This is nostalgia of the honorable variety.

The real problem with The Sellout is that it, in fact, wants to be a sellout but isn' a very good one. These blatant attempts to cash on famous names are weakest tracks here.

What’s good here is excellent fun, and what isn’t is mostly forgettable.

The are other fine moments, but not enough of them. Unfortunately, it’s the kind of record that sounds less interesting the more one listens, until the superficial pleasures ultimately wear paper thin.

The commercial success is a victory Simple Minds and its hardcore fans must be savoring. For everyone else, it’s a pretty hollow one.

The album's unevenness keeps it from being as good as it could be.

Ripping off very obvious rock songs is asking to be deemed irrelevant, and their attempts to sound contemporary are poor at best. If you must acquire this, then you might have fun with your friends picking out which songs they ripped off, or pay homage to or whatever.

A promising contender, rather than the champ. As nice as Again & Again is (and it is "nice"), in 2011 there are simply bigger fish dishing this electro, pop art revivalism up more convincingly and, crucially, with more personality.

If listeners can battle the overused simile, then it is not difficult to find the record likeable, even amidst the unforgivable whoas that occasionally penetrate the background (“Cut and Run”, “Ghost”).

The Real Feel really feels stilted overall. There are pretty moments, but little that’s electrifying.

This album will not bear up to being played too often.

311 saves the best for last with the last quarter of the album.

Often Lie, even in its brevity, loses a lot of steam after the opening tracks.

After some time, you can't really connect with the material, and thus it flies by like a wash of intriguing but ultimately unimportant noise.

Much of Thought passes by like a lazy Sunday morning, enjoyably floating by, if not so memorable.

Not all of High Anxiety works fantastically, but there is still great music to be found, and a consistent sonic “theme” throughout does a mutable job of keeping your attention throughout the project.

Turin Brakes have made an album which is "OK". No dizzying heights or subterranean lows. You may raise an eyebrow every now and again, but nothing about this music grabs your attention and holds it.

Helium is known for two things, and one is its lightweight sound. Homeshake makes music the way he wants, and that's admirable, but hopefully, it doesn't get any lighter than this.

He does express regret about the marriage breakdown on Papers, but it rings hollow, as does most of this so-so record.

While changing approaches is a good idea, particularly since Gold Chains's earlier work flirted with novelty act status, When the World Was Our Friend is not an impressive album.

Most of the songs just lumber along at the same plodding, deliberate pace, boasting very few of the fun hooks that made her previous album so annoyingly likeable.

There are two completely different EPs within this album stitched together with a tenuously thin thread. One is dark, one is light and unfortunately the thread does not bind them together as a cohesive musical statement.

While Panic of Girls certainly advances Blondie's legacy as an influential and consistently relevant force, there are a few moments that, at best, improve upon repeated listening or at worst, taint the band's otherwise commendable return to recording.

Overall, Nobody's Daughter isn't a complete backfire, but it is proof that Love should hang up the Hole moniker and stick to her own solo career instead, since this release is basically a Courtney Love solo record that just happens to have a Hole logo on the cover instead.

There’s a fine line between dreamy and sleepy, and too often, Dog Bite falls on the wrong side of that divide.

Normally, with a scattered album weighted with highfalutin’ concerns like this one, I’d say their maker needed a stronger or meatier concept. But here, for better or worse, I wish that Whiteman would stop writing songs about important things and just focus on writing good songs instead.

The Sounds, sadly, are fatally pledged to sincerity in its most ponderous and uninspired form.

There are no formulas here, and that's a good thing, but one can't help but feel the lack of focus and discrimination it took to put together Odditorium or Warlords of Mars.

The tension that made Mase's early songs so captivating is gone.

That’s not to say A Fool for Everyone is a below-sub-par record by any means. Its just that there is more potential for these songs than he allowed them to have.

This isn't a terrible album, but it is annoying, and would be much more potent if his influences weren't so apparent.

So Grinning Streak is listenable throughout, but aside from those occasional highlights, it’s not a compelling listen.

While 18 Months, Harris’s third solo full-length, is pretty much the hit-making monster that launched him in to the world spotlight, the truth of the matter is that it feels like a rather compromised vision of who he is an artist, sacrificing his quirkiness for a brooding new persona that starts to get stale over the course of a complete full-length.

The disappointing moments are fleeting, as Travis has figured out that the niche they created for themselves eight years ago is a comfy one, a sound which, inoffensive and safe as it may be, suits the band perfectly.

There’s still a kernel of originality and true insight in Badly Drawn Boy, but Damon Gough’s going to have to work hard to get back to the spontaneity and true feeling of his past work.

It's not all bad, of course-if you prefer your sugar with a side of C-rate bounce, there are things here with which you most certainly could spend your Saturday nights.

Although a few of the cuts on Let Love In sound somewhat formulaic, the pop sheen mostly agrees with Rzeznik’s lived-in voice and cloaked lyrics.

For fans of those unabashedly earnest and heartfelt records that was filling up the charts between grunge singles nearly 15 to 20 years ago, Alphabet might come as a needed relief from today’s bearded, lo-fidelity folk stars spewing abstract poetics. For the rest of us, McRae’s release is just too dated and inflated to take seriously.

