More than any of Neil Young and Crazy Horse’s past classics, “Colorado” recalls Young’s last album, 2017’s “The Visitor.” Like that record, “Colorado” is a politically charged, uneven release that at its best comes close enough to recapturing Young’s past glories to satisfy his diehard fans. And if you don’t like it? Well, there’ll probably be another one next year.

Lack of distinctiveness pervades “Beneath the Eyrie,” both on a song-by-song basis and taken as a whole.

How much Gorillaz fans enjoy The Now Now will depend on why they became fans in the first place. Anyone captivated by Hewlett’s world-building will probably feel a little let down, as will those who fell for their eclectic, big-tent approach to pop. That leaves the Damon Albarn diehards.

Songcraft is a problem throughout the album’s 12 bloated tracks, but the fact that they’re long isn’t the issue--Marr can, and has, held our attention before. It’s more that they lack conviction and structure.

Over seven songs spanning 24 minutes, “Ye” is immediately disturbing (“I Thought About Killing You”), slightly exhilarating (“Yikes”), bafflingly underwhelming (“All Mine,” “Wouldn’t Leave,” and “No Mistakes”), and fleetingly brilliant (“Ghost Town”). The one thing it’s not is coherent.

The only time the Neighbourhood really comes to life here is on the disc’s final track, refreshingly summery toe-tapper “Stuck With You.” That track aside, this release will do little to convince critics that the Neighbourhood is anything more than Maroon 5’s monochromatic photo negative, and about as intriguing as that descriptor suggests.

As a pop-R&B hitmaker, he could let his genius producers do the heavy lifting while getting by on showbiz-schooled charm, but the styles he dabbles in here aren’t as forgiving of average songwriting. When Timberlake does commit to his theme, the results are mixed.

The reworked M A N I A never coalesces into a satisfying or particularly listenable whole; in spreading themselves between sounds even more disparate than on 2015’s maximalist “American Beauty/American Psycho,” Fall Out Boy have only succeeded in diluting their strengths.

Taken as a whole, Songs of Experience isn’t a bad U2 album--just an uneven one. For every dull rehash of past glories, there’s something like the slinky Zombies pastiche “Summer of Love” to restore one’s faith that U2’s well of inspiration hasn’t gone entirely dry.

We have Low in High School, which is sometimes brilliant, sometimes infuriating, and 100  percent Morrissey.

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.

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.

Further songs follow suit, rarely deviating from verse-chorus-verse-chorus rigor. The upbeat “Sunday Love” breaks that mold with its rhythmically catchy verse and earworm chorus, which almost hides the fact that the song--about the would-be bride seeing a girl everywhere she goes--repeats the album’s most common problem: It’s unclear just what the song is about, and how it relates to the core concept.

Conscious may be polished to a high gloss, but it lacks the personality and emotion that made Broods’ debut such a shadowy revelation.

Co-producer Jacknife Lee overcooks tracks, alternately adding too much sugar and bluster (“Bitter Salt”). Throughout, it seems Bugg’s ambition has clouded his creative judgment.

Echoey wall-of-sound sheen, soft-rock flourishes, guitar bombast, and omnipresent programming predominate. Presumably the intention was to create a sonic mood to match the album’s thematic concerns, but too often the execution leaves the songs sounding plodding and inert.

The band’s glossiest record yet seems geared toward merging its brassy, retro-glam aesthetic with a commercial-minded agenda. For a time it succeeds, meting out earworms with take-no-prisoners rapidity. Eventually, though, Fitz’s mainstream pop ambitions outpace its once-emblematic sense of funk (and fun).

Kidsticks swings back toward electronica; the problem is that it’s poorly done. It’s the first time she’s written on synthesizers, not guitars, and frankly it’s a mess.

A sophomore record that does Catfish few favors in exposing its limited lyrical scope (mostly concerned with lost lovers) and tedious reliance on shoehorned guitar solos and uniform drum lines.

