If not quite a renaissance, Illuminations at least suggests Groban is finally ready to let some more light in.

Lee pulls it off--and has fun with the earnest sermonizing while he's at it.

Mraz’s easy charm has, over the course of his decade-plus in the spotlight, aged well.

With the creative confidence to go with his considerable skills and heart, Logic crafts some polished and appealing material.... Overall, a step up for the sophomore.

The album is solid and consistent, just not as bold as it could have and should have been.

Clancy's Tavern is dominated by songs of a different stripe, most of them about losing love or trying to cope with its loss.

Sitting alongside those covers are several new instrumentals that offer a full serving of the fuzzed-out, wah-wahed, stinging, spacey pyrotechnics of Coffey's guitar playing.

Lysandre, his solo debut, is a slip of an album, 11 songs under 30 minutes, and it's a fascinating curveball.

The results in no way surpass those towering originals--how could they, when songs such as “Wichita Lineman” and “Galveston” are towering peaks on the map of popular music? These new takes do offer some worthy alternative perspectives.

He comes across as a Southern-fried early DMX with his unabated aggression; raw, explosive verse; and hints of conscience.

The sheer heft of Communion makes it hard to absorb the songs individually while discouraging the casual spins necessary to embed them in your skull. But almost every song sounds terrific in the moment.

They're perhaps hastily put together but still fraught with a moment's sincerity that will nonetheless stick with you long after the party is over.

The tunes... are uniformly strong, and the playing and production neatly manicured, if a bit dense in places. But the lyrics are spotty at best.

This dauntingly difficult-to-sit-through disc of scattershot rhythms, quickly discarded melodies, and opaque ideas seems as much a contrarian dare to its audience as anything else. That's either good or bad news, depending on whether you find Eleanor and Matthew Friedberger's schizophrenic approach irritating or intriguing, grating or great - or maybe both.

His juxtaposition of dreamy, doors-of-perception tunes and frustrated romantic ones can feel odd, but the musical brilliance keeps the project in focus through to the angst-ridden, Harry Nilsson-like folk of “Get the Point.” Just don’t expect a light listening experience.

Green Day still sounds best when it's confused, angry, and playing with abandon.

An underwhelming middle stretch aside, this cellar is worth exploring.

Sounds like Bruno Mars is trying to rough up his image a bit on his strong, if sometimes oddly lyrically aggressive, second album.

Paramore is certainly a sharp enough unit that doesn’t lack for energy, and Brand New Eyes features enough interesting ideas to take notice. All it needs is to double the ones it has, and it’ll be a band that’s foolish to ignore.

Metheny transforms balladic pop tunes into abnormally sophisticated easy listening.

With its sense of unease, quiet, and longing, much of Anti is unlikely to grab ears on first listen or play well to Rihanna’s broadest base of fans. But it is an interesting artistic curveball in her heretofore hits-driven career.

While the album is uniformly sleek and upbeat, a few tunes hew too closely to the generic template; but as boy bands go, fans--and their wary parents--could do much worse.

While Sia has declared her awareness of the cheese factor in her hired-gun material, with its broad themes of self-empowerment and survival, she has a real gift for making it palatable.

Those first drawn in by the Stax/Warp hybrid he offered on 2005’s “Multiply” will find the energy of this effort familiar, but he’s added a splash of New Jack, and synth trimmings from ’80s freestyle.

Spare and quirky, like a dub remix of some forgotten 1980s Top 40 hit, it slowly, repeatedly builds to a swooping chorus all the more melodious for its relative rarity.

This roots-rap hybrid might appall rap purists, but it’s a striking improvement over 2011’s messy, compromised “Radioactive.”

With cuts like the melodically nifty “Taking Off” and the high-impact jangle-and-scree “Careless,” Beach Fossils find the right balance often enough.

Drummer Jean-Paul Gaster keeps things going at a crisp clip while managing subtle shadings. The drummer’s tight control and bassist Dan Maines’s aggressive low-end let guitarist Tim Sult go nuts.

The music--Holland co-produced the disc--is stripped to its essence but is often upbeat and graceful with cameos by guitarists M. Ward and Marc Ribot.

It is an auspicious beginning for a double album so strong it's almost irritating that it took so long to release it.

Green Day does its best to trap both the manic and the melodic energy of the big venue tour it undertook for "21st Century Breakdown" on Awesome as (Expletive).

This is an agreeable, singles-going-steady kind of collection that should make for endless radio fodder.

The 21-song set, with some misfires, overflows with top-shelf talent; and Snoop's rhymes are crisp and often slightly nostalgic.

