Among the paint-by-numbers tracks, Born In The Echoes has still got a couple of artful numbers peppered throughout.

The second half of the album has less attitude, exposing the softer side of the band that has come across in the lyrics since its beginning.

The problem isn't just that the result feels more like a collection of demos than a complete record; it's that the songs themselves are generally uninspired, and often feel unfinished despite being co-written, almost all of them, with top-notch songwriters.

Mixing Colours shows Roger and Brian Eno at their most casual and unguarded, but there's simply not enough variety, curiosity or sense of adventure here to dub it as a must-listen.

Despite the dream team behind it, American Utopia has much to like but little to love, perhaps its most apt, if unintended, critique of the country itself.

Musostics isn't an unpleasant listen by any means, but it doesn't have the same kind of warmth and charm as his pals' music.

There's nothing quite crazy enough, however, to be truly exciting and the slower numbers offer little in the way of texture or atmosphere.

Even if you appreciate Havoc's reliability, you'll miss Prodigy's unpredictable diction.

While the half-tempo sections and increasingly unique guitar solos differentiate this material from that of the past, Everblack ultimately falls under the shadow of its predecessor.

Sure, there are more awesome parts on Wolves Within than you can shake a (drum) stick at, but so too are there plenty of misplaced ones.

"Nuage d'Ivoire" is one of Par Avion's highlights, while some slower pieces, like "Reflections," seem to drag on a bit.

It's an album that has a nice enough groove throughout, and again, the quality of the production really cannot be overstated.

Tales From Wyoming stays safely in the established genre without trying to be groundbreaking, but simplicity and quirky immaturity are the bread and butter of pop punk, and there's enough to satisfy here.

Nothing's going to change the fact that Hatebreed are the biggest hardcore band in the world, but this album doesn't do enough to win back those who got them there. Instead, it focuses too much on appealing to those who keep them there.

The fact that it's essentially more of the same might make it uninteresting to some, but to fans of the band or any of its widely known predecessors like Jimmy Eat World or Taking Back Sunday, that sameness will bring a welcome sense of comfort.

Everett has always been loathe to stand in one place for too long so it's quite possible that we'll see yet another side of him in a matter of months. For now, The Deconstruction is a rather rote and lackluster return.

Dealing with Demons I has its moments, but the music is ultimately plagued by the inescapable realization that DevilDriver are better as a band than as Dez Fafara and company.

A decent addition to his discography, More Is Than Isn't could use more dance beats and much more P. Blackk.

For the most part of Concrete and Gold, it's the same anthemic, meat 'n' potatoes arena rock we've come to expect; a little more punk or metal aggression here, a little more acoustic balladry there, but the mould is the same.

Though billed as a Mr. Tophat project first and foremost, Trust Me is ultimately weighed down by his collaborator's past triumphs. Though they are no doubt killer floor-fillers, outside the club, these three songs can't quite hold listeners' attention.

As rich and resonant as some of these synth tones are, it's ultimately an album that's more conceptually interesting than it is musically appealing.

While McVie's voice seems to have held up quite well, it's all but lost behind multiple layers of effects, combined with gratuitous use of shakers and other percussion. As for the songs themselves, most are simply fair-to-middling pop songs.

Beyond the overt gimmickry of the singles "Concrete" and "BLOODMONEY" (the latter sounds like she went rooting through Skrillex's trash), I Disagree is often surprisingly unchaotic.

The result is a fine record, but one that ultimately fails to leave a mark.

The Way Things Fall remains a sometimes flawed, sometimes inspired, inadvertent return to form.

There's more of the same on Dormarion, the singing drummer's reliably affable third album for Merge, which has a little something for everyone, but stops short of total engagement, like a slightly too tipsy party host.

While the album is a fine showcase for Kim's beautiful, ageless tenor, those expecting more of the singer's soulful, sunny hits or Broken Social Scene's sonic adventurousness are likely to walk away a bit disappointed from It's Decided's classy, if a bit monochromatic, adult pop.

Legend is content to adopt a croonerific sound that doesn't challenge existing soul genre parameters in the least. That's fine, in theory, but rather yawn-worthy in execution.

There's enough here to suggest a breakthrough is coming, but Axxa/Abraxas isn't it.

Johnson has made great creative leaps with every new album he makes, but with Back to Land, he seems to have finally backed himself into a corner.

Tall Tall Shadow (the long-awaited follow-up to 2010's Heart of My Own) sees Bulat lifting her voice once again--high above the fussy introduction of electronic elements--to a place where joy and despair mingle in heady measures.

Standout tracks "Chlorine" and "Round" start the album off strong, but the downside is that the rest of the album feels drawn out, with more valleys than peaks. If you're not actively listening to each track, it can feel like the album is a long interlude that fades into the background.

Look Park's weakest points are the frills that seem to dominate more than half of the album.