The middle of the album is a problem, especially the Hiatus Kaiyote number, “Little Church,” a strange, bloodless clunker that drags down the Mvula (“Silence Is the Way”) and KING (“Song for Selim”) features that follow. The Badu track, the electro-bossa nova “Maiysha (So Long),” is fine but familiar. Miles Davis concept aside, Glasper’s still in “Black Radio” mode. It works, but it needs a little dirt, and probably a new challenge.

The results are mixed. Half of I Still Do falls into the easy-listening, cruise-control blues of Clapton’s later career, a long way from his fiery days with Cream and Derek and the Dominos.

The few gold nuggets too easily get lost among the many chunks of lead.

Trainor continues the self-esteem party on Thank You, and the cracks that were already forming on her debut grow a little wider and deeper on its followup.

With nearly 20 production collaborators, the record has plenty of invention--and way too many cooks in the kitchen. ... [A] busy, unfocused record.

Save for the playfully tempestuous “Th’Expense of Spirit in a Waste of Shame (Sonnet 129),” they’re serviceable and, like the spoken-word reprises by the likes of William Shatner and Siân Phillips, take few risks.

The album generously includes 16 new songs, so if you’re a fan you’ll find enough to like. But finding a new lyricist should be a higher calling.

Distortland, the band’s ninth album, sounds downright insular: fully formed, in its way, but nearly impenetrable.

The music ranges from Beach Boys baroque-pop to the awkward hip-hop flow of “Thank God for Girls” when not reiterating rote (if pleasant) Weezer crunch-pop anthems.

Zayn sounds tentative when he’s venturing into lyrical territory beyond his former band’s purview, which compromises the album’s clearly wide-ranging aims.

The architecture of these layered slices of electro-pop is transparent, but the songs never offer more than surface pleasures.

Well intentioned but frequently clumsy (“I want to be Hugh Jackman/ you know jacked, man”), the record demonstrates that the duo’s skills haven’t yet caught up to their ambition.

Mostly, though, Victorious simply colors within the lines drawn by others, scratching the itch of those already inclined to seek it out.

It’s a hard album to dislike, and an equally hard one to love.

Tracks like “Death Came,” “Dust,” and “Bitter Memory” have great lyrics, yet the clear conclusion is that Williams should’ve condensed her second self-released double-disc set since 2014 into one record--two is just too much.

“When You Are Young,” “Pale Snow,” and “Learning to Be” sound transitional even at full length, struggling for traction and momentum. “I Don’t Know How to Reach You” is grand and gloriously dramatic, propulsive, and vaguely off in the best Suede tradition, guitarist Richard Oakes pinging in sad ecstasy in tandem with singer Brett Anderson’s preening, come-hither mope.

Adhering to basic rock formalism, the all-women quartet captures a raw primitivism that’s undeniably appealing in an era when most mainstream rock acts are as manicured as Bravo housewives. Unfortunately, too many songs like “I’ll Be Your Man,” a sleepy (hungover?) stab at hooky, sunshine rock, seem like first drafts.

The wounded “Better Place” and soothing “Superman” stand out, showing how Platten’s songwriting skills can be used to tease out emotional subtleties. But too often here she’s battling stuffed-to-the-gills arrangements.

Adams starts promisingly with the rockabilly-etched “You Belong to Me” and mission statement “Go Down Rockin’ ” (”I ain’t gonna slow down/ I’m gonna go down rockin’ ”). But things flatten out with the repetitive “Do What You Gotta Do” and the embarrassing “Thunderbolt.”

The music was recorded in a Nashville studio with few overdubs, which lends a welcome organic crunch at times. But overall, the consistency is not what it could be.

Raury’s spirit and intent are laudable, but his broad lyrics and potpourri musical approach need refining.

The Pittsburgh MC has undeniably matured; a firmer command of internal rhymes adds slight intricacy to his verses. Unfortunately, he still sounds like the sum of his influences.

His versatility, combined with a high-profile guest list, conspires against him; among 14 tracks, Scott conjures just a handful of moments that hint at untapped reserves of talent.

Method Man is mostly in a lower gear (“Water”), only rising up to inspired heights intermittently. Augmented by a serviceably brittle production, the numerous MCs offer more energy than consistency, making it difficult for the 19 tracks to sustain momentum.