It dabbles in the kind of commercial electropop that's coming up all over the continent--but it costs the band some of its earlier warmth and subtlety.

There is trial and guarded promise in these songs, with Darnielle's restless voice finding human constants in even the most nonhuman of scenarios.

She'll no doubt weather criticism for such a broad palette, and for a debut called Who You Are, it certainly doesn't shed any definitive light on its maker's artistic identity.

This week the prolific tunesmith’s flagship group, the Magnetic Fields, delivers Realism, the folk-inspired companion piece to 2008’s “Distortion,’’ a fuzzed-out homage to the Jesus and Mary Chain.

At times “Mothership” can get a little wearying. Part of that comes from the grab-you-by-the-shoulders urgency of the paired vocalists, who can be a bit much even once you’ve bought into their good-guy bad-guy conceit.

The culture police might have hemorrhages listening to these uncensored tracks, but anyone with a sense of humor and an appreciation for smartly crafted mainstream R&B will appreciate the singer-songwriter’s return to his wild ways.

While there is a darker sensibility thanks to a larger quotient of guitars than pianos this time out, there are also fewer immediate standouts.

Women as Lovers reveals itself as a nifty little album.

More than a couple of the mid-tempo light rockers here lack teeth, some of them even lack gums. We’ve heard Switchfoot as weepy soundtrack peddlers before, but Switchfoot the rock band, it turns out, is pretty darn good.

On All Things Bright he treads ingratiatingly melodic, lyrically twee, electro-pop territory that will be familiar to fans.

Despite its flaws, Hudson's debut comes on much like her "Dreamgirls" character, with admirable self-assurance and real-girl sensuality.

For the most part, it works well and sounds fresh.

From the wild, ominous hard-bop of 'The Cell' to space-age chaos of 'Twinkle' to shimmying, shimmering 'Me,' there's never a dull moment--but more than a few bewildering ones.

Jones has modified his elongated flow, though he doesn't show much growth as an MC. Still, compared to the obsessive self-promotion of his debut, the restraint here makes it infinitely more listenable.

Instead of another Black Hippy declaration, These Days... sounds very of-the-moment.

As always, Wilson loves to toy with melody and phrasing, a penchant that often yields delicious results.

While those [early] songs lay the base for Springsteen’s eventual legend, the other tracks whip through his catalog quickly and almost too efficiently.

While it would be inaccurate to apply the loaded designation maturing to this follow-up, the 12 songs here are more fully realized: the result of a band comfortable pushing against, while still embodying, the touchstones of its form.

MDNA isn't a perfect Madonna album, but it greatly surpasses its immediate predecessors when Madonna cracks that hard candy shell and allows us to get at the gooey emotional center: This is a Madonna who is angry, mournful, occasionally funny, and most of all, specific.

This year's model is not quite as stark or stirring as its predecessor; the emphatic melodic thrusts and vocal bravado of "Whose Hands Are These" and "No Words" will resonate with fans of Diamond's adult-contemporary glory.

Underneath the bravado is some heart. Unfortunately there are throwaways.

The diverse moods may be authentic, but occasionally, hitting this many targets feels a bit engineered.

He enjoys modern arrangements and judicious cross-genre excursions that edge up on reggae and rock, and when he lets go, his guitar lines possess the playful muscularity of a tussle among rambunctious friends.

Amid the attempts at sexual healing and cosmic, eco-soul unity, Thicke crafts some beautiful atmospheres.

Even his derivative muddles exhibit such an irresistible zing that you find yourself laughing at and singing along to and not worrying that maybe his heroes did it first and did it better.

Rucker strictly plays by the rules but Charleston surpasses its predecessor on the strength of more vibrant and charming tunes.

Thirty years in, LL still spins taut couplets as often as he licks his lips and delivers them with nimble style.

As consistent and meticulously constructed as ever, Welcome to the Fishbowl is die-cast Chesney.

While the music might be chilled-out, an innate tension invites deeper listening.

Clearly, the members of Coldplay haven’t completely shaken off their ghosts. But just as clearly, they’ve found joy again in “Dreams.”

Some couplings are brilliant.... Too often, though, the sheer familiarity of Girl Talk's building blocks detracts from his particular accomplishment.

The foursome collaborates with Flaming Lips producer Dave Fridmann for some trippy soul-tinged rock experiments that make for a fascinating if somewhat hit-or-miss listen.

The songs drift between familiar buoys of Echo & the Bunnymen and Simple Minds (with producer Mark Verbos lending more electronic thump than was heard on 2011’s “By the Hedge”), but it’s a tenuous comfort, a listlessness that feels endangered.

