The striking thing about Justin Townes Earle's new record is the variety of styles it visits in just over 30 minutes. Just as striking, this variety doesn't come across as dabbling or disparity.

Bare Bones is a beautifully slow-cooked album that encourages us to look on the bright side. Not a bad message these days.

Unlike his spotty debut, this is a seamless, brilliantly produced affair featuring his unmatched contemporary pop technique and songwriting craftsmanship.

With the help of an expert new backing band, Oldham wrings a polished grace out of this material, from ballads ('I Don't Belong to Anyone') to smoldering anthems ('Afraid Ain't Me').

With fewer instrumental tracks than previous efforts, the band's lovelorn and off-kilter view of the universe finally gets a starring role.

The album will be attractive to head bangers, math rockers, and now even classic-rock devotees thanks to guitarists Brent Hinds's and Bill Kelliher's deep devotion to the almighty riff.

On A Woman, A Man Walked By, they create a world both beautiful and depraved, an unhinged record heavy on heartache and bristling with aggression.

The Stockholm-based trio has also piped in a good deal of lyrical gravity--another contrast to PB&J's persistently perky first album--and the best tunes have a welcome heft.

For a taste of the power of positivity, look no further than Martina McBride's splendid new album, Shine.

The band does not so much make this record as keep it from flying apart. The intoxicating sound is matched with incisive word play, with the Felices using quirky laments and dark, urban poetry to bridge hillbilly and hipster.

The Canadian quartet is back with Fantasies, another extra-strength pop album, anchored by 'Help I'm Alive,' another extra-strength pop anthem.

Its 12th full-length album fits neatly into its discography while sounding contemporary and building on the trio's lean electro-rock.

There are no chart-baiting superstar guest vocalists or gimmicks, just gut-punching, funky, loose-limbed, rock 'n' soul jams recorded in down-and-dirty sessions without an inch of fat.

The unabashed emotion in their all-out approach will surely appeal to fans of raw yet sentimental Southern rock, Weezer and Modest Mouse followers, and angst-ridden teens.

Could this really be Chester French's first album? Love the Future sounds too wise--and too catchy--to possibly be the debut from recent Harvard grads D.A. Wallach and Max Drummey

The results are coolly sophisticated, an unfussy, mostly instrumental set of slink-and-slide joints shot through with a harmonic imagination that turns even a traditional hymn into an after-hours swing.

The production throughout is more soulful and seamless than on previous efforts.

Proving itself to be more than a reunion cash-in, Heaven & Hell--the re-brand for Black Sabbath with Ronnie James Dio on vocals--has a batch of new material that is every bit as menacingly delightful as 2007's concert tour that revived the lineup after 15 years.

A model of crisp economy and deep craft, Gardot's singular vision spans bossa nova ("Les Etoile"), blues ('Who Will Comfort Me'), noir ('Your Heart Is as Black as Night'), art song ('The Rain'), and a fistful of romantic ballads that are at once timeless and thrillingly original.

You won't glean much more about those people and places than you knew going in, but Clark's strange angles and fanciful settings pack a visceral punch.

Harper leaves a few arrows unstrung from his deep musical quiver here, but the ones he fires all seem to hit their mark.

With a dual guitar attack that's resolutely old-school but lyrics that often take on contemporary subject matter, Sez So has heart, soul, and swagger to spare.

While the material is strong, this is all about Michele's stylish but subtle vocalizing and its jazzy inflections and nuances.

The appropriately named Sewn Together finds 50-year-old Curt Kirkwood and his 48-year-old brother Cris Kirkwood crafting mongrel music as fine as anything in the band's catalog.

Easily the band's most engrossing and dense album yet, Veckatimest subsumes the listener in dreamy washes of colliding instrumentation and symphonic crescendos.

Refreshed and uplifted. Those are two things that the best pop records leave you feeling, and that's definitely the end result of listening to Manners, the debut album from Passion Pit.

Long branded a thinking man's rocker, Cocker seems refreshed to simply bash through an electrifying set of tunes concerned more with appropriate vibe than surgical precision. It's deeper than you think.

Thomas Mars sings with a casual amiability so hard to resist that it helps carry Phoenix through some of the less immediate material on the album's back half.

The duo has left the cartoon buffoonery behind and drill down on making a rattling, raucous record.

Elvis Costello has flirted with country music in the 28 years since his classic covers homage "Almost Blue," but "Secret" marks a full-blown return to Nashville with splendid results.

Ingredients from those progressive forays ensure that the new tunes sound fresh even as the album is marked with such Sonic signatures as artful contrasts and angular arrangements.

Sometimes observing that a band keeps making the same record is an insult. Not so with Rancid--and not when the records are this good.

It’s the type of near-perfect, swooning synth-pop rush that Oakey was riding with the Human League in the ’80s.

Whether tackling Broadway showtunes or John Prine, or Simon and Garfunkel, the laconic alt-rocker nimbly transforms songs until they sound like they could be his own. That pixie dust extends to Varshons.