It’s a cheesy plunge into dance-pop that shows a crass haste to grab Top 40 radio play. Many of these synth-driven, computerized songs land with a thud.

Some of the 25-year-old artist’s songs here seem unrealized, his slim insights into relationships not as revealing as his often eloquent guitar work. Self-reflection turns to self-absorption, and never quite resonates on a universal level.

Displaying sharp technique and wordplay, he promises something special. Disappointingly, the record quickly devolves into pro forma bluster as the rapper never reveals himself, opting instead for familiar thug posturing.

These carefully manicured, melodic songs are much too transparent and lightweight, though, to leave much of an impression.

“Living With War,” his 2006 album about President George W. Bush, was a dud, and so is this new one.

Too bad that the rest of Forever feels incomplete without EDM’s streamers, lasers, and giant crowds.

“Far Afghanistan” is an interesting detour, a new side of Taylor as he ponders the hardships of a soldier and the devastation of war. It’s not enough to distract from the glaring fact that Before This World doesn’t add much to Taylor’s beloved catalog, but doesn’t detract from it, either.

Unfortunately, at times he still comes across as Usher-lite.

With the thunderous blues-rock of “White Sky” (where his voice takes on gospel fervor), the glam momentum of “Long Time,” and the watery vibe of “These City Streets,” he remains defiantly all over the map.

All of the things that made Snoop Snoop--his effortless, laconic flow, clever wordplay, and narrative skills--are almost completely absent.

In the hands of the grandiose Mumford & Sons, this shading [similar to the National] doesn’t quite work, forcing the band to shape-shift in a way so it sounds... well, not quite like itself.

If a collaboration with Snoop Dogg, “1, 2 1, 2,” exceeds expectations, it also reflects this record’s flaw: It needs more Raekwon.

The party anthems (“Lit Up”) aren’t as convincing as they once were, yet his star producers mostly serve him well; only David Guetta steers him wrong.

No Pier Pressure sounds simultaneously over- and underproduced: loaded with layers upon layers of instruments, but unable to shake the flat, bright sheen of something recorded in a basement studio.

If this derivative album shows that he’s not reinventing the wheel, at least the wheel is still rolling.

Her whip-smart daffiness sets up her serious moments to hit all the harder--but the performances of the (mostly ’60s) covers that make up the album are largely uninspired.

The album plays like a diluted version of Twin Shadow, with discernible traces of everyone from neo-R&B singer Miguel to power-pop sister act Haim.

Grand statements about humanity in “Savages” and “Immortal” fall flat, and moments like the three-syllable “di-a-mond” in “Solitaire” mistake quirk for personality. But a few slices of FROOT are exactly ripe enough.

The songs are impeccably layered, but like tiramisu, those layers bleed into one another, so that even a relative rocker like “Rattled” gets lost in its own swirl.

Twice, he wisely enlists Jhene Aiko, who has become rap’s signifier for bruised emotions. Yet the conflicted despondency throughout (“I Know,” “Win Some, Lose Some”) never yields to enlightenment; the results are more murky than dark.

There’s a temptation to view Whatever, My Love as a companion piece to its lone predecessor, 1993’s “Become What You Are,” when really it’s just another Hatfield album. As such, it lives and dies by standard Hatfield calculus.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

Sucker is better when Charli has a bite.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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

Too often the trend-chasing sounds both tiring and tiresome; that weariness persists through the syrupy album-closing duet with Levine’s future “Voice” costar Gwen Stefani.

There’s plenty of occasion for beauty here throughout, but the band seems intent on disrupting the pleasant view.

Backed by mostly familiar trap music production, Jeezy is steady (“Been Getting Money” is especially fine), but hardly inspired.

A good sound can only support wobbly songs so far, and the middle third of the album sinks into a deadly lull that suggests the band only sporadically knows how to pull off slower tempos.

Many of the contributors give the material a rootsy, rattletrap approach, creating a flat consistency that drags a bit. It’s not until the second half that Beck Song Reader comes fitfully to life.

The lyrics leave no room for subtext--“Good girls,” goes the kickiest song’s thesis, “are bad girls that haven’t been caught”--and the gleaming instrumentation sounds untouched by human hands.