Oberst's political criticism is most effective when he's humble and straightforward, yet his overwrought poetics seem laughable, childish and blinkered when applied to world affairs.

It's a bold move to pick up the scraps from the floor, finish them up and declare them worth hearing, even if they don't fit tidily on any previous (or future) albums. Song by song you could be forgiven for asking "Is this the same band?"

Not terrible, just half-assed.

She sounds older and smarter, but a bit unsure of which way to take that experience.

Lyrics are reflective and well written--Watt is also a published author--but a middle-age malaise runs through these 10 tracks.

Their latest successfully revisits elements of their thrash-metal prime, eschewing bloated self-indulgence for straight-up head-banging aggression, with decent riffs to match, thanks in no small part to producer Rick Rubin.

The Colour In Anything is a good album that could have been great if Blake had been a bit more willing to edit and discard his less successful sonic experiments.

Emancipated Hearts’ chilled-out songs are strong, though, built on solid, simple melodies and weary, disillusioned lyrics.

Strangely, a distinct analogue warmth still shines through. Think Enya filtered through chillwave.

Whereas her last album had a gently psychedelic and live-off-the-floor feel, Honeymoon plays it safer with “cinematic” arrangements occasionally pumped up (but not excessively so) with modern drum sounds.

When it works, it’s as joyful as the best Tune-Yards songs. ... Given her soaring delivery elsewhere, the talk-sung ABC 123 and Now As Then fall flat in comparison, and the reliance on 808s feels a tad dated for a group lauded for their innovative production.

Bloom is consistent in quality, and there isn't a single bad song. It just feels like they spent too much time worrying about production and not enough time songwriting.

There's no particular deficiency, but the new approach pushes the Brooklyn-based Athens, Georgia, band closer to the middle of the road than ever before.

Despite the beautiful arrangements, it's hard to shake the notion that Still Corners, like a lot of new indie bands, haven't yet risen above the sum of their influences: movie music, Morricone, Slowdive, Broadcast, Nancy Sinatra.

There is an unexciting emphasis on precision and minimalism that saps the emotional heat from an otherwise interesting fusion of styles and sounds.

The occasional “segues” throughout the record recall Fantastic Planet and although they help give it some variety and atmosphere, they also feel like too much of a throwback rather than helping The Heart Is A Monster stands on its own.

The music still branches off into proggy places, especially in the latter half, but nothing hits hard or is remotely memorable.

This second album for Lost Highway isn’t radically different from 2004’s return to sneering form The Delivery Man, only the rockin’ tracks sound slightly less raucous and the ballads not quite as bitter. So he’s back in Attractions mode, sans the old piss and vinegar.

It's actually startlingly dark, and understandably so – drummer Paul Hester took his own life only two years ago, and the tragedy definitely shades Neil Finn's songwriting on Time.

This album feels firmly in the gutter, and that’s a positive for slurring Dylan-phile Hamilton Leithauser, who moans and wails throughout, ruminating about lost friends and lovers while the guitars pour reverb-drenched notes over his sepia moments.

The album, her best to date, would've worked better had she dived into the sea of sadness instead of dipping her toe in from song to song.

The result sounds like a stack of old 70s records your nerdiest music snob friend discovered in a dusty record store.

Everything moves in linear fashion backwards, with only Danger Mouse’s bold battering saving Beck from a horrifying relapse into dreary Sea Change melancholia.

As the narrative grows sleepier, it feels as though she wants to see how much she can reduce her theatrical pop image into something small and seemingly impermanent.

It's hard to shake the notion that the songs are leftovers from the songwriters' other bands.

It’s a meandering, angsty and deceptively gritty chronicle of the wonder years, but on repeat listens his guttural, conversational drawl and textured production seem to camouflage some seriously sentimental feelings.

It's a solid denouement to Elaenia's touring cycle, and perhaps helps us appreciate that album for its use of exactly the right tools for the job and appropriate scope for its ideas.

The fleeting interlude Sonora, inspired by Cochemea’s Yaqui (an Indigenous nation from Mexico) ancestors, brightens the album with a hint of tropical sax.

While her straightforward songwriting certainly comes across as honest, it can feel a little hokey.

The album's psychedelic pop runs out of gas near the end in cringe-worthy Battersea Odyssey and Let The Wolves Howl At The Moon, but by then you're won over and wondering how you slept on this band for the past nine years.

Unless you’re a desperate DCFC fan in need of satiation, The Open Door isn’t worth the purchase.

He seems to be making an effort to be more positive, though sometimes that comes across as cumbersome or strained.

