Live consistently falls short of capturing the band’s historically raucous concerts.

Justifiably lacking that exuberance, Falling Off the Sky is tame and predictable.

The Temper Trap establishes a willingness to experiment on the new album, but the band doesn't produce anything as accessible as "Sweet Disposition" or "Fader", the two biggest singles from Conditions

I Still Do, a sleepy, cover-heavy, forgettable batch of tunes, will fit pleasantly soundtracking Sunday morning coffee with a newspaper--and if you’re not old enough to be up on Sunday morning or reading a newspaper, it’ll likely be a hard pass.

While those demo versions were almost entirely incomplete, Jackson at least understood and interacted with those arrangements. Instead, we’re left with a record that is, aside from its opener, best described by the withering adjective “inoffensive.”

Variation goes a long way, and this album could have used it.

Every Open Eye goes down smooth, but it’s hard not to miss the moments of exhilaration that used to power the band.

Dalle’s return performance, no matter how energetic and strong musically, lacks the lyrical details to latch onto.

The reality is the bulk of the album falls short of offering anything to write home about.

The disc steadily loses steam after its first two tracks.

All of its 12 tracks are reckless trials in largely unrelated genres, and most end up errors.

Rebel Heart leans too steeply into too many trends at once, making it a scattered affair that flashes between drudgery and brilliance.

At best, Pagans in Vegas recalls the heights that Metric once reached. Back then, they made it look easy, foreshadowing mainstream pop years in advance. They no longer sound like they can see the future, and even sometimes sound stuck in the past.

Drones stumbles when it strays from Muse’s self-created universe and tries to be topical; it’s like watching Superman stuck in the guise of a floundering (albeit well-intentioned) Clark Kent.

If they want to pursue content, chipper, marshmallow song structures, then that’s fine, but it’s nearly impossible not to think they do hope, deep down, to make something more than that. If so, RUFF doesn’t lead them any closer.

The Montreal outfit sounds like they’ve run out of ideas and are starting to repeat their already expansive catalogue.

Parts of Nikki Nack are interesting, deeply beautiful, and insanely catchy. Other parts are painful to listen to given their overt blindness to the nuances of holding conversations like the ones she attempts to initiate.

Unfortunately, little of what makes this record so rewarding from the get-go surfaces on the back half.

The pleasant sounds of Over Me deserve to be heard, but you’ve probably heard them in some form before.

Between the Held's strong opening and closing acts, it's apparent that Holy Other is still working in the world of the EP and may have jumped the gun on a full-length release.

The final product is an exercise in meh as he tries blending who he is with who he used to be, along with his more significant commercial responsibilities.

There's very little sonic or lyrical difference between this and any other of STD's recent recordings.

The rigid, suited precision with which they approach their craft makes the band good at their jobs, but combined with the lack of musical distance from their contemporaries, it also dims the album’s luster.

The problem with this EP is that the rest of the songs draw too much from the past, trying to fit into the early rock feel.

Blood Orange is a unique new identity for Hynes, but it doesn't feel finished. Coastal Grooves is a splash of ideas and potential that never really comes together.

Wonderful, Glorious isn’t the sort of reinvention that Everett wants it to be. It’s just another loop around the road that E and his pathos have been treading for years.

Where they strive to pioneer a new sound stemming from everything from 80s hair metal to industrial to funk, they ultimately come off sounding confused and even a touch pretentious.

None [of the tracks], however, are particularly distinctive from the rest, and while that’s not always a bad thing, it can get frustrating fast when an artist’s single weapon is a certain narrow, half-awake affect.

After starting strong, Summer 08 fizzles out, much like a failed night on the town.

Not all DJs can be producers and vice versa. Rustie’s trendsetting ability is rivaled by few, but that hasn’t translated into an equally challenging full-length endeavor.

You Know Who You Are, on the other hand, is exactly the kind of thing we’ve come to expect from Nada Surf. Unfortunately, sometimes being reliable just isn’t enough.

After listening to the Creep On Creepin' On, it's recommended that the listeners get some as well--the constant bleakness and nightmare-inducing weirdness warrant some immediate remedy.

In the Grace of Your Love was the sound of a forgotten band pleading for your interest and affection as if life itself depended on it. Time Is Over One Day Old may possess the same lineage as that record, but despite all of its attempts at being similarly organic, it couldn’t be colder or more distant.

That refusal to experiment as wildly as she once did reads as fear, and a pop star who’s afraid ends up sounding like the once-weird Lady Gaga does on ARTPOP: boring and normal.

Valley Tangents plays more like an exercise or experiment than a fully-realized album.

