The album definitely could’ve used a little more friskiness; as it is, a horn-spackled version of Derek and the Dominoes’ “Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad” and a brisk run-through of the Beatles “The Word” are the only moments where LaVette busts loose from her always heart-felt, but sometimes overly earnest, introspection.

Without Chamberlin's freight train roaring behind him, the hurtling "Astral Planes" never quite achieves liftoff. And one can only imagine how Chamberlin might've combusted the six-minute "Son of a Sailor," which sounds like a promising sketch for a "Stairway to Heaven"-style epic. Corgan's at his best when he takes a lighter tack and develops two of his more engaging melodies on the remaining tracks.

It in many ways is the most danceable LCD album yet, a celebration of losing yourself in semi-darkness and a sea of undulating bodies between the speaker cabinets.

Its sweep across genres and eras is exactly the point. The time-traveling heroine of "The ArchAndroid" aims to uncover previously hidden points of harmony amid chaos. In this case, it's a big risk that brings big reward.

But as with “Horehound,” “Sea of Cowards” is all about the volatile vibe rather than songs. When the vibe works, it’s a decent approximation of the band’s top-shelf live show. But beneath all the “Hustle and Cuss,” the tunes just aren’t there.

High Violet sees no need to tinker with a successful formula, and because of that it's less a step forward than a refined restatement of well-known strengths.

It adds up to another transitional effort rather than a major statement.

The songs sometimes meander in search of focus, but once they do, the band bangs away with a fierce, bulldog tenacity.

On Together, the band's fifth album, Newman again pumps out exuberant melodies brimming with offbeat twists.

Songwriters Linda Perry and Billy Corgan (moonlighting from the Smashing Pumpkins), producer Michael Beinhorn--sand down her rough edges and turn Nobody's Daughter into a dreary piece of middle-of-the-road product.

Erickson's voice transparent and vulnerable, the lyrics direct yet poetic, sifting through years of pain for signs of hope. With the exception of the howling "John Lawman," the music is contemplative and atmospheric, a mix of field recordings from the past and unfussy, live-in-the-studio interactions.

The nine-song album aims for a more unified and introspective feel, a good deal darker, denser and less instantly accessible than the debut. Instead of concise singles, it more fully embraces the duo's interests in waving the Barrett-era freak flag

In emulating great vocalists he has admired, from Jeff Buckley to Judy Garland, the guitarist conjures a serene lyricism. Female vocalists drawn from the worlds of opera (Olivia Safe), swing (Imelda May) and soul (Joss Stone) provide window-dressing, and the symphony orchestra accompaniment is gratuitous.

Both Byrne and Fatboy Slim have built careers on beats, the imperative of activating the hips as much as the brain, and they touch on everything from salsa to Philadelphia soul on Here Lies Love. But too often the needs of the narrative supersede the music, and too much of "Here Lies Love" falls into midtempo blandness.

I Learned the Hard Way (Daptone) is a master class in soul singing, songwriting and arranging.

The boilerplate swagger is balanced by the falsetto sweetness of “There Goes My Baby.” And a couple of songs actually live up to the promise of the album title and its suggestion of a more emotionally complex Usher.

The music is breezier, more relaxed, even as it wiggles beyond the contours of traditional pop. It’s the aural equivalent of a sun-kissed afternoon swaying in a hammock, the mind and the songs drifting away on their own quirky paths.

Like its predecessor, Volume II stands outside current production trends, and it’s built to last on its own modest terms.

Recording over five days with his hand-picked band of California-based conspirators (including ace drummer Jay Bellerose and guitarist Greg Leisz), Henry puts the jazz great in a limber, small-group setting well-suited to Allison’s no-frills style and laconic tone.

But right down to the tongue-in-cheek stage patter (“My name’s Jack White and this is my big sister Meg White on the drums!”) there’s nothing here that White Stripes’ fans haven’t heard before.

The result is an album that is slightly less immediate--the instant appeal of a hit such as “Clint Eastwood” or “Feel Good Inc.” is lacking. Bobby Womack’s strident vocal on “Stylo” is a rare burst of exuberance, but much of the rest exudes a chilled charm.

Little wonder that their "Broken Bells" (Columbia) project, on which they play all the instruments, packs 11 meticulously orchestrated songs into less than 38 minutes. Burton puts a little wobble on just about every sound he conjures and Mercer pushes his voice outside its comfort zone, particularly in the upper register, making this a chilled little side-trip of an album.

The problem is that the songs all have a similar arch, with instrumental grandeur substituting for the previous album’s emotional punch and tears-of-rage specifics.

With three exceptions, the tracks are blissfully free of the overdubs and other studio manipulations that mar many of his posthumous recordings. Instead, we get a you-are-there document of Hendrix in the last volatile days of his great power trio with bassist Noel Redding and drummer Mitch Mitchell, the Experience.

Right now no one is making music this grand, this big, this moving with so much assurance.

Gabriel’s decision to pay homage to the core essentials underpinning these songs is a noble one, he also sacrifices many essential ingredients: rhythmic drive, dynamic surprise, harmonic and textural variety. As experiments go, Scratch My Back ranks as a well-intentioned dud.

The details – the drone of a guitar string, the reverberation of a drum mallet, the swoon of a string section --- are reason enough to reward a close listen.

The music casts long shadows, packed with foreboding. But Cash's voice isn't particularly morbid or self-pitying. Instead, it's tinged by longing--not for what he's leaving behind, but for what's next.