Gift proves that Lindsey Buckingham’s knack for writing catchy pop-rock chord changes is alive and well.

Legend's lounge-track sentimentality often spills into schmaltzed-out Streisand-on-Broadway territory.

This might be news to the Arctic Monkeys’ Alex Turner, but for every artist there’s a point where aspiration exceeds ability. The Last Shadow Puppets, his new studio dalliance with pal Miles Kane, have way overshot it on The Age Of The Understatement.

The problem is that he hasn’t yet developed a signature sound that immediately identifies a track as his own, nor is he capable of writing the sort of provocative rhymes that stand out.

In a genre based on repetition, standout moments are critical, and We Move provides too few of them to be impactful. But when they show up, the results are stunning.

While The Fool has clear focus and crafts a particular sound, the music fails to resonate emotionally.

There are missteps--Talib Kweli going through the motions on Get Your Way (Sex Is A Weapon), Ghostface's unfortunate pairing with Wiz Khalifa--but like the movie, the soundtrack is good, bombastic fun.

This could be any novice eight-track job recorded in a basement or garage, but at least For The Season comes off like the work of a real band for a change.

Fans might find it a fascinating revelation, and Madonna will likely swipe a few ideas, while everyone else is left wondering what happened to the tunes.

Reign Of Terror still sounds like Sleigh Bells, but a more polite and conservative version.

There's no denying Bronson is a supreme talent, but Mr. Wonderful feels more like a low-stakes failed experiment than a grand proclamation.

The sophistication suits the songs, which have a tragic seriousness without becoming a gloomy slog.

It's a solid album with strong production and songwriting, but it won't blow any minds.

Diversifying is a good plan, seeing as this kind of thrashy, mid-fi guitar pop can all melt together. Thankfully, the sugary keyboards and furious, to-the-point guitar solos (and guitarmonies!) cause most of the songs to shred in their own special way.

Unfortunately, few songs truly stand out. Peven Everett’s effusive turn on Strobelite is the biggest pop moment, while De La Soul fronting the pounding Momentz gives the album some early momentum.

Despite the production side's strengths, Two Eleven's themes and lyrics are ho-hum.

Celebrity aside, Speak Now is as hooky as its predecessors but differs in its often angry, spiteful tone.

Same Old Man isn’t Hiatt’s finest hour but it’s still far from his worst.

Henry, fresh from co-producing the Knocked Up soundtrack, doesn't have an exceptional voice. It's croaky, with little range, and the piano- and acoustic-based music on Civilians (out Sept 11) is kept unobtrusive, serving his writerly lyrics well.

None of them are as immediately catchy or memorable, and perhaps that’s to be expected. But Petty and Co. are at ease and doing what they please.

Days is a step in the right direction, but we're hoping they can challenge themselves to do something greater on album three.

It's lacking the melancholic darkness that added substance to Strange Geometry.

Once again Steve Albini-produced, their third effort doesn’t stray wildly from Matt’s laid-back vocals and the intertwining melodic guitar parts they’re now known for, but there is at least one effort to evolve.

Protest the Hero have never been short on energy, but their fourth album lacks variety and rarely allows the listener to breathe.

While several other songs get overly-orchestral. Sometimes the strings work really well, though, like on Lonely Desolation, fuelled by plucked violin.

For all its unexpected sounds and catchy choruses, Emotion falters in its lyrical blandness.

Their imperfections blare through your speakers, as do the clanging discofied hi-hats, nervy guitar lines and jagged, boy/girl shouted vocals. And yet it satisfies in a way similar to seeing the final pages of your fanzine come spitting through a photocopier.

It's nice to hear De La Soul stretching themselves creatively, and even the less successful detours are interesting additions to an already eclectic catalogue.

Closer Oh Bummer, sung by drummer Greg Saunier, is a straightforward moody rock song--at least for the first three minutes, after which a striking doomsday-meets-Thriller breakdown erupts, reminding diehard fans that the band members are still weirdos but also keeping fair-weather listeners at a distance.

The album’s emphasis on repetition occasionally sounds too self-conscious, but it’s a rare excess in an otherwise restrained--if not necessarily subtle--collection of ballads.

Fans of his ambient hip-hop and blissed-out impressionist R&B will be more pleased with Guilt Trips than those who prefer his clubby side.

Rault’s commitment and ability to ape the sounds of his idols is both his strength and his Achilles’ heel.

Sykes's closely mic'd vocals add a confessional quality to her melancholic delivery of cold raindrops and empty sky imagery that's endearing in small doses.