The varying topics and often-indistinct lyrics miscommunicate, making this record better suited for easy listening than deep delving.

With just a little more time and some soul-searching, maybe the Avett Brothers can better incorporate the pop and solidify their newfound voice.

7 Days of Funk is a slog through shallow percussion (especially in the amateurish drum pattern on the Kurupt-featuring “Ride”) and drowsy synthwork.

All Around Us runs into the danger of stating things too plainly, of letting easy answers edge out space for complexity and depth. It feels like Marela wanted to make a weird album, but the one she’s made is mostly just pretty.

Kids on a Crime Spree don't bring anything new to the surf rock trend, so they'll likely have to branch out more if they want their music to be remembered.

Unsurprisingly, his charm has worn thin. What’s left without it is a body of work that is self-indulgent, largely evasive, and frankly boring when the beat is not quite strong enough to steady the ship.

As such, High Hopes is a standstill album, momentous for being the first effort in a long time where The Boss appears speechless at the podium.

Overall, Into the Night is more of a continuation of Raven in the Grave than a stepping stone towards an upcoming album.

This is a charming album without spirit. Hammond’s singing is pedestrian at best and his writing often dry.

Though his lyrics still reveal the same somewhat troubled, fascinated, inquisitive, frustrated, self-aware, and bewildered soul as always, the music itself is pretty bare bones.

Best to appreciate them for what they are: a noble effort that likely won’t have a marked impact on the world at large.

The main issue with the set lies in the fact that while those two tracks are immaculately produced, they don’t quite have the spark that made those early singles memorable, and the other two tracks are largely forgettable.

While The Mountain Moves feels a little too familiar at times, that makes it an album option to crank up on your next road trip after you get sick of listening to The Eagles.

Together, Musgraves and her dream team of co-writers (Brandy Clark, Shane McAnally, and Luke Laird) draw from the well of folksy tales about letting your freak flag fly one too many times.

This record just proves that Kid Cudi has a lot of sorting to do, and continuing down the same old path simply won’t cut it in the long-run.

Further listening and a proper lyrics sheet might reveal similarly resonant words in more of the record’s songs. For now, however, Holy Ghost!’s lack of specificity and fixation with ’80s gloss have worked against them.

Perhaps there is true value in capturing the shallow, empty soul of being young (and rich) in New York as succinctly as possible. This is not to suggest that there aren’t moments of genuine inspiration sprinkled throughout.

ADULT. certainly have a precise understanding of their sound, but can’t seem to inject any new life into the system.

It boldly aims to tighten the gap between today and tomorrow in a time where heartbreak makes a single week feel like eternity, but it’s ultimately memorable only to Karen O worshipers.

The understated simplicity of Monterey reflects the duo’s discontent, while the absence of any memorable moment should cause listeners to feel the same.

Blink-182’s second album with Matt Skiba is ultimately subpar, weighed down by stereotypical lyrics and cloying choruses. Producers John Feldmann and Tim Pagnotta’s heavy use of compression makes NINE as in-your-face as possible, not giving the songs the necessary breathing room to develop without overproduction.

Their reach is admirable, but their grasp is often too weak to truly pull off their ambitions.

While this album may have taken that last bit a little too literally (or perhaps not literally enough?), it has moments that do just that, blending the perfect amount of dance-ability, intrigue, and emotional power.

Her debut is mediocre at best. At worst, it's as uninspired and repetitive as her internet commentators.

Executive produced by Major Lazer, the affair is an approachable relative to Jamaican roots and dancehall.

Overall, All Things Bright and Beautiful isn't a bad album; it's just not very interesting.

Album closer "Change", a quiet piano-led piece which experiments with spoken word is a poignant and welcome diversion which, if Glasvegas had looked to explore it more fully, could have furnished a much stronger and more wide-ranging sophomore effort. As it stands, this one slumps. Low.

While consistently solid, Galactic Melt is ultimately just underwhelming. Instead of any real flaws, the indistinguishable nature of the songs is its true weakness.

There’s enough fun here to justify Anthems’ existence, which really is a lot to say for an album that for so long seemed like it would never exist. If it acts as a one-off return for fans, it’s an amiable, if un-revelatory set.

The 34-year-old owns this type of glossy, geometric synth-pop, and has for a while. He’s arguably perfected it. But he’s not making much of an attempt to advance, and sometimes standing your ground looks a lot like retreating.

In the end, Erika Spring's solo debut falls into the category of pleasant experience.

It's a mixed bag that doesn't reach the lows of a forced, guest rap appearance, while containing some of the best songs the trilogy has to offer.

Daydream Repeater isn't a mind-blowing debut, but it's one that brings together working strategies to hit some solid notes.