Like with many good rock records, bits of whimsy, melancholy, confusion, and joy swirl around the songs of Wilco (the album). So while it may not feel as groundbreaking as previous releases, it’s just as human.

As much as Dark Night of the Soul hinges on its creators' vision, the album comes to life through its collaborators.

Guitarist Omar Rodriguez-Lopez and singer Cedric Bixler-Zavala are the creative duo driving the band and once again deliver on a standing promise to blow any mind that is willing to stay open.

Taylor’s tunes build and build like good dramas; he tells stories through song, and the music does the talking as much as the lyrics do.

Helm blends the secular and gospel worlds with an almost seamless precision. Fans of the Band will love this.

It's very much a smartly produced album that, while adhering to the blueprint for commercial-radio country music, successfully lassos a loose party vibe.

As usual, singer and songwriter Jay Farrar has a few things on his mind, and his lyrics have grown more plain-spoken and potent with time.

McCombs’s well-mannered missives certainly aren’t cheery, but they manage to stir up disarming warmth nonetheless.

If most B&S records can be considered indie-pop, short-story collections, you might call this a bildungsroman in shorts. And while the pages of this musical story are dog-eared and familiar, as with any favored paperback, that’s just a testament to its continued readability.

Tribute To captures James’s sense of admiration, anguish, and awe for the quiet Beatle in an intimate solo recording that is three parts haunting reverb and one part pop melancholy.

It takes on joy and loss with equal measure, and at its best--'Still Remember Love,' 'Lose Myself'--lands at the intersection of the two.

Rather than indulging the impulse to ride grooves this mellow off into the sunset, the band keeps one eye trained on the meter (most songs clock in under three minutes), while the other drifts off into the clouds, like on the ’60s-era antiwar singalong 'People Say.'

Most of Little Hells is musically quite simple, giving the sense that whatever Nadler has to say rests entirely in her sound, not in the songs themselves

The Cambridge collective employs its considerable--and considerably appealing--strengths with gleeful assurance. Euphoric cross-hatched harmonies; gobs of fuzzy, low-end guitars; and various embellishments (mellotron, organ, Casio synth guitar, etc.) make the whole shebang sound like one big, loopy carousel ride at a cracked carnival.

For many listeners Webber’s descent into Cat Power-style calamity will be the hook; others may find it a precious affectation. Then again, some people can’t see any beauty in a lonely overcast day.

Mostly, though, Ellipse delivers an inventive yet intimate batch of laptop-pop gems.

Bondy’s supple vocals and the roomy song arrangements let him shake off the world-weary gloom at times for the more peaceful evocations of the piano waltz 'On the Moon.'

Slaughterhouse’s new album is relentlessly lyrical, which is the point. Equally talented and underrated, Royce, Joell Ortiz, Crooked I, and Joe Budden came together and instantly created a situation where the sum was greater than the individual parts.

Norwegian songsmith Sondre Lerche has done it again: assembled another batch of perfect pop tunes that manage to be upbeat while wistful, optimistic while nostalgic.

It’s spacey, adventurous, and ridiculously intriguing if only because it’s so different.

The music here is lush or spare when necessary. More singing in this context makes her shine more brightly.

If you prefer your pop preternaturally gleeful, Mika is your man. The Boy Who Knew Too Much, his second kaleidoscopic pile-up, is chock-full of bright, brash anthems.

The album reminds you that those budding superstars can’t beat Carey at her own game.

At 67, Streisand’s gorgeous tones and powers of interpretation are utterly intact, and also front-and-center thanks to producer Diana Krall’s class-conscious pairing of her own understated quartet with Johnny Mandel’s velvety orchestrations.

With Rick Rubin at the helm, employing his trademark austerity but not overdoing the dryness, the group swings for the fences musically, lyrically, vocally, and emotionally. Its batting average is sterling.

This is essentially an R&B record with Ghostface sounding a bit like Barry White on a bender. Tracks such as 'Let’s Stop Playin’,' featuring a typically lush John Legend, are very good, with Ghost’s lyrical skills as fluid as the track he rhymes over.

Burma’s ragged and raging record is a start-to-finish blast, but don’t miss out on the party’s substance: crafty vocals, heroic guitars, dark humor, steely resolve.

Embryonic is not as strange as "Zaireeka,'' the Lips' play-four-CDs-at-the-same-time experiment, but it's up there. On the other hand, Embryonic is completely absorbing. It grows on you in a way that the earlier records simply cannot do.

While memories of the accompanying visuals of the jokes from the series helps, it is by no means strictly necessary to enjoy the humor and musicianship of Freaky.

If you like the country side of Lovett, which is how he started in the ’80s, you’ll love this record.

This is a set of power pop with hooky choruses and chiming harmonies to go along with splashes of synths mixed in for throwback '80s flavor (especially 'Red Belt'). It makes for a 40-minute blast of smart songcraft.

Phrazes for the Young blusters its way through eight songs full of killer hooks and choruses, and then? Well, it’s gone, as fun and fleeting as a carnival ride that’s just a memory a few hours later.

