Pierce shows neither the vocal presence nor the songwriting chops to justify Let It Come Down's bloated orchestral excess.

Suggests that he's finally coming into his own, albeit gradually and grudgingly.

La Futura crumbles into more of the exact same-y after that, whether it's the repetition of "I Don't Wanna Lose, Lose, You" or the dinosaur thud of "Flyin' High," which counter to its title might actually be reptilian and/or subaquatic.

Magic still, mundane, too.

Just a little less inscrutability, and this could have been a real contender.

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

Feminist complaints aside, the problem with this seventh LP is that the Old 97's suffer from being too comfortable.

Melodically, Young creates a comfortable, atmospheric lilt his admirers will instantly recognize. Lyrically, however, Young's lost his way.

On Tarnished Gold, the Beachwood Sparks' reunion drowns in a bog of bad production and lesser material. Even when the Seventies Laurel Canyon sound turns heavier psychedelic ("Sparks Fly Again") nothing catches fire under the LP's soggy sound.

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

Feels like a prototype for something not yet fully realized.

It's an interesting departure, but not entirely successful.

Marred by Edwards' rather unremarkable voice.

They oscillate wildly, but 'The Nest' reveals partial siring from Phil Spector, in sound if not psyche, while clammy, nervous rockers like the vitriolic kiss-off 'Darling'–-cribbing its recurring riff from the Stones' 'Mother's Little Helper'--veer into outright snark.

At 65 rocky minutes, the Stones' first studio album since 1997's Bridges to Babylon, and rootsiest since '94's Voodoo Lounge, could've been whambangthankyoumam at 40.

If Sky Blue Sky is the product of Wilco's newfound clarity and cohesiveness, the album's paralytic ambiguity suggests they're also still in desperate search of a purposeful vision.

The 13 tracks on this sophomore disc can be indistinguishable in their chirpiness, but George's balance of whimsy and a furrowed brow gives the Invitation its lovely charm.

What the Soft Skeleton lacks is that sassy power Haines embodies with Metric.

Common falters where he once shined, and the waning lyrical creativity and constant references to pop culture have caused him to lose touch with the rapper once renowned for his humility and perspective.

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

While the album revels in retro cross-pollination, and the title track's dream that "It won't be long before we all belong to love," echoes Lennon's counterpoint of responsibility throughout, Dr. Dog's zealous frivolity is infectious but ultimately fleeting.

Nothing comes close to the [early tracks], though plenty of interesting bits are strewn about.

Unfortunately, Keep Your Eyes Ahead, the pair's fourth album, suffers from multiple personality disorder.

Perhaps if there were more self-exploration and less chemical dependency on the old standby, heartbreak, Narrow Stairs wouldn't sound, to paraphrase the band, like settling.

The whole back half of Souljacker drops into a range between plain bad and plain vanilla with only the occasional standard deviation above musically amusing.

The inevitable slump following the atomic "Submarine Blues" of this Gothenburg, Sweden, quartet's self-titled 2007 debut nevertheless bottles a lightning shot or four of moonshine psych-blues.

Ledges waivers with harrowing lyrics, but worn arrangements.

A mixed bag for the devoted.

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

It would seem Wainwright has traded his operatic sensibilities for Broadway flair, which is as tired as swapping stilettos for orthopedic loafers.

[A] black hole.

Credit MGMT for refusing to rest on its major-label laurels, but directionless experimentation proves no substitute.

Ferry sounds like he's singing on a cruise ship.

While Home Again rockets with infinite promise and closes on the moody brilliance of the Dan Auerbach-assisted "Lasan," the interim doesn't always clear that high bar.

The worst mistake you can make is to write off this band as just another sappy, sentimental Brit-pop effort, because you'd miss out on supreme moments of emotional clarity that far outweigh the muddier, more overwrought mistakes.

They've built upon the calm, dreamy songcraft that highlighted previous efforts, but the risky sludgefeasts have lost much of their psychedelic bluster, sounding instead like mellowed-out Mudhoney B-sides.

There are cool reminisces (opener 'Farewell to the Pressure Kids,' 'Safety Bricks'), but the bulk is derivative.

Part of the problem remains in Ellis' reedy voice, which mutes the impact of the songs like the soul-stirring title track and a misplaced cover of Paul Simon's "Still Crazy After All These Years."

Jukebox follows the soulful turn of 2006's "The Greatest," cueing up an uneven sequel to the hushed acoustics of 2000's "The Covers Record."

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

Despite its meticulous craftsmanship and ornamentation, Tim Smith's stoic delivery throughout – detached and downtrodden – ultimately turns The Courage of Others into a sepia-toned slumber.

Attention Please offers a full-length extension of Boris' more pop-oriented material, except with petite guitarist Wata lending her narcotic coo to its shoegaze reveries ("Spoon") and cinematic passages ("See You Next Week").

Music is meditation for Brian Eno, so it's fitting that portions of Small Craft on a Milk Sea – a collaboration with guitarist Leo Abrahams and pianist Jon Hopkins – sound like they're circulating air at a day spa.

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.

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.

