An album rooted in the low end of the emotional spectrum is a risk, but through fastidious instrumental detailing and lyrics that evince sympathy even when they’re at their most cutting, Mann crafts a melancholic atmosphere that is worth repeated listens, whether as a means for catharsis or as a well-crafted cloud to ease the punishing brightness of a too-sunny day.

Terminology aside, it’s a sprawling, star-studded release, and an impressive achievement--one that signals a new level of ambition for Drake.

The Lips return with a moody, industrial, and hypnotic CD that’s probably what Major Tom would be listening to, sitting in his tin can.

11 Short Stories finds the band serving up pint after pint of a familiar brew--the heady blend of fist-pumping anthems, traditional Irish instrumentation, and scrappy, blue-collar grit that’s made them a household name--while using their distilled strengths to break fresh ground.

The set list for most of these shows was identical, so you get as many as 20 versions of certain songs. For all that, listening through the whole of this box set is an exhilarating experience.

Peace Trail is a hard record to get a hold of at times. The songs are so bare-bones--and, at times, meandering--that it feels a bit tossed-off.

That feeling of perpetual potential is apparent in even the bleakest of Bush’s years-old songs, which are shot through with clear devotion to constant development of her craft.

The Weight of These Wings matches the take-no-prisoners attitude of her lyrics with music that travels unexpected routes but often winds up touching the soul.

By realizing the beauty that can come from chaos, Sleigh Bells have made an album that shines a harsh spotlight on the always-on clamor of 21st-century life--and the end result gleams.

While the glorious noise that band is known for is largely absent from “Under the Hunter,” Ó Cíosóig’s steady hand makes even the superficially tranquil explorations of sound in these songs to seem alive with curiosity and movement.

Chesney isn’t one to rest on his laurels, and his 17th album, Cosmic Hallelujah, bears that out.

A taut display of his dry wit and ability to wring beauty out of even the most harrowing human ideals.

Their fifth album, Like An Arrow, isn’t reinventing any wheels, but it is a solid collection of punchy tracks, their loping guitar solos and growled lyrics shot through with last-call urgency.

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 manufactured atmosphere ultimately distances the listener. With a few exceptions, including the song “Blue Mountain,” the production also fails to find the best way to deploy Weir’s voice, holding it too far back in the mix.

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

Shape Shift With Me is a sharply penned love letter both to the idea of romance and the people who engage in it, brimming with deep yet concisely expressed emotions that can only be worked out through top-of-the-lungs bellowing.

A world-weary yet ultimately optimistic statement about the power people may not even know they possess.

It’s a roller coaster, to be sure, but it’s one that Olsen controls with a steady hand even as she sings for her life.

Zedek’s voice, neither conventional nor wholly tamed, serves her ends potently, its warp and grain enhancing unvarnished solidity.

A pop album that operates on its own terms, partly thanks to the way the white-hot notoriety of the star at its center allowed her to, after all these years, rule her own pop fiefdom.

Time might have pushed along, but it was obvious how much Ocean’s rich, detailed, and urgent storytelling had been missed once it was here again.

There’s plenty here--the sinuous “Drunk Like You,” anthemic “Graffiti,” sly “Ship Faced,” and crunchy “Peace Love & Dixie”--to prove the Cadillac Three’s figurative truck has plenty of gas in the tank, its dog still hunts.

Loveless continues to manifest a remarkable combination of bruised vulnerability and desperate longing, alongside a tough, self-deprecating resilience, but there’s more of the former and less of the latter this time.

Young the Giant’s finely tuned ear for pop is on grand display here, and frontman Sameer Gadhia excels at playing ringmaster, testing the edges of his vocal range while spinning yarns with brio.

Heart devotees should appreciate these new updates on their classic sound.

There’s less party and more perspective. He sees the troubles he went through before prison for what they are.

What results is an album to live with, and to live inside: engrossing and necessary.