Ultimately, Estelle's fine pop instincts (Time After Time) buoy True Romance through some choppy waters.

His music takes the spare depth of Lorde and Tove Lo as a starting point, adding a sharp precision that--along with a floating tenor alternating between a less-sappy Sam Smith and a steelier Jeff Buckley--fuels the tense urgency of “Riot,” and sells even insubstantial material like “Love You Crazy.”

This is Americana in its purest form, where gospel, folk, blues, soul, and Celtic melodies all make sense on the same album when interpreted by a dexterous vocalist and multi-instrumentalist of Giddens’s caliber.

Overall, a nice effort by these never-say-die Scots.

Father John Misty’s I Love You Honeybear takes a more ramshackle approach to the same style [as Beck], with vocals stretching into the distance, strings drenching fingerpicked acoustics, and saloon pianos aplenty. But with a default mode of arch snarkery, Misty doesn’t have much to say; he gets off a sharp line here and there, but can’t string them together into anything greater.

Like the pianist and composer’s other trio records, it makes for a satisfying, portable Iyer.

While the touchstones are evident--you can hear wisps of everyone from Vince Gill to Steve Earle to Lynyrd Skynyrd--Blackberry Smoke has assuredly carved out its own spot.

The infectiousness and jagged, bass-heavy production in some of the songs (“Like a Hott Boyy”) can’t compensate for the disc’s hollow core.

Produced by buddy Ryan Adams, and featuring guest shots from Bob Mould and Johnny Depp, Ghosts is a gorgeous, contemplative effort rooted in loss.

Save for “Superstar,” which falls just short of being tranformed into a Julie London torch ballad, Krall’s darkly sultry voice isn’t enough to enliven her material.

Far from an indulgent wallow in saccharine nostalgia--and disproving absurd accusations of a quick-buck dip into a fountain of easygoing oldies a la Rod Stewart--the album is lean and subtle

On its fifth record, the group creates a rich, fully realized work.

Worthy is another finely curated set of songs.

Then Came the Morning never overcomes its distance; Williams can keen all he wants, but he’s no louder than someone speaking right to you, right in front of you.

Musically, the band mixes its customary blast beat-driven grindcore maelstroms--the punishing one-two assault of “Smash a Single Digit” and “Metaphorically Screw You,” the layered, complex “Cesspits”--with industrial dolor (“Dear Slum Landlord”) and junk-bin clangor (the title track): caustic nods to influential circa-early ’80s noise-mongers like Public Image Ltd. and Swans.

Alas, not enough of the songs have great tunes to go along with that production and vocal quality.

Sometimes his influences, especially Nas (“On and On”), are transparent, but nothing here feels derivative. The production, filled with scratches, sonic invention, and live instrumentation by DJ Premier and Lawrence’s Statik Selektah, among others, often matches the MC’s audacity.

There are other winners here: “The Mephistopheles of Los Angeles” (sheer autobiography by Manson) and the unexpected “Killing Strangers,” a slow, dirgey track that appears to pinpoint a terrorist’s mind-set: “We got guns, you better run, we’re killing strangers.” Elsewhere, the album often flounder.

What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World is one of the indie-rock band’s most enjoyable and lively efforts in recent memory.

Thrilling and joyous, fierce and focused, the women sound like they’re having the time of their lives sinking their teeth back into the music together.

Evermotion is an airy, winsome release that puts less focus on guitars, dabbling instead in horns and electronic and new wave sounds, to terrific, moody effect.

For better or for worse, Title, Trainor’s full-length debut, is more of the same.

Uptown Special sounds like a true labor of love; it’s also a sinful amount of fun and unabashed in its pursuit of a good time.

Almost every song has a mournful tone, and too many sound alike: slow, ponderous ballads steeped in negativity.

Backed by his new band the Vanguard, to whom the album is jointly credited, his sprawling funk grooves and pointed (if characteristically indecipherable) lyrics are still strikingly timely.

It is not an instant classic, but it is the work that fans who admire Nicki Minaj the rapper, this critic included, have been waiting for her to make.

The story line is not for the squeamish, but the music often has an exhilarating power.

The 12 songs are untamed thrill rides that recall some of New York’s rock innovators, particularly Lou Reed and Television.

He’s undeniably an intelligent MC with a sense of social justice, which makes all the half-realized ideas, indulgence, and misogyny (clueless “No Role Modelz”) puzzling.