The lyrical immediacy of the words serves her best when dealing with passion and hurt, but when she tries to excavate the mysteries of love, complexity eludes her.

"Dirty Laundry" is brave (and dramatic) stuff. But the track itself, a forgettable slow groove, makes the tune more compelling as confession than music. People should venture further into Talk a Good Game, because a good chunk of the rest of the album--a mix of easy pop, shiny dance tracks, and a dab of retro soul--reflects a better balance of sound and sentiment.

This is a challenging album that Frank Zappa, Rush, Miles Davis, or Slayer could each call their own.

Guitars and Microphones is right in line with Pierson’s penchant for spiky dance pop, but it’s also a more revealing look at the atomically redheaded siren.

Not surprisingly, its revisitations and recombinations are more or less of a piece with the approach of the earlier full-length, and they're far from leftovers.

While there is nothing as giddily enjoyable as the left-field “Mexicoma” or as lovely as “Book of John,” the 13-track Sundown is a solid effort featuring a few stand-out tracks, slightly better than average radio fare, and some pleasant filler.

Popular Songs, the trio’s 16th album, is another pleasing installment of cleverly assembled songs that unite homage and originality.

Rock or Bust is a solid, if short, sharp shock.

If you're going to be tooling down the middle of the road, Learn to Love is perfectly pleasant accompaniment.

The Florida native's fifth disc seems less of a struggle for brand identity, but it's still scarred by past glories.

A couple of the meandering instrumentals fade into the woodwork, but in general In Prism proves a formidable (if long-overdue) return to the studio.

Nobody's Daughter probably won't restore Love's credibility as a rock musician--her moment has passed--but unlike so many of her peers she's still weirdly, thrillingly believable.

Tracks like the straightforward “Huntin’, Fishin’, and Lovin’ Every Day” and the shimmering, wistful “Just Over” apply Bryan’s smooth charm to aspects of the Nashville template, his omnivorous nature peeks through here and there.

Trumpeter Scott and his quintet simmer and stretch their way through vast emotional terrain.

Too much of The London Sessions is given over to frisky house tracks like “Follow” and “Nobody But You,” which don’t hit nearly as hard as the rest, but Blige has maintained her fierce authority throughout.

While there are a few lulls, none are glaringly offensive, and the band builds up so much good will with the stronger material that it’s easy to surrender again to these Chains.

The music is patently dirty and rough, but Pop’s subdued moments sound more solo career than Stooge.

The generic gloom of “Loner” is the only flat spot among the eight songs.

Maybe too spirited at times; without the madcap intensity of Hanna’s best work, too much is simply frenzied.

Wrapped in Red should prove a welcome gift to fans of the powerful pop star as Kelly Clarkson mixes classic carols and hymns with several originals co-written by the singer.

Sleigh Bells tends to emphasize sonic construction over the songs themselves, but it usually works.

Croweology serves as a reminder that the Crowes may be one of the country's most underrated and misunderstood bands.

The album's lengthy tracks are daunting for the casual listener, but the CD casts a spell reminiscent in its raw power and political fervor of TV on the Radio's triumphant "Return to Cookie Mountain."

He may offer less of an alternative than he once did, but that old-school concern and a wider sonic palette keep Allan just this side of the mainstream.

From a purely musical standpoint, it’s a pretty good album--even when she’s throwing this many ideas against the wall, Swift is too talented a songwriter to miss her target more than a few times per record.

The electronic soul band toes the fine line between club cuts and after-hours ballads.

She and co-producer Mike Stevens keep the production mostly clean and warm, though the song selection is sometimes curious.

In keeping with the New England Conservatory alums’ track record, its peaks are so high and so satisfying (and come frequently enough) that the band isn’t sunk by the competent if uninspired jazzy lounge-funk that it falls back on when it runs out of ideas for its songs for grown-ups raised on thinking-person’s pop music from the ’70s, ’80s and beyond.

Supermodel unfurls with bright, sunny melodies that bloom on songs that pick up where its Grammy-nominated debut, “Torches,” left off.

This fourth release from the Texas native is in a singer-songwriter mode; four songs feature just Jarosz and acoustic guitar, while others are tautly arranged progressive-folk gems with backup from guitarists Luke Reynolds (Guster) and Jedd Hughes (Emmylou Harris and Rodney Crowell).

While the music always beckons, the words sometimes repel.

Taking this stuff seriously is futile as contradictions abound is he a pimp supreme or family man? Hustler or impresario? It all works, though, if you just go with his blunted-out flow.