The double in the room on Let England Shake is the whole modern world. PJ Harvey has given us a righteous scare.

Like most sequels, S/T II doesn't quite recapture the original's magic. But it evokes enough of Akron/Family's early work to appease old fans as well as new ones, pointing the group back, at long last, in the right direction.

Mondo is sturdy, well-arranged pop that old crooners and hipster blues brothers alike can claim as theirs.

Martin rarely transcends the narrow parameters of commercial Latin music, but the sincerity of his vision places him one step ahead of the competition.

Whatever it might lack in inventiveness, MEN makes up for with a smart, detailed comprehension of dance floor dynamics: the tension of the build and the satisfaction of the release.

Though a showcase for history, Lovano and his band expertly show the many ways these classics can still throw sparks.

Though fans of her exotica may miss her outlining connections between Earl Scruggs and Chinese pipa standards, City of Refuge is the best kind of crossover--one that anyone can find comfort in.

Accordingly, Gutter Rainbows too often feels like an unfulfilled promise--an excess of concrete and not enough vibrancy.

Kaputt is hallucinatory and unstructured, grabbing for whatever it likes in the moment -- it's the radio of Bejar's mind, floating off to sleep.

Now with his fifth album, Beam may not have abandoned his roots, but he's certainly stretched far beyond them.

Her thin, raspy voice retains plenty of sass six decades on, and White's live-sounding band conjures the ambience of a gritty gig in some back alley bar for a rowdy crowd of mariachi bikers. Well done, Grandma Wanda.

Longtime fans are apt to be disappointed by the change in direction, which for sure renders the band less unique.

You can tell Ness is still getting comfortable revealing that side of his artistic persona; most of the song's words are self-help boilerplate meant to keep you on the surface of his thoughts. But the music provides a way in.

Despite all the work put into his workmanlike pop, it ultimately comes off as agreeable, but not memorable.

It's haunting, often harrowing stuff, but Allman knows this territory well, growling, yearning, pleading for some sense of peace that seems as if it will ever elude him--and maybe anyone who walks the eart

The King Is Dead clings so closely to formula that it doesn't sound like homage or even truth; it sounds like the studious but unconvincing work of an extremely gifted mimic.

They run like rabbits from the stultifying bottom end of grunge, instead honoring what was hot and sweet about '90s rock: the raucousness of its hooks and the accessibility of its noise.

Recorded in the band's own solar-powered studio in Sacramento over a period of some two years, each song on Showroom of Compassion sounds nurtured into its ideal state.

On Love Letter, he does away with the freakiness and lays down a full record of slow-simmered, grown-man emoting. And it feels like a wayward husband who's finally come home for good.

It's a shame Sugarland couldn't find room for anything as moving or richly layered as "Stay," the pair's 2007 hit that rightly landed them so many industry awards. The new stuff will most assuredly get audiences on their feet; whether it leaves them with anything beyond visceral thrill as they exit the arena is another matter.

He captures the otherworldly more often than not. Occasionally, though, the songs overreach or miss some central point.

It's all familiar stuff - too familiar - to warrant sustained attention.

Stevens ventures widely on this 85-minute disc to find the best way to express what turn out to be basic home truths.

Weirdly, Best evokes the early career of Rihanna, where a just-OK voice perfectly nestles into the steely production around it.

In glimpses it reaches that goal--like in maybe half of the sticky and finessed "Breaking Point"--but it's undone by the album's many other contradictory messages.

Apollo Kids shows that one of rap's company drivers is still on the speedway--zooming slightly slower than before, but with better pacing and control of the wheel.

None of it's unpleasant to hear, particularly when someone as dependably charismatic as Snoop Dogg shows up, as the rapper does in a typically laidback take on "Get the Funk Out of My Face." And Jones hasn't lost his ear for great singers; Jennifer Hudson, John Legend and BeBe Winans all sound terrific. Yet too few of the album's 15 tracks seem brushed with the seductive audacity that defined Jones' groundbreaking collaborations with Michael Jackson.

Basic Instinct offers enough android booty bass action to satisfy those who like their rhythms complicated but repetitive and hooks foreseeable from a mile away, but pleasant enough when they arrive.

We'll never know what Jackson really would've done with these songs but this is the first of, no doubt, many guesses we'll get that hopefully won't yield diminishing returns.

Ribot's work here may not always cry for attention like some effects-laden summer blockbuster, but it can be a quietly immersive art house favorite in the right hands.

Pink Friday shows Minaj is on the cusp - considering her facility with accents, she could be the perfect person to find a new patois, one that's built of separate musical languages but without breaking any of them down.

L.A.'s veteran indie rocker is on a tear in his third outing with the up-for-anything Miracle 3 - guitarist Jason Victor, drummer Linda Pitmon and bassist Dave DeCastro - fusing Wynn's penchant for Americana rock, psychedelia, brutal punk and extended jams into an intriguingly seductive blend.

The Promise album, with gems like the Crystals' homage "Ain't Good Enough for You" and the lilting ballad "Candy's Boy" (a far cry from "Darkness' " aggressively lustful revision "Candy's Room") showcases the danceability, catchiness and even sentimentality Springsteen had to rein in to create "Darkness."