The London producer emphasizes structural variety over substance, and relies on former sonic signatures to push a release that remains distinguished within the electronic landscape. However, in the context of his oeuvre, Young Death / Nightmarket listens like just another cut of the same.

If you've got a unquenchable thirst for reverb-y guitar pop, The Flower Lane is a pleasant album worth a listen, but those looking for something more should probably look elsewhere.

Most of the album feels too much like a work-in-progress.

It offers the impeccable, twangy power-pop aesthetics--but also the oversimplification--of [Lucinda] Williams, and the sparkling, immersive production and raw honest lyrics--but also the never quite on key-ness--of the latter [Billy Childish].

It may take Butler a few more albums (he has promised in interviews to continue writing and recording as a solo artist for years to come) to carve out his own identity from the monolithic entity he's a part of, but there are plenty of plausible ideas on Policy for Butler to continue exploring.

Setting a heavy mood with opening track "My Life's Been Taken," Morlix sticks with it through the majority of the ensuing nine songs, painting bleak portraits of desperate men chasing love and money while on the run from past mistakes.

Though Armstrong does a decent job of speaking for the freaks and the rebels, Green Day's music is always at its best when he's speaking for himself, and Revolution Radio is no different.

Although it may be impossible not to compare it to its most immediate predecessor, Weed Garden becomes, as a result, a quaint coda for those fans wanting a little bit more of Iron & Wine's signature sound.

V. never rises above space rock, making the album feel like any other '60s hippie/psychedelic record. It's adequate, but when you can easily predict how it's going to play out, you're never left wanting more.

Though unlikely to win legions of new fans, this is another impeccably crafted psychedelic rock record sure to please fans of the genre.

While the second half of the album almost makes up for its flaws, it doesn't quite manage to make Compassion a memorable whole.

Although there are no real revelations on Intermission, Shigeto demonstrates yet again what he does best.

The crystalline vocals and dazzling harmonies that TEEN have become known for are replete throughout, and ultimately there are more great than good songs, with the best coming in the latter half of the record.

Both Lights fails to hold together because of its numerous failed lines of attack, which undermine the goodness.

Thomas is still a little too fond of playing around with distortion on the vocals though, almost like a call-back to his really lo-fi days, and it sounds more out of place than ever.

The surreal strings on "We Work Nights," the doubled percussion on "An English House" and the sultry, repetitive warble on closer "Reprise" give the release a much needed kick, but Half of Where You Live still lacks the strength it needs.

Foam Island is a patchwork album that never ends up feeling quite settled.

Pre-interlude, Bankrupt! is trekking along the right path; it's a futuristic journey into a foreign place for Phoenix, akin to a soundtrack for an updated Lost in Translation. But things quickly go off the rails once it spirals out of the dizzying interlude of flashing synths, losing its sense of melody and purpose.

In the end, the album loses steam throughout, something that is only accentuated by all the potential bonus tracks.

Though unlikely to win legions of new fans, this is another impeccably crafted psychedelic rock record sure to please fans of the genre.

As convincing as Liam Gallagher is when he audaciously boasts that he's "got the Midas touch" early on in the album, As You Were doesn't ever quite turn to gold.

While the band's earlier material sounded lo-fi out of necessity, Underneath the Rainbow disappoints due to its inauthentic attempt at sounding like an album recorded long before its time.

Lost In The Trees might not be as distinctive as they once were, but they still make highly emotional music; it's just better disguised than it was in the past.

Diarrhea Planet's self-indulgence and cheesy grandiosity might be less appealing if it wasn't so tongue-in-cheek--that's a huge advantage of being a band that doesn't take itself all that seriously. It also makes Turn to Gold a boisterous and joyful affair. But reaching these new levels of gaudiness, they risk being written off as a gimmick

Walker is an exceptional blues artist at a time when there are few left, but on Hellfire, despite its volume, he comes off as frustratingly average.

More tempered and melancholy than on most of his Fruit Bats output, Johnson's writing owes some comparisons to fellow rockers turned film scorers like Jon Brion and Nathan Larson.

If Snoop could just cut his track lists in half and focus on well-crafted party songs, the Doggfather might just find himself back on top.

The songs are engaging and incredibly catchy, but lack emotion ― that intangible quality that will take this feel-good record and give it staying power.

There's a comfortable vibe that the project ease into, content to deliver serviceable lyrics over straightforward beats and nothing more.

Asmara, Gaika, Bon, Baby Caramelle and Nunu all make contributions to the disc, as do rappers K-$ and K-Rizz. Too often, they're at cross-purposes. The album is so lacking in continuity that it fails to sustain either a groove or the listener's attention.

Romance still relies on a structure that is becoming increasingly irrelevant, which ultimately overshadows many of the album's redeemable moments.

On Electric Lines, Joe Goddard shoots for something eclectic and exciting, but settles for something sporadically enjoyable at best.

