Despite his delicate--make that dainty--designs, Henson also knows how to set a fanciful mood, albeit one that’s singularly subdued.

This album feels more like a curio of a bygone era rather than an overlooked gem.

With Holly, Waterhouse really comes into his own, branding himself as a retro crossover crooner whose immediate intent appears intended to instigate a ‘60s soul revival.

No Age has made an album devoid of joy, yet I couldn’t help but smile when listening to it.

Ultimately, The Body Wins serves up an unusual brew, one that spans the expanse between a perky bounce ("Mannequin Woman") and haunting circumstance ("Hooray for Love"). Both eerie and intriguing.

Nothing may not be particularly imaginative, but it’s so competent at its craft it’s hard to imagine any fan of the style complaining.

The pair keeps the door unlocked for the curious, but doesn’t put out tea and cakes in welcome, either.

Lumineers is an album that successfully weaves a homespun, roots-folk feel with poetic prowess.

Night Fiction is beautifully played, full of the clean, lovely sounds that can be made on traditional rock instruments, but it’s not very memorable.

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

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.

Love Is Love isn’t clear cut, reading at times like the various stages of grief.

Flowers is his third solo record and, unsurprisingly, it’s a collection of lush, textured compositions that, intentionally or not, accurately depict the graceful, exciting and endless landscapes that Iceland is so famed for.

Future Standards feels a little too respectful, well-done but static and without much animating fire.

There are a few more hooks on this latest release and the production is clearer, but it certainly doesn’t water down the sentiment.

"Det Hester!" and "Dresinen" vary the formula a bit with, respectively, squelchy synth-bass and fuzzy electric guitar, while the album-closing "Aldri Ska Me Ha Det Goy" is a oozing slo-mo ballad that layers Endresen's vocals to suggest The Four Seasons Sing Pet Sounds.

Worship the Sun has the lemonade-y ambiguity of all good pop.

This is the kind of show that often carries a “had to be there” air, especially given the heavy participation of the crowd and the freewheeling nature of the performance. But Chilton’s charm and talent make Electricity By Candlelight wear surprisingly well.

The songs on Palindrome Hunches are certainly pretty and play perfectly as background music for a variety of endeavors (washing dishes, vacuuming, etc.) but not much on here really stands out and catches your attention.

Deer Tick’s fifth and latest offering is a tad darker and surprisingly personal compared to earlier efforts. The result is ultimately a stronger album, but it takes a little time to get to the good stuff.

The Canadian chanteuse offers up a series of deceptively delicate entreaties that quickly give way to the sort of emphatic rhythms and boisterous melodies that reflect an unmistakably bold confidence.

In short, if you liked what you heard on MCI and MCII, MCIII is more of the same, only slathered in lush arrangements with a little less of the raw outbursts of his earlier garage-y grunge sound.

Not everything needs to be emoted so hard, not every line requires an instrumental ta-dah! Try a little simplicity next time. It makes the big swells all the more impressive.

A little mellower and a little more introspective, but just as impactful as he was two decades ago when he first started showing up on the radio, Collingwood is proof that growing up and growing older isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

While Burdon himself remains indignant, and indomitable, his tenacious stance is coached in songs that rarely measure up to the classics credited to him early on.

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.

At a half hour, Too True might seem brief, but Penny makes the most of every minute.

Derivative? Sure. But also blissfully compelling and entertaining.