For every swanky old-school touch, there's a glassy modernity that makes the album a sexy sonic adventure of loving and leaving.

Ultimately, it's admirable that Ne-Yo felt the need to take listeners on an out-of-this-world ride, but he's at his best when sticking closer to home.

In a genre all about timbre, there's no production duo that sounds as good. This system works just as well out of the club and in the concert hall with the Tron: Legacy score.

She finds the plaintive center, the kind of soothing intimacy that almost seems like the way we'd sing to ourselves in times of trouble.

Consider it a musical Snuggie for tottering Valley party girls--it will feel marvelous in the cold, drunken and lonely hours of the night.

My Chem's indulgent side still sometimes gets the best of them--the rave synths on "The Only Hope for Me Is You" belong on a different album. But they made a wise choice in closing with "Vampire Money," a No Wave spitball whose opening lyric is an (unprintable) fistful of garlic in the eye of "Twilight's" sexless family-values-noir.

Repeatedly confessing to his own fallibility, T.I. turns his attacks on gossip website TMZ and people who post Twitpics - uncomfortably interrupting his own celebration to snarl.

Despite these high points, though, Endlessly has some problems. Duffy has said she wrote the songs in a mere three weeks, and it shows.

...Featuring doesn't really turn over any new rocks in the Zen garden of Jones' voice, perpetually in repose. It only reinforces her power over and over again--but it's hard to complain when her vocal prowess is so refined.

Loud is, at points, a powerful reminder of Rihanna's skills before the 2009 Grammys incident changed how we read her songs.

With a refreshing emphasis on music over outrageous persona, Kid Rock has earned himself another 15 minutes with this one. Or, what the heck? Let's make it 30.

Most songs here emphasize Lynn's signature feistiness, but Williams zeroes in on the deep heartache she's also adept at, choosing her 1976 hit "Somebody Somewhere (Don't Know What He's Missin' Tonight)," one of 16 singles Lynn took to No. 1. There's a full record of this soul-scorching facet of Lynn's music lurking somewhere, for somebody.

Though it might sound like a cold place, Eno's primordial milk sea is often choppy and warm, the kind of rough and imperfect environment where ideas ignite.

As the title of its much-delayed fourth album intimates, there's Nothing left in the record bin for the Virginia Beach-bred trio to plunder, having previously dabbled with rock, pop, rap, funk, R&B and electro.

In Costello's infinitely gifted hands, pop music circa 2010 is anything but only rock 'n' roll.

Swift's ability to articulate her vision is growing beautifully. Next, one hopes, she'll turn off that night light and confront the realities that remain, for her, in the dark.

The Books' first album in five years marks the most sophisticated collage yet from the audio-ransacking duo of Nick Zammuto and Paul de Jong.

The new stuff will most assuredly get audiences on their feet; whether it leaves them with anything beyond visceral thrill as they exit the arena is another matter.

These tough-to-decipher tracks don't feel like mistakes; they're attempts at something new, and any one could lead Phair somewhere interesting. Scattered among them are songs in which she sticks to what she does best, and they'll satisfy any fan who puts down her preconceptions and takes the time to find them.

With its redemptive sins, Come Around Sundown ends up being a portrait of light and dark worthy of the rock and roll bible.

It's unclear whether the creative languor stems from the inherent commercial pressure of being the Young Money meal ticket or whether Wayne has exhausted his ideas after compressing a career's worth of songs into three years.

1,000 Years is a determined effort to go beyond a somewhat burdensome past--and a statement that Tucker is eager to express what's both beautiful and difficult about full adulthood.

Generally, his songs about the world around him are more vividly distinctive than those dealing with what may be going on within.

For all its stylistic variety, though, Sinners hangs together thanks to Malo's consistently remarkable vocals. Listening to this guy sing--listening to him sing anything--is an act of pure pleasure.

As pleasing as the melodies and execution are, it's hard to tell if the album has real sticking power--or if it merely passes through the system, appreciated but ultimately forgettable. Only time and more records will tell.

Whether buried deep in the mix, as on "Dusted," or relatively up high, as on the wonderful "Valley Hum," untethered words and ideas drift through but minus the necessary vocal heft. This absence is frustrating, because it stands in stark contrast to the music that surrounds it, which is varied, colorful and consistently surprising.

Le Noise is not an epic -– if it were a book, you could read it in an afternoon -– but it's statement enough from a man who's already said so much.

Clapton and Bramhall also have pulled off a minor miracle in assembling an ad hoc group that manages to sound like a blues band whose members have been absorbing one another's abilities to the point of musical osmosis.

On his ninth album, the independently released I Am the West, he retreats to self-satisfied taunts about his legendary status, the enervated state of the Left Coast, and his rivals, both real and imaginary.

Collins takes on 18 tracks in an outing as understandable as it is unnecessary, a high-priced karaoke spin for the ersatz prog-rock-percussionist-turned-master-of-the-'80s-pop-single.

Hands All Over reveals less about who frontman Adam Levine is than did Maroon 5's previous records; too often the songs cleave to opaque generalities.

