The raw, mellow, hip-hop, electronic, jazz infused solo return of Neneh Cherry is an enjoyable ride; some songs are immediately addictive while others slowly become more appealing after several listens and sonic osmosis.

If energy and enthusiasm count for anything, then The Pack A.D. comes out a step ahead. The problem is, they don’t seem to know when to pull back.

Brousseau possesses a certain spirit and shine, but a bit more spark would give Grass Punks more of a means by which to elevate the intrigue.

Calling to mind everyone from Dinosaur Jr. to The Pixies, Boston indie noise rockers follow up last year’s great full length, Major Arcana, with the solid, but frustratingly short vinyl 12” EP Real Hair.

These are lonely outposts in a landscape without distinction, where the most depressing aspect isn’t what happened to Landes and Ritter, but what happened to Landes’ songwriting.

It’s doubtful anyone will stroll about humming these tunes, but so too, it wouldn’t be at all surprising to find there’s something about them that’s all but impossible to shake.

The formula--and the tempo--never really varies, although some of the musical settings are craggier than others.

Darkly defiant, Nothin’ But Blood is turbulent and tempestuous to a manic extreme.

It captures an aura of domestic bliss through songs that are unfailingly effervescent and jazz infused to the max.

An admirable effort in terms of daring and experimentation, Choir of Echoes reverberates ever emphatically.

Revelation continues to tow that tradition, with every song providing different twists at every juncture.

Given the earthier sonic aesthetic of the band’s previous LP, the gauzy mist of Warpaint may be hard to accept at first, but given time, the record’s sensuality becomes clear, making it more of a next step than a radical rethink.

All in all, it makes for a rich and resilient brew, and maybe, just maybe, the kind of opus that will propel Jurado towards the greater accolades he so clearly deserves.

In the grand scheme of things this is not epochal work. In the world of rock ‘n’ roll this is to the Rolling Stones or Bruce Springsteen as Chausson or Bridge were to Wagner or Mahler. But those lighter composers had their charms and pleasures, and with Herein Wild so does Frankie Rose.

It’s tranquil, amiable and very familiar.

Seven songs long, it offers the impression of one continuous tirade, despite the moments of sublime tenderness that illuminate tender courting tunes like “Heaven Is Here” and “The Enemy,” each of which bring to mind such heartfelt Harper ballads as “Commune” and “Another Day.”

Brett Gurewitz’s buzzsaw guitars sound cool, but the blend of punk rock and carols turns out to be too predictable, so you know whether you need to hear this one even without hearing it.

The problem is that Pearl Jam at this point is just repeating itself--or others.

Brazen and breathless all at the same time, Nina comes across as the weirdest record of the entire year, and might even be the strangest album most people might encounter in a lifetime.

Among the Grey is still mired in... well... several shades of gray, so that when certain songs dissipate as a casual drift, it becomes all the more difficult to glean a more emphatic impression.

A transitional record, then, one that seems to be leading to a masterstroke.

While the lyrics here do tend to come off as pretentious at times, the sentiment is still admirable and actually pays off on songs like “March in September.”

Too often, it seems like the singer is leading us into blind alleys, stringing words together willy-nilly on bead chains, then scattering them like sparkling baubles in a heap.

There’s a lot to like here and hopefully these three will keep working again, trim the fat and lock in for an even more thrilling ride next time.

It has a good sound to it, but as a whole, the misty quality in many of the songs doesn’t have much of a lasting impact.

Some of the half-crazed momentum is missed, particularly during the meandering tracks that end the LP. But mostly the Warlocks thrive in this environment of release-free tension, letting Skull Worship seethe rather than rage, and it’s no less effective for the restraint.

It is, obviously, a tribute to Fela’s lasting power and influence that so many different artists want to play his music, and not at all surprising that he was better at it than most of them. Still, no one wants to hear Fela’s fiery grooves diluted, slicked over, chilled out and made more commercially palatable.

They are trying too hard for precocious-ness, not enough for worn-in beauty.