The 73 minutes of music on Cracker’s new double album would fit comfortably on a single disc, but Berkeley to Bakersfield is an intentional act of musical centrifuge that separates the band’s rock and country elements into separate containers.

Sucker is better when Charli has a bite.

Throughout, he continues to challenge us in ways that demand attention.

She & Him, the duo of Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward, cover a lot of ground here, rendering each song with warmth and radiance.

These songs are failed epics in miniature.

Despite some padding (an instrumental, unnecessary vocal cover) and ragged musical edges, the most prolific member of the Wu-Tang Clan continues to set the standard.

An unfortunate monotony sets in with the slow tempos, but Nelson’s acoustic guitar provides some life on Django Reinhardt’s “Nuages.” This appears to be a special album for Willie; whether it will be so for his fans is open to debate.

Richard’s “One Life at a Time” is roots-rock for the barroom, and Linda simply shimmers on the folk lament “Bonny Boys.” Kami’s buoyant “Careful” proves she’s the pop singer of the bunch. Zak gives “Root So Bitter” some pluck and pickup, while Jack’s “At the Feet of the Emperor” is a sumptuous instrumental. Teddy steals the show with the title track.

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 RZA’s desire to evolve is laudable (drumline, terrific), the flawed musical execution on sluggish tracks “Ron O’Neal,” “Miracle,” and “Preacher’s Daughter” is at odds with the rappers’ combustible virtuosity.

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

It’s as if Idol stumbled into a Renaissance Faire, answered someone’s questions about his old hits, then decided to record it, surveying his lazy, crazy, drug-hazy Sunset Strip days to the accompaniment of flutes and lutes.

These 14 songs are sun-kissed with playful psychedelia and a sense of stardust.

Some other songs miss the mark, including the clumsy “Concrete and Cherry Blossom” and the annoying “Kill or Cure,” but diehard fans will still find plenty to like.

The disc ends timidly with two sentimental songs, in an attempt to inject soul into this mostly hollow affair.

Guetta’s signature throb--so loud in its way that it almost loops back around to silence--is inescapable, overpowering almost every other song with a booming lushness that’s used seemingly by numbing default.

With the help of producer Marc Shaiman (“Hairspray”), Midler is both reverent and mischievous on It’s the Girls.

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.

A well-curated hits collection.

A sprawling four-CD set of demos, alternate takes, B-sides, live cuts, promo-only tracks, and other miscellany.

This is a euphoric trip to the apocalypse, whether in a dig at social media in “Virtually Real” or a look at daily craziness in “The Way.”

Avonmore is all lush layers and quiet urgency with songs of love won and lost, offering a mesmerizing combination of sophistication, melancholy, and danceability.

The 69-minute opus isn’t always accessible, but inviting, even sentimental, tracks (“Put Your Number in My Phone,” “Picture Me Gone”) balance out the more surreal, irony-laden larks (“Jell-O,” “Sexual Athletics”).

Four does not break or even bend any rules in pop music, and it certainly doesn’t aim to be cutting edge. Its mix of driving power pop, muscular harmonies, and acoustic alchemy is as manicured as the group’s previous bestsellers.

More than once on Allergic to Water, she finds the razor-thin overlap between seemingly incompatible ideas, and claims a position that’s not just clearly stated but tenable.

He makes his points quickly and it feels like a small but potent dose of reality.

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.

Sonic Highways isn’t a bad album, merely a disappointingly bloodless one; after all, one thing Foo Fighters have never lacked in the past is immediacy.

Rice’s Fantasy, coproduced by Rick Rubin, is often dark and beautiful, featuring dramatic orchestrations, intricate arrangements, and hushed, swooning vocals.

If it is indeed her swan song, it’s a triumphant sendoff that reiterates what a singular figure she has been in rock music. It’s among her broadest work, spanning intimate ballads (“Love More or Less”), apocalyptic art songs (“Late Victorian Holocaust”), and harrowing blues (“True Lies”).

The baker’s dozen tracks on the collection break like so: two classics, six above-average cuts, and six songs, like “People,” that are just fine.

For an album that’s seemingly been in turnaround for so long, Broke sounds very much of the moment.

His second album is confident and hooky, spanning funk and reggae and psych.

Most of the drops on the 15-track disc disappoint; too many songs never truly take off.