Credit Legend and the Roots for looking beyond the hits, and it's a respectable love letter, if not quite an urgent one, to artists who shouldn't be overlooked.

Cave's skill at crafting work drenched with the blood and tears of human flaws remains unparalleled, and makes Grinderman 2 an essential rock and roll document.

With The Guitar Song, he's made an ambitious work that goes down easy. Johnson may masquerade as a throwback but what he really aims for is timelessness, and he usually hits his mark.

Songz's speedy delivery splits the difference between rapping and crooning; like Rihanna, he lacks an especially charismatic voice but often uses that trait to his favor.

As meticulously as these sounds and instruments are recorded, as beautiful and haunting as they sometimes sound, they don't add up to more than one or two truly memorable songs.

The singer-songwriter's background in university show choirs serves her well here, as she finds strength in complex vocal arrangements and the sorts of dramatic set-ups that have reminded us, through Fox's popular television show, that the very act of raising our voices can be a hugely liberating act.

Jerry Lee Lewis, who turns 75 at the end of this month and demonstrates that he's still eminently capable of pumping those 88 black and white keys.

I'm Having Fun Now distinguishes itself from Lewis and Rice's solo efforts, or hers with band-on-hiatus Rilo Kiley, by going for a very specific tone.

Thirty-four years after the band's debut, Heart's dreamboat sails on.

Blending an almost futuristically elegant sense of atmosphere with flashes of raw, flesh-and-blood expression, Portico Quartet isn't the first to carve out such a pan-global sonic world, but it's created one that's welcoming to visit.

For his latest album, Thompson has aimed to inject a batch of new songs with the energy and spontaneity of live performance, a goal he achieves convincingly.

Frisell's taste for mining the classic songbook remains intact with lovely, understated takes on Beautiful Dreamer, "Tea for Two" and the ever-jaunty "Keep on the Sunny Side," but these add up to a rather inescapable feeling that Frisell has been here before.

At 26, she sounds like she's learning what to let go of and what to keep, a long journey to be sure; on "Back to Me," she sounds up for the task.

To judge Perry as inauthentic or unoriginal would be wrong; as with any great ad campaign, uncanny familiarity is her greatest achievement.

Hawk works best when Campbell--who wrote, produced and arranged most of these 13 tunes--nudges their collaboration into new territory.

Freshly single, Usher does everything but buy a waterbed, an Italian sports car and announce, "Mothers, lock up your daughters."

Fitz & the Tantrums is the kind of band that communicates best in concert, but this album serves as a fine proxy and party-starter.

Klaxons, if you're going to shout in our ears a bunch, can you at least have something to say?

This album finds Wilson clearly invigorated by material he feels an affinity with; thankfully, he's not so precious that he can't flood it with sea salt, sunshine and all the qualities that make his music individual.

For much of the record, Mellencamp is eyeing death and laughing at the devil or, as in the back-porch-folk of "Easter Eve," bonding with his son by brawling with strangers. A little cranky, but far more carefree Mellencamp slips into a rocking chair groove on the lost-lover lament of "Don't Forget About Me" and concedes that he's "spotty at best." Over the course of his 30-plus-year career, sure, but not here.

God Willin' & the Creek Don't Rise has a natural feel, comfortably ranging from bar-band rave-ups to contemplative acoustic numbers, with master pedal steel player Greg Leisz leading several tracks into the expertly unfussy territory of blue-chip Nashville country rock.

Modern Rituals is a vibe record, and it could use a magic bullet single. But anyone fumbling under a car seat for the perfect thing to play while descending to the beach from Malibu Creek State Park should reach for this first.

The Suburbs is an accomplished love letter that radiates affection as much as bitterness.

Make no mistake, the storytelling is detailed and the musicianship is precession-sharp, but dotted with faithful Spanish-language takes on cumbia and Norteno styles, and one unnecessary blues-jam interlude, Tin Can Trust ultimately eases into traditionalism.

Autolux clearly saves its affection for intricacy and sonic margins, but after six years you'd think it'd sound more eager for the spotlight.

Sometimes the message overwhelms the music, but largely the good doctor tends to the sick without letting the well-heeled off the hook.

As this accomplished one-two punch attests, Gibbs boasts the rare ability to be both crude and refined.

With imagery haunted by death and lyrical allusions to alienation and angst, Avenged Sevenfold's fifth full-length is almost impossible to appreciate unless you fit the prime demographic: tormented teenage boys.

Here, he and Johns are working with a faultless batch of songs.

The songs are so good they can disarm any skeptics.

One of the best summer blockbusters in recent memory, Teflon Don proves how thin the line is between a flight of fancy and something fantastic.

Nearly every song overstays its welcome; what may have felt like a bunch of great jams in the studio grows tedious over the course of 12 tracks.

There's a hesitating beauty to the nightmares explored on "Dark Night," from the keyboard symphonies of "Revenge," featuring a calmly paranoid vocal take from the Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne, to the carnival-like haunt of "Everytime I'm with You," led by a leery Jason Lytle (Grandaddy).

Their second collection since coming back together out of solace following that loss makes it clear that to group leader Neil Finn, there's still musical business to finish for this band.