight.

Loaded with fake anthems and wholly failing to capture the anarchistic musical charisma of past work, Freedom is a worst-case scenario. Refused was better off dead.