The fact that each member of the band produced their own tracks comes off like a harbinger to why Endless Dream simply doesn't work, ostensibly ending Peter Bjorn and John's secret winning streak.

The band's 10th album, is basically standup comedy that transcends parody by being so utterly silly that it's almost charming.

Plaid remain enjoyable, if a little stuck in a rut.

A pleasant enough album, but when it comes down to it, Toy are much more appealing when they soar rather than tread water.

While the tension between live and synthetic elements is interesting to listen to, Homosapien lacks the kind of grand creative spark that's often born from this.

The Punishment of Luxury continues the band's ongoing reunion without significantly altering their course. A few songs here could end up in the band's permanent setlist, but for an album so concerned with our present-day living, OMD seem too content to linger in their own past.

Every step is like the last, every dune made up of the same inconspicuous pebbles. Species can make for an exceptionally trance-inducing listen if you have it in you to push past the monotony.

The album starts out blazing with Fogerty and the Foo Fighters doing "Fortunate Son," and that pace is largely maintained all the way through to a rousing "Proud Mary," with Jennifer Hudson, which manages to simultaneously pay tribute to the Ike & Tina version and the song's original New Orleans inspiration.

There's something lacking in this collection of tracks: a counterpoint to the darkened atmosphere to prevent Remember Your Black Day from coming across as just another example of weak-willed EBM.

The accomplishment is that the sound is unique and understated. The unpredictable becomes predictable quickly, though.

Ununiform is an uneven album at best, showing that Tricky isn't bereft of ideas but was lacking the fire to properly flesh them out.

Goodman and Bevan's take does an adequate job of representing the variety that has spanned over the Fabriclive mix series, but unfortunately manifests as being somewhat unkempt.

Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night, Antonoff's third album as Bleachers, is at best a heartfelt batch of tracks that are nice to experience in the moment, but rarely anytime after. This doesn't mean there aren't a few glimpses of the full potential of Bleachers' musical direction; they're just crowded by much of the same heard on records past.

99¢ is an album buoyed by its sonic playfulness, but which fails to shake its playlist sensibility--entertaining, engaging but only occasionally leaving a lasting impression.

Despite how thunderous Thatcher sounds behind the drums or how dirty Kerr's bass tone is, unfortunately there isn't a pedal for more robust and compelling songwriting.

There are moments of suffering, self-pity and, eventually, redemption throughout the nine tracks, and although there are some missteps, Luke Winslow-King's I'm Glad Trouble Don't Last Always is admirable in its undertaking, and definitely worth the listen.

Pure, Beyond Reproach feels lost and directionless at times.

Thanks to the lack of coherence or variety though, nothing on Die Lit really sticks. It's fun enough but, save for a few keepers, has the lifespan of a mayfly. Rock to it for the summer and forget most of it by September.

The Pale Emperor is downright ambitious when it wants to be and lazy when it can get away with it.

The thing is, despite the strength of the band (which also includes bassist Todd Sickafoose and guest Ivan Neville), much of the 12-song album feels like filler.

Zomby changes style a frustrating amount, and all of it crawls along at a painstaking speed. He's gone for something different here, which is commendable, but the end product, sadly, comes off more pretentious than deep.

It isn't without its flaws, but Rather You Than Me positions Rick Ross as the boss he's always claimed to be, his raps reinforced by lofty, gold-plated production and added lyrical depth that's as refreshing as a glass of Belaire Rose.

It comes in flashes, and then it's back to a sort of dull, flat affect.

It's not time to write Porcelain Raft off, but Remiddi needs to bring more ideas to LP number three.

Mungodelics remains an uneven effort in design alone, promptly adding another layer of mystery to this hard-to-pin-down duo.

It's more fun than 2010's Darkly, Darkly, Venus Aversa, but with a slightly less lurid and lingering "oomph" than classic Cradle of Filth.

On the businesslike Cozy Tapes Vol. 2: Too Cozy, Rocky and his acolytes convene for a rundown of trends worth exploiting; as such, it often sounds like a Migos album as interpreted by 16 clueless New Yorkers.

You can tell he genuinely attempted to deliver a well-rounded record. However, there's not enough innovation to interest casual fans in the project.

The lower your expectations, the better it will seem.

As Morrissey's ability to deploy his wit and worldliness fades, it's nice to hear him wax romantic, but for the first time on record, he seems more obsessed with others than himself. Sadly, it doesn't suit him well.

Oak Island has a deftness that makes it hard to resist, but some songs disappear under the weight of everything that's transpiring.

In 2014 this just seems like the kind of better-than-average album that befalls way too many British musicians past their prime.

While this project will likely infiltrate the Serato of many a nightclub DJ, there's little--outside the three or four cohesive, codeine-fuelled joints surprisingly carried mostly by Future--that reaches the potential of what What a Time to Be Alive could have been.