There are still instances where the band lose sight of themselves, either not allowing the real heroes of the songs to take full control or plainly not recognizing where to trim the fat.

There are moments when it feels admirable in its scope and ambition, but ultimately, the pure intentions get lost in the noise.

It is something of a feat in 2012 to take ingredients from decades ago and serve them up impressively (and non-ironically), but without being in on the joke, the Club gets swallowed up in a wall of pet sounds.

American Spring shows Anti-Flag can still put up a fight, but they’re not landing punches here as cleanly as they used to.

California doesn’t go out of its way to stay creative. Here lies the death of the immediate hook, but Blink-182 are having fun regardless--and hearing that may be the best part of this album.

Ponderous musicality can be both mesmerizing and boring, and Black Laden Crown touches on both extremes.

Even among these highs, the pairing of Lovefoxxx and Sitek has resulted in a few highly combustible selections which burn themselves out quickly and with little lasting effect.

Despite Parallel Thought's strong production, Attractive Sin's failings fall on Del. He can do better.

Lott falters in steering his compositions to a memorable peak, a hindrance that repeats itself on Bones.

Junk of the Heart may not convert any of The Kooks' detractors, but its hooks should be enough to satisfy fans of their light, catchy pop.

The Thermals stay surface level both with their lyricism and their songwriting.

Rather than mine the potential depths of a more cohesive collaboration, the two halves often feel disconnected.

Ghost’s sophomore effort, however, is more of a lateral movement than an improvement, and for a band whose songs rely on falsetto and choruses, the absence of memorable melodies on Infestissumam is an eternal sin.

Call these cuts dark. Call them rockers. But they’re neither of these things when stacked against something much more simple and hard-hitting: sincerity.

No matter how much fun it appears to be for Wasser to try on all these different hats, developing a stronger focus on soul--or doo-wop, or girl groups, or R&B--would improve the impact considerably.

It's a out of focus Polaroid, a soggy Pollock demonstration, or, to stick with the name, an unfavorable maze. Given its short time, it's unlikely you'll write home about this one.

Many of the tracks start out promising, but they don't have the excitement needed to keep listeners hooked.

There are moments where the minimal psych additions actually undermine the band’s sound, as their hodgepodge, twitchy aesthetic has always been part of their charm. Ironically, the more polished, glossy synthesizers at times bog the album down.

The new Miley Cyrus record is a huge mess, but at least it’s an honest one.

Although Zombie’s B-movie-in-a-blender lyrics come up short, Electric Warlock at least stakes a claim at being his most musically heavy album since 1998 solo debut Hellbilly Deluxe, or maybe even White Zombie’s Astro Creep: 2000.

[The L.A. song, “Outside”] manages to capture some of the essence of the West Coast city, but the details of “canyons” and “sirens” seem hollow, lack insight, and reek of lyrics that were hammered out on instinct, not careful consideration. This kind of a songwriting experiment keeps the Sonic Highways album from being essential listening. It’s more of a failed experiment, a diversion from a real Foo Fighters album.

Everything I Thought It Was feels less like a terrible Justin Timberlake album and more like wasted potential. Man of the Woods was terrible, but at least he took a risk. This one is fine, frictionless, and overwhelmingly safe.

The Hunting Party is the sound of a band with long-term tenure trying to find its place in modern rock, but its experiments seem more like an attempt to fling every trend from the past decade at the wall to see what might constitute a new direction.

Of course, The Black Album is not completely void of redeeming qualities, and there will likely be many listeners who are pleased with what they hear at times. Those listeners, however, may not be those who fell in love with the version of Weezer that existed in the middle of the ‘90s. Instead, the listeners within that sector may feel something comparable to watching a good friend make a bad decision.

Something about the tossed-off quality of Teatime Dub Encounters feels like a missed opportunity.

Strange Desire is like a John Hughes film without the nuance and humor, all ‘80s schmaltz and all catharsis, or at least attempted catharsis.

Although substance stretches thin at times, replaced instead by studio-enhanced sound, Youth is a safely-played showcase of dreamy, melodic synth-pop.

Fifth is too clean, too tame. Only the first song (which ironically warns that “none of this will matter”) leaves any lasting impact; the rest drift by with indifference.

Metronomy must have many more experimental ideas to sift through before settling down with any one particular sound, just failing to come up with a compelling, powerful way to tell this story.

Tokyo Police Club’s signature sound, the niche that they carved out for themselves in a constantly fluctuating music scene (an emphasis on rhythm and abstract, maze-like lyrics with real emotion at their center) is almost completely gone, replaced by a rabid pop sensibility that sometimes works and sometimes really, really doesn’t.