It may be exactly what fans have been waiting for, but you have to wonder how long the band can keep using the same templates.

There are some missteps--the ballad Tripwire feels out of place in the general uptempo pace, and in (She Might Be A) Grenade, Costello lazily compares a girl to an atomic bomb (didn’t Green Day already do this?)--but when the album works, the band and the singer/songwriter sound more invigorated than they have in years.

While IV shows a progression, it lacks the progressiveness that would keep BBNG in a league with their aforementioned jazz/hip-hop predecessors and peers. However admirably, it stays in its own lane.

The transitions throughout that first track aren't as seamless as you'd expect from Hebden, but they're also what keeps the music from slipping into the background.

The five tracks amble and pulsate and plod along in a way that feels consistent with the band and the genre.

It's dizzying, and you'll want off at times, but you'll likely ask to ride again.

Mostly, though, the barely 30-minute album is a non-stop rager.

The 10-song album ricochets between great – the grammatically playful What You Is, the countryish Hurry For The Sky – and just okay.

The Roots aren't averse to a good cover song, so it's not surprising to see them team up with R&B crooner John Legend for a set of throwback soul tunes.

A couple of songs sound like Much More Music hits (Breakfast, Forever Be), but a few genuine surprises--the Simon & Garfunkelesque cover of Labi Siffre’s Bless The Telephone, the slow-burning Floyd and country-rocking Friday Fish Fry--demonstrate Kelis’s deft versatility.

Jamie Stewart, as usual, sounds like a man on the edge of checking into a white-walled care facility, but that shouldn’t be seen as a negative against Women As Lovers.

The songs are excellent in their own right, but when they’re all lined up, Interpol start seeming like a one-trick pony.

Like all Hip records, this is a snapshot of a band constantly moving away from their past and toward a strange musical unknown.

The band's straightforward punk leanings give way to more angular, spacious, softer songwriting--and some welcome metal nods in the title track--partway through the 10-track album, but Paternoster's vocals never back off. That's where the power, hooks and originality come from, but they're a little relentless.

Frontman Bobby Gillespie’s lyrics still don’t sound as effortlessly cool as his breathy delivery (see Culturecide), but it feels like the band is back on the pulse of something.

More than a decade out from the band’s shift into electronic music and their reinvention as what at times seems to be a soundtrack band, it’s hard to tell if Mogwai have aged well or just sort of boringly mellowed.

On slick, feckless romance ballads like I Belong In Your Arms, that rooted-in-the-past sound can seem like empty nostalgia, but it blooms with freshness when used as a springboard for experimentation.

Add it all up and you get a typical Ryan Adams release.

The inventiveness in James's vocals draws attention to the lack of that quality in Roddick's production, which grows clichéd after a while.

As far as comeback albums go, Seasons Of Your Day doesn’t disappoint, but few songs truly stand out.

The album's biggest flaw is that Jonsi's opted to sing in English. Sure, we can now understand his lyrics, but hearing about people riding bikes, making out and just gallivanting about derails the experience.

On his third album, experimental electro sounds that initially seem grating and disparate weave together to form bona fide pop melodies.

Under 30 minutes long, Badlands is a short burst of concentrated energy that gradually slides into less compelling instrumental murk.

It's an unnerving listen that demands a certain amount of masochism, but you've definitely never heard another band like Nissenenmondai.

A pretty decent melancholy pop album that deserves to be heard outside of dormitories and campus bars.

It helps that lead singer Tim Cohen is gifted with an expressive baritone that easily lends itself to any style the band tries on, but their subtly complex guitar rhythms and melodic hooks do just as much heavy lifting.

Tindersticks’ return to form on their eighth album isn’t evident when you first press play. But look past the uninteresting six-minute jazz drone that opens the album and you’ll see that the prolific English group still has the enough soul to succeed.

Wasner’s vocals seem more confident and assertive now, as if she’s come of age. Still, there are moments on Shriek just yearning for a clever guitar melody or screeching solo.

Whether it’s your thing or not, Music Go Music’s blissed-out pop is, at the very least, well crafted.

There's very little here that ups the ante (or matches the highlights) of the original Illinois disc.

He’s managed to inject this compact collection of eight tunes with more than a whiff of 90s alt-radio nostalgia, but the songs are hummable enough to rebuff anyone inclined toward cynical eye-rolling.

As with similar high-concept projects, most of it doesn't work, and the most successful pairings are often the ones you'd least expect.

Real is a beefy record that plods and dances precariously close to the jam band divider.