Instead of trying to divine the line between earnest and ironic, Weezer fans should just sit back and enjoy what works here. And like every Weezer record, plenty does.

The band’s grim outlook remains bearable after all these years thanks to strong songcraft.

Throughout this unfussy, beautifully sung set, the 23-year-old Mario taps into the tenderness of early Maxwell.

Don’t Stop is an electro-pop truffle--a tasty confection with a hard, glossy shell surrounding a smooth, melt-in-your-ear interior of cheeky, playful lyrics.

She seems liberated from the expectations of what her music is supposed to sound like, and the album is flush with fresh production ideas and a varied sonic palette.

Well, there’s no doubt that he delivers with a rigorous, intelligent set, but let’s not go overboard. Attention Deficit proves there’s still room for growth.

The music, accordingly, is languorous and minor-key, the guitar work of Matt Mondanile chiming and tuneful in the manner of the Strokes. Nostalgia is carried along by the wind, along with the smell of salt water and hot pretzels.

If this is as close as you get to hearing Waits live, it’s an illuminating snapshot of an artist whose concerts are increasingly rare and compelling.

The two CDs sound terrific, documenting how gracefully both McCartney and his music are aging. His voice is robust, his charm on full blast, and the epic set of Beatles, Wings, and solo material is deepening with meaning and sentiment.

Like its namesake, this music has healing properties: the beauty of its melodies and the wisdom of its words soothe the soul and remind us what a peculiar treasure Jones is, a fact too easily forgotten in the rush of passing fashions and the wake of the artist’s own pocked path.

The Bravery’s adrenaline-rush, retro-new-wave/punk rock is back with a flourish. The album is a sonic high, but a mixed bag of lyrical ups and downs.

Forget the salacious material; you come away from Untitled marveling at his craftsmanship. When he’s on his game, no modern R&B artist even approaches the Chicago veteran (here working with various producers).

The boys got most of the attention on “American Idol’’ last season, but fourth-place finisher Allison Iraheta has the last laugh with the most consistent debut album thus far.

Even in their nascent form, these songs are powerful, soulful, and hopeful.

The hits (“I Will Always Love You,’’ “9 to 5’’) are here, but the rarities make this box set essential listening for diehards and newbies alike.

It's a perfect point of introduction to one of the most challenging and satisfying talents in jazz today.

The queen of hip-hop soul splits her loyalty between three masters with the agility of a gymnast, but she manages to hold a mood with seamless transitions between each.

His materialism threads throughout So Far Gone (champagne flutes, girls, BlackBerrys, more girls), but he chases that with soft touches of humor and honesty.

The songs are meatier and dimensional, emboldened by whirling electronics, taut guitar solos, harder drums, disparate textures and moods, and a lyrical self-awareness that perhaps life isn't just one big basement dance party.

At this point, Starr’s limitations as a vocalist and a songwriter are well known. But if you’ve been on the Starr trip thus far, Y Not shouldn’t jostle you off.

Freedy Johnston last released an album of new music in 2001 (he put out an engaging covers collection in 2008), but the years since have yielded a gorgeous pop record.

Nearly half these songs are the original demos, which explains some of the austerity that makes it such a compelling listen from a band that's still at the mercy of its muse.

An unfamiliar listener coming in cold to Yeasayer’s second full-length album probably wouldn’t make it too much further than the opener, “The Children.’’ It’s a choppy, dirge-like downer, the soundtrack to a spooky submarine’s descent into the abyss in cinematic slow motion. But it would be a tragic mistake to abandon ship on this avant-pop Brooklyn trio just before the fun starts.

The eleven songs on The Sea are richer, much less accessible, and marked by a sense of loss and introspection. Bailey Rae moves closer to capturing the vividness of her live shows as she allows her bluesier and rock sides to emerge with hints of jazz in her vocal phrasings.

What makes this tower over some Buffett albums is the ballads.

There is a new energy and focus acting as the perfect foil to Hot Chip’s lyrics, which have always been remarkably clever, particularly in the emotionally stunted realm of dance music.

Or, more contemporaneously, you could say fans of fellow retro beard-rockers Fleet Foxes will find much to appreciate here. Radiohead fans, likewise, will relish “Bring Down,’’ a virtual rewrite of “Exit Music.’’ Everyone else will simply think it’s pretty.

The album is very much a producer’s piece, all layers, overdubs, and effects. Yet the swirling miasma of sound wholly suits Scott-Heron’s mood, which is angry yet humble, and even more his voice, which is rich and intent as ever.

On “Minor Love,’’ Green’s sixth solo record, he proves adept as ever traversing through the American popular songbook and filtering his findings through a hazy stoner’s smog of absurdity.

Patty Griffin has got religion, or at least the urge to sing about it, on her transcendent new gospel record. When she bends her raspy, gale-force voice to the task, it sounds as if she was born to do it.

Covering the likes of Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, and Nina Simone on last year’s “Mockingbird’’ seems to have rubbed off on her. “Crows’’ is a striking album.

Even outside the context of the movie, the songs are compelling portraits of dashed dreams.