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.

Though Pure & Simple will be palatable for her fans, it lacks the depth that put Parton in the spotlight to begin with.

Operator drags the listener kicking and screaming into what sounds like the soundtrack to the depths of hell, where the only music available is an unrelenting, want-to-bang-your-head-against-the-wall symphony of noise.

Under the production of John and T-Bone Burnett (back again after The Diving Board), the instrumentation on Wonderful Crazy Night is glossy yet separate, as if each part was recorded in its own high-end echo chamber. As a result, none of it sounds unified--more high-fidelity karaoke mix than a band that’s playing together.

Gibbard never swings hard enough to strike out completely, with occasionally unfortunate production balanced by warm melodies, one of Gibbard’s greatest strengths as a musician.

Kanye West-referencing record, Sheezus, which is at its strongest when it cops to more details and weakens considerably when the London-born singer-songwriter falls back on generalities.

It appears that the group is still plagued by these awkward growth spurts.

Thank You for Today is Death Cab for Cutie’s weakest album of the decade and either a transition towards something greater or the first harbinger of creative decline.

Bazaar lacks a cohesive thread to signify any real musical progression.

TUMIM shows a regression to the mean, further establishing him as an above-average emcee whose runaway hype train simply ran off the tracks.

There are moments on this album that provoke genuine optimism for where a song might go, but then Estelle starts singing lyrics so genuinely bland and awkward that all hope is lost.

This Is What the Truth Feels Like lacks a cohesive style, instead focusing on narrative.

The Cave Singers belong to the same family tree as dynamic Seattle rock bands Murder City Devils and Pretty Girls Make Graves, which makes it even more frustrating that they keep resorting to the same old stomps and claps.

Cooper and Hoare not only borrow, but fully adopt characteristics of traditionalist rock, like inoffensive lyrics, bland instrumentation, and unfettered nostalgia, all of which makes Green Lanes barely discernible from hundreds of other albums.

Perry has always been a top-notch entertainer, who tries on a range of styles and wants to make folks feel good. I’m not asking her to be anything else. But what comforted us before, both in pop and faith, doesn’t hit the same anymore.

Each passing cycle saps a little more life from the record, until we’re left with background music, fluff that goes in one ear and out the other. That includes the lyrics, which run the gamut from sentimental, to rote, to downright creepy.

The Felice Brothers seem out of their depth here, reveling in tired imagery and pretending to make it fresh by changing just a few small details.

The band’s talent and the occasional strike of inspiration make it impossible to write off AB/AP entirely. Let’s just hope they eventually strike a balance that’s true to themselves and doesn’t come off like a mainstream radio retread.

Small Sounds does, as promised, show a subtle and seemingly natural shift in their sound as it morphs into more soulful, Motown-inspired grooves.

Plenty of artists can make up for tired phrases in their musicality. Thrice even did it themselves on Identity Crisis, elevating the largely overdramatic lyrics through loud/soft contrast and brain-rattling thrash. To Be Everywhere has no such energy, relegated to medium pacing and chord progressions that usually find the bass and guitars linked together in a monotonous crunch.

It’ll satisfy the crowdfunders who have already paid for it, and if it helps the band bring their classic albums to more live ears, then it has done its job. As a work on its own, though, the Zombies’ sixth studio album comes off more polite than hungry.

The tracks all blend together into a generic folk album.

Besides his inflexibly skeletal vocals being an awkward fit for a full orchestra --his phrasing has a hard time keeping up with the loose, big band swing of “Say Hello to Chicago”--some of his clunky lyrics become even clunkier when taken out of a more hushed, intimate setting.

Where earlier efforts such as Hallowed Ground saw the band command sparse irreverence, Hotel Last Resort, much like We Can Do Anything, won’t generate much excitement.

There’s still much to admire in their metallic production and musicianship, especially from the rhythm section of bassist P-Nut and drummer Chad Sexton. But unqualified positivity can only go so far, in the end turning into something that can make you feel a little negative.

While this new self-titled album may point to a band dedicated to writing a new chapter for itself, the music they’ve made here only acts as the tentative (and skippable) introduction.

The Maddens and co. sound like they’re throwing the obligatory tropes of encroaching middle age against the wall, hoping that something, anything, will stick.

While the goodwill is obfuscated by a lack of direction, A Better Tomorrow is made further futile because of the misinformed goal of simply giving the fans another Wu-Tang album.