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

With no new scratches, no innovations, and an abuse of mere battle scratches, the X-ecutioners overcompensate for their overall lack of creativity by cluttering tracks with constant restatements of reaffirmation, forcing even credible MCs to become pawns of the ornamental obsession to their own greatness.

Overall, there's very little that's alluring about this Serenade.

Here, the synth-pop has a monotone feel to it as track four sounds like track five, which sounds a little like track seven, etc. That's the downside of setting the bar high with your previous album.

Libertad flips the end-run finish of the group's 2004 debut, "Contraband," front-loaded and overall smoother, tighter, louder thanks to veteran producer Brendan O'Brien.

Hearing Gershwin done in the style of Wilson's groundbreaking works is pleasant enough, but the middle-of-the-road veneer of this prestige project is the stuff of PBS pledge gifts.

Thirty years after first collaborating on the Talking Heads, these two don't have to mine the past since there's nothing that remarkable about Everything.

Fly or Die gives you the sense that the Neptunes were trying extra hard to counter their success as pop producers by making a "weird" rock album. Instead of breaking new ground, they've only undermined themselves.

Relaunching the Black Crowes brand with 2008 tomahawk Warpaint and the mature winter blues of follow-up Before the Frost/Until the Freeze here earns the Robinson boys a victory lap.

While Lowe Country tries, it rarely satisfies.

The real Slim Shady is officially in real danger of becoming clichéd. His free pass expires here.

A single CD's worth on two discs, Hurry Up indulges many watery washes ("Wait") but restrains sound collage use ("Echoes of Mine") in waiting for another 21st century merry-go-round ("New Map").

Twista & Bluesman Ceddy St. Louis hybrid a blues toaster bringing out the best of BB, and fellow H-town boss Slim Thug cruises "Ridin' Slow." B boasting "I Git Down 4 Mine" rides nobody shotgun and again shoots straighter for it, same as "Snow Money" and "Let 'Em Know." Time for a solo joint.

With a desire to reach a wider audience, there always comes some compromise. Le Tigre's battle cry for revolution, girl-style, has now been sweetened for mass consumption. It shouldn't go down this easy.

Workmanlike from start to finish, only the brain-stretchers bear lasting distinction.

Desgraciadamente, that's when Radiolina smashes against the wall. Fragments--stadium chants--rather than songs compound a larger issue of 'Rainin in Paradize' drenching the rest of the album.

Begins as a curious listen and ends up just being a drag.

I can't tell if The Wind is a final bid for immortality or some kind of dirty joke.

An inconsistent collection of life-affirming pop that lurches uncomfortably like a 50-year-old twerking at a bar mitzvah.

There's no question Miller can wring plenty of twisted emotion out of tender love songs. He's one hell of a songwriter. Problem is that even when working with uber-producers Jon Brion and George Drakoulias, Miller misses his bandmates.

Although Home isn't entirely successful, it doesn't get out-and-out boring until the second half, laden with generic songs about believing in love and needing more of it, plus a lullaby that sounds like Don Henley's "The End of the Innocence."

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.

Unlike the trio's livelier breakthrough, 1997's Apartment Life, the rest of All Hours is functionally pleasant but largely unmemorable background music for restaurants with exposed ceiling beams.

Truly hyph-lite, LP four, Everywhere at Once, drops more fizzle than pop over a rote canvas of 1980s B-boy stance and 'Hott 2 Deff' breaks.

Much here to relish: cold riff sleet ("Parasitic Scriptures of the Sacred Word"), while warplane thrust in "Death to the Architects of Heaven" and backup "An End to Nothing" top off Blood for the Master. But sound execution can't overcome a sadly generic whole.

The edges have all been sawed off of Lynne's sound by producer and co-songwriter Glen Ballard, and she appears as a positively wimpy adult.

Cash's voice has always had its limitations, and on "Danny Boy" and the Beatles' "In My Life," they're all too apparent.

Fitting that the Eagles' first studio gathering since 1979's The Long Run should be a Wal-Mart exclusive, since the entire 2-CD affair is a generic sprawl aimed for the largest (read: lowest) common denominator.

Three weeks spent writing and recording alone has resulted in a cathartic outpouring that's both half-baked and hauntingly memorable.

While Pollard's nothing if not prolific, if ever he needed an editor to cut some passages and refocus others, it's here on From a Compound Eye.

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

Self-assurance draws out opening salivation 'Down Among the Wine and Spirits' seemingly longer than its three minutes, and 'Complicated Shadows' follows suit, but anything longer--and almost everything is--stagnates.

All that talent still adds up to a disappointment filled with gauzy arrangements and magnified by Alvin's rare lackluster vocals.

Synthesizers are set to beverage warmer – nearly nil – but where a back-to-basics drums/bass/guitar bash continues since peak return Vapor Trails, pinpoint production to extract hooks from hard rock homogeneity continues to elude them.

As much as Evil Urges indulges, it rarely satisfies.

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.

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

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

Apostle of Hustle loses focus halfway through.

The psych guitar closing "The Scale" and "Mammoth" work well, but Our Love to Admire could use more Carlos D.'s low-end bass/keyboard flourishes. Perhaps it's time to turn the lights out.

Magic still, mundane, too.

Reed's wraparound originals are mostly vaudeville, which is to say laughable. [Note: The score listed is for the 2xCD version. The single CD version received a lower score of 1/5 stars.]

Watch Me Fall strives for but never achieves a more classic and accessible sound.

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

This is what they came back for?

The lyrical prowess is here, but the detached, half-spoken vocals make the album sound like the emotional investment isn't.

It's all perfectly serviceable pop, if a little dull.