Promise never runs out of steam or succumbs to laziness, but it's never as engaging as it should be, either.

Too True offers the very definition of postmodern pastiche: a collection of ultimately empty gestures to previous forms.

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

That he can rhyme more with a dated reference such as "Monica Lewinsky" affects neither his approach nor his ability to top Billboard, as happened yet again this month. That works only if you can get past 78 minutes of (potentially fictionalized) misogyny, homophobia, and allusions to killing or abandoning his family.

It's half-baked as well, never distinguishing itself from other rock & roll throwbacks.

Unsurprisingly, Policy is a much smaller affair than his primary band's titanic statements on death, God, and 21st century malaise.

The lasting impression might be the 3-D IMAX version of Sandra Bullock in Gravity: Sonically stunning with mainstream appeal, but the dialogue still makes you cringe some.

It's one of those albums that's good, but you also know you won't listen to it all that much.

Most of Whiskey Tango Ghosts suffers from a kind of confessional sluggishness.

We're treated to a blissful numbness, which is perfect for those who came here for the whacked out waveforms.

Concrete is gritty but so watered down by contemporary Nashville arrangements that nothing sticks.

The effect diminishes with each spin.

[Elton John] eschews formulaic pop for the stripped barroom noir of "Oscar Wilde Gets Out" and church hymn "A Town Named Jubilee." All too soon, though, "My Quicksand," which would be a perfect Rufus Wainwright vehicle, sinks overwrought while drawing the disc's Maginot Line. Only the Eighties-esque "Can't Stay Alone Tonight" rallies after that.

Does anything come close to the prize-winning likes of "1901" or "Lisztomania"? No, and that can't help but feel a little disappointing.

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.

Individually, both men are astounding talents, but beyond a few solid tracks, the alchemy's just not there.

Crystal Antlers need to allow the sounds of their instruments to serve a compositional goal in this way more often, rather than simply using them to bash through their songs.

Nude With Boots, their second effort with Big Business' Jared Warren and Coady Willis, continues to muscle up that foursome, the BBs proving the long-lost rhythm section to drummer Dale Crover and guitarist Buzz Osborne.

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

At times too synth-heavy for their own good and at other times downright bizarre, Simian nonetheless appears to be following a forest path no one else seems to be treading.

Lighter on the pop and heavier on ornamentation but keeps enough of the playful antics that garnered the first album such popularity.

The Civil Wars display some moments of real promise, though not enough to warrant the crush of attention paid their debut, Barton Hollow.

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.

Grounded in the fertile terrain of terminal relationships, the warm, unadorned album comes undone by undercooked songwriting.

Elevator suggests the band isn't willing to take risks now that they've got a big-label home.

Not a song sticks. It's sheer style that carries this disc, albeit one that sounds great.

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.

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

Victory fizzles as a disorganized laundry list of what Cham sees as society's troubles.

Mostly they just sound dated and out of it.

Dour, divine, depressed, the Liverpudlian of The Apple Years 1968-75 wears many moods between Krishna rock and "Ding Dong, Ding Dong" roll.

All the Rest later blurs into trio clamor, cathartic but in need of compositional improvement, which has thus far proved Girl in a Coma's cross to bear.

It's very catchy, but the center doesn't hold.

This album is so lightweight and airy, it often consigns itself to the background.

The Vancouver octet layers lavish string arrangements and huge group choruses over its trademark, idiosyncratic power-pop, smothering the listener in the process.

Dwyer's yelps paired with Brigid Dawson's sugary vox have made them a West Coast Frank Black/Kim Deal, and Warm Slime secretes the tightly wound psych-punk blues of Help, but lacks that album's urgency.

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.

So while The Ownerz does in some ways succeed in its quest to succinctly define the foundation of basic beats and rhymes, its insistent pining for bygone days ultimately reveals itself as lackluster nostalgia.

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

A formula that worked well the first time around, but stumbles badly on the second.

Yet while White stalks bewitching frontwoman Alison Mosshart to sublime effect in "The Difference Between Us" and "Die by the Drop," the album still sounds rushed, as if the Dead Weather can't wait to storm the stage.

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

The album's second half gets weighed down with too many overlong songs that wander into the weeds.

Even at their best, Quasi can be like the same magic trick performed over and over. At first, it's marvelous and mysterious, yet with each successive time less so, until eventually you figure out how the whole thing is done and lose interest altogether.

The master pop craftsman can still play it like Elliott Smith's hopeful counter, and when producer Bob Rock pulls the right sounds together, it's golden.

Intricate layers and rolling, subtle lifts give way to chaos, but taken in one dose, The Evening Descends is a few hits short of lovely.

Lightless Sky's monochromatic metal erosion could use a tonal infusion, but the vocal excoriation of "False Priest" testifies these brutal ruins.

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.

Hynes' shift into elaborate, string-laden indie-folk is itself a profound gesture, but repetitive melodies and inscrutable melodrama undermine the mission.

It's frustrating and intriguing in equal doses.

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

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.

Bundick doesn't have a great voice. A one-man vehicle such as Toro y Moi won't fix that issue any time soon, so it might be time for some extra help.