You can admire its uncompromising spirit, but you can just as easily loathe its saccharine sound. After hearing some of these songs live in their acoustic forms, it’s jarring to see how Young has neutered them on record.... The album’s saving grace is its deluxe edition, which presents all 10 songs in stripped-down, intimate settings that allow you to savor and bask in their beauty.

The music is a bright, shiny, and bland pastiche of electronic pop and faint nods to new wave and R&B. And the songwriting feels generic, a departure from the personable details that have made her a unique voice.

Kelley and Hubbard are genial enough hosts but the preponderance of monochromatic, midtempo tracks--occasionally featuring awkward, rapid fire rap-sung interludes--blend into an indistinguishable blur that may be sufficient while the party lasts but aren’t as memorable after the buzz wears off.

The aptly named album is all killer, no filler.

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

The singer-songwriter co-produces with Rick Rubin accentuating immediacy and intimacy. The originals, especially a poppy, introspective “Cat & the Dog Trap” and trenchant “Gold Digger,” are among his finest since resurfacing in 2006.

At age 72, Franklin can still shut down the competition with a breathtaking, gospel-trained grace and power.

On his first album of new material in eight years, the Michigan rocker is in good form.

These radio-ready confections teem with smart hooks and fuller choruses.

Haunting, jarring, and oddly beautiful, Soused defies the idea of “easy listening,” but its singular vision and harnessing of the avant-garde makes it one of the year’s most compelling artistic statements.

The music, executive produced by Pharrell, is inviting, soulful, and sonically inventive (the mournful “Light ’Em Up RIP Doe B” is especially impressive). The rhymes and subjects are so stale, though.

This might finally break Jessie J stateside, but by trying to be all things to all people, the soul is drained out of it.

This is a mostly meandering, unfocused collection of half-finished sketches.

All ambition and no boldness, a solidly constructed modern country album without much in the way of inspiration.

While there’s a back-to-basics glee in the album’s geeky power-chord pop tracks, a largely instrumental three-song closing suite is neatly epic, triggering Pink Floyd chills.

Less glitchy and bass-led than FlyLo’s previous work, it enters him in the canon of mystics and psychedelic journeyers who’ve sought to crack the doors of perception.

24 Karat Gold is Stevie at her Nicks-iest: a gold dust woman, caught mid-twirl.

Whatever chemistry singers Charles Kelley and Hillary Scott had fizzles on 747.... 747 also suffers from baffling sequencing, opening with three downbeat songs and closing with the train-track skip of kiss-off “Just a Girl,” a song with so much modesty and so little finality to it that the record seems to simply stop.

The hooks are restrained, yet Mellencamp never loses sight of melodies and his fine song sense. Unsettled and disconsolate, these songs fittingly reflect their time.

Williams adapted the song from a poem by her father, Miller Williams, and it gives Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone its emotional compass if not its melodic direction. The rest of this double album, Williams’s first, settles into a deep groove that suggests the singer-songwriter was fired up and couldn’t--and shouldn’t--whittle her latest to a standard 10 songs.

The results are extremely life-affirming.

In time, Boxes likely will be seen as belonging to Radiohead’s business-side innovations more than to its musical ones. It’s enjoyable yet slight, a hedged bet on a still-unproven concept.

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

This album debuted at No. 1 in her native Ireland, and it has the muscle to catch on here.

Sukierae explores a variety of sonic avenues, but on balance stays in a contemplative, acoustic place with melancholy waltzes, hazy finger-picked ballads, and dreamy remembrances carrying the day.

Their respective styles are occasionally at odds, but to amusing effect.

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.

Aiko’s producers, including No I.D. and Dot Da Genius, create expansive, inventive tracks that mirror the allure of her lithe vocals and intimate phrasing.

“All That We Have Is Now” sets the tone for a casually stately blend of happy-go-lucky tracks that build to the Little Feat-ish “Never Forget to Boogie” and the mock-bravado of “Don’t Be Shy.”

The new effort often feels forced and rushed, with an overdose of stylized ’50s jargon.

Yes, it’s big and shiny and sometimes bombastic, but it also takes chances and pushes forward the band’s legacy.

Plant has glossed all of this as “trance meets Zep,” but it’s more: a kaleidoscope that shows he still has much to say.

The performances finally have weight, if not depth.

Far from losing control, Adams sounds like he’s in total command.

A return to form, it brims with fresh ideas, in everything from the looser production to the chordal detours that suggest the trio is ready to tweak its formula.