Autobiography covers up whatever emotional depth is lacking with tight, glossy arrangements.

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

A stylistically diverse collection that reaches for the stars, but can't touch the gold standard of the Jersey boys' 2010 hit American Slang.

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.

Easy digestion may be good business, but lack of adventure remains unsettling.

To their credit, they do sound genuinely drunk.

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.

All too often, his voice/accent/rhyming patterns suffer from too much rehashed facsimile of past rap glories.

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

Iggy Azalea's a fun girl booty-shaking a few morsels of neon, hashtag-spangled pop.

A hypnotic album, but one that never quite awakens to its purpose.

Although this collection of classic country sprinkled with a couple of originals features an extraordinarily talented assemblage of musical collaborators, it never coalesces into anything above average.

Representing the devolution of civilized man, 50 Cent pitifully uses the excuse of a deranged society to stoop even lower into a perpetual chest-thumping nightmare of unbridled greed, misogyny, and black-on-black crime.

Live at the Paramount--also included as a CD--comes off as otherwise bloodless. Joyless. That goes double for the lifeless remastering of the original LP.

When Kimbra acts her age, she's interesting and fun. When she doesn't, you can't help but wonder how much of that vocal showboating is a singer's equivalent to playing dress-up in a glamorous older aunt's closet, all posing and no play.

You'll need patience and a handful of Ritalin to get through the second half of the LP, even die-hard fans.

Between the two best tracks that bookend the UK quartet's third LP struggles an album slighter than the last, which was already thinner than the first.

Unfortunately, while the quintet's musicianship and harmonies are impeccable, its downfall remains subject matter, relying too heavily on heart songs in a manner lacking originality.

Sure, we're living in politically charged times, but Earle's Revolution warrants fewer rants and more transcendental blues.

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

Ultimately, it's about the extra-chunky riffs and Johan Hegg's inhuman gargle.

Feels like a prototype for something not yet fully realized.

Sadly, Donkey's slick production has polished away much of that charm, and bland electro dance anthems like 'Let's Reggae All Night' typify the ride.

The best live albums offer new insight into an artist and their music, but Fillmore does little of either.

The Party Ain't Over makes a great Jack White LP, but Wanda Jackson should've taken a page from Rosie Flores' Girl of the Century and roped in Jon Langford.

In between erupts the album's clash of will and reality into a messy, ill-defined awkwardness of transition, which might have captivated in the complex shades of ambiguity that Beam expertly builds, except for a complete want of direction or purpose.

With a couple of exceptions, Earle's songwriting never reaches the peak of his previous work.

The Windows operating system segue of Mark E. Smith ("Glitter Freeze") into Lou Reed ("Some Kind of Nature") is as apropos as used syringes littering Plastic Beach, which defines the disc's wasteland second half after "On Melancholy Hill." "Rhinestone Cowboy," meet "Rhinestone Eyes."

A deadly naivete infects the songs, wonderful if the concept was to bring sleep, but otherwise limp.

Underneath the Owl plays up the Gamblers' pop-punk traits while keeping a tight lid on their explosive tendencies. This wouldn't be of issue if the songs reached out and grabbed you, but ear worms are in short supply here.

As simple and dopey as Bright Eyes' I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning, only sleepier.

Mostly they just sound dated and out of it.

It's not fair to hold Viet Cong's hype against them, but an album this ordinary points to a generation of indie-rock writers trying, and failing, to pretend the bubble hasn't burst.

Ultimately, in no uncertain terms, this Elvis sounds like an impersonator.

Ultimately, it's frustrating to hear a bunch of smart, talented, creative women whining about their love problems.

Unlike previous recordings like 2003's Get Yer Body Next ta Mine, Coachwhips covet a reliable, freight train approach and derail.

The general tone is that of the least fun dance group in the world, with Gill still spraying noise like a Strat thrown down a staircase across the works.

Williams might have something here, but his GarageBand tinkering will only take him so far. Wavvves is a small-dose fix; as a whole, teeth grind.

The result's a bit half-baked, which is disappointing when you know Hebden's capable of far more spirited adventures in sound.

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.

Infinite Arms fumbles its Birks like a weary hippie.

Even the half-hearted retreads ("You Talk Way Too Much," "Between Love & Hate") cashing in on the notoriously unwashed NYC quintet's debut can't muster a wink.

Is Mike Skinner having a midcareer crisis? The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living sure makes it sound that way.

A 2013 mix of the LP, reportedly overseen by Albini and surviving group members Dave Grohl, Krist Novoselic, and Pat Smear, and boasting an alternate guitar solo on "Serve the Servants" and a different cello overdub on "Dumb," but otherwise it's indistinct. The bonus material gets worse: ubiquitous B-sides ("I Hate Myself and Want to Die"), boring instrumental demos, and a "Forgotten Tune" that simply sucks.

Though the lyrics are light ("Could We") and often banal ("The Moon"), the warm, Mazzy Star minimalism and neon-roots groove are fairly irresistible.

Those slinky, drip-dropping beats and lyrical offerings trapped in a triumvirate of weed, women, and--somehow equally--coffee will leave nonindulgers thinking LG's a bit repetitive.

Melodies, hooks, and choruses evince Beach House's candy core, but the nonexistent separation of sound makes the Blooming disc sound as if it's filtered through a dryer vent.

Even if music history notes that Willie could sing the phone book and make it interesting, Songbird proves that's not true.

Sadly, the intrigue and theatricality wane midway through "Delta Bay" and never return.

Marcos' life was all luxury and color, but the songs don't translate. Here Lies Love will play in gay clubs, but for a collaboration between forward-thinkers like Byrne and Cook, it's pretty safe while also having no direction.