Her singing voice all across Jigsaw, like Eminem singing, makes you shudder slightly. She indicates tenderness by multitracking the vocals and aching earnestness, and when she breaks into sing-song rap in the middle of a slow ballad, the juxtaposition with her aggressive rap style shocks.

It’s just typical Budden atop typical Top 40 (other than “Ghetto Burbs”, which could’ve been a Lil’ Cease epic in 1999) and that’s not a formula that makes for anything memorable.

And while its high points are nice and its low points aren't offensive, The New Folk Implosion is not the kind of album one would likely choose to listen to over the Pearl Jam and Paul Westerberg records that are similar and, frankly, better.

Doughty’s sophomore LP, Golden Delicious, goes heavy on the groove and the hook, but it may go a little too soft on the edges.

There are a few decent songs.

Ultimately, Motion is somewhat of a scattered album with some shining moments.

Far from being the band that every other band wants to sound like, this compilation-style EP suggests that Massive Attack are indiscriminately mining for something to make their own in a climate that has shifted in favour of producers like Albarn and just about anyone who can fashion bleeping synthscapes.

Essentially, the album cannot live up to that expectation, because they don't seem to be trying hard, more in love with the fact that they're making an album together.

Ultimately, Bun ends up feeling like a bit of a guest on his own LP, similar to Rick Ross' Teflon Don effort, and though Trill O.G. is full of quality-sounding music it simply fails to make any argument for its necessity to anyone but the most strident fans of Bun B's monolithic presence.

The problem with much of Ten$ion isn't that it doesn't feel smart-good music has never, and will never have to be "smart"-but that it feels deliberately stupid.

In failing to take up the sword as they should, therefore, they wind up sounding a little lost on Indestructible, stabbing their weapons without any reasons behind each parry, setting up vague agendas they cannot follow through on. Despite this, it’s still a reliably solid, passable hard-rock soundtrack for 2008.

Too many songs are formally organized with the same approach and formula in mind. Distinctiveness takes a hit because of this, with only a few notable exceptions.

Three bad songs on an album of 15 tracks shouldn’t sink the entire album. And it doesn’t sink Heart Blanche. Not quite. But it happens that those three tracks are probably the album’s biggest and boldest in one form or another.

They have some rough edges to smooth out, but they have a very promising start here.

While this is a decent first effort that may do well on the underground dance circuit, it’s clear that the image, style and attitude are temporarily overshadowing the music.

Evinspacey has enough original and interesting grooves to provide pleasant entertainment for the tape-looping gadgets.

Jessie J’s latest pop-tacular, slightly uneven effort, Alive, sheds the Katy Perry rainbow for a much rougher, more interesting shade of Pink--both the artist and the color.

Young’s heart reaches out, but his music isn’t keeping up with it, no matter how quickly he records it.

Hawthorne Heights don’t quite have the nervy energy or wit of a My Chemical Romance or Fall Out Boy yet, but their second album is a solid pop effort that reveals space for more growth.

One can only take so much well-adjustment before one gets sick of the instrumental and vocal sappiness and moves onto greener, more tormented pastures.

It’s a disappointing yet completely listenable effort that suffers for being nothing more than a new Placebo record.

It's as if Chief wanted to sound as grand as possible, but by wanting to do too much, they ultimately end up accomplishing very little. This is catchy, easy-going stuff; but the obvious and at times, plaintive feel of the record doesn't exactly beg for repeated spins.

An album that feels dated right as it hits the shelves, and professes no argument for its significance other than some big name features and producers.

The Time is Now is fine. It's adequate. You might find some mixtape material on it. You might even find the album on your streaming service of choice, remember the name Craig David, play the new album, and say "hey, this isn't half bad." By the time the next day rolls around, though, you'll forget it ever existed.

The record seems a lot more taut and effective than it actually is when one reflects that there were originally twice as many songs to it.

Chances are that if you weren't too hot on Lou's shift from electro to acoustic over the course of her three-LP solo trajectory, your best bet would be stick to your faithful copy of "Fear Of Fours" and remember the good times.

Take Me Home and Make Me Like It is raw, it’s extremely unpolished, and it’s undeniably in the moment.

Why You So Crazy is indeed a reflection of their uniqueness and disregard for predefined musical categories. In doing so, they manage to be both entertaining and exhausting; likely, an intentional contradiction.

More than just asserting his countryness, Moonshine in the Trunk seems like an effort to re-assert his Paisley-ness, to get back to the sort of songs that first got him commercial attention.

Bands like Christine and the Queens and Mother Mother have attempted the same swagger-filled beats that Methyl Ethel have tried on Everything Is Forgotten, and each has successfully made a jam-worthy song. However, within the genre of indie, the same swagger groove tends to be artificial, and the same soul-searching loses its way amongst the noise.

The album consists of a number of tracks that failed to stick on prior releases as well as a few tunes that seemingly attempt to capture the sound and feel exemplified a year earlier.... For an album that slogs along unassumingly, it’s not surprising then that the bonus material fails to make much of an impression either.

The prevalence of so many voices, in fact, transforms Divided By Night from a solid if predictable set of well-programmed, well-produced dance tunes into a rote compilation of pop songs.

While more than half the album flounders and meanders uselessly to arrive at roughly four truly worthwhile numbers, parts of Minutes to Midnight set the foundations for a whole new array of sounds that the band can and hopefully will pursue in the future.

However different the early and mid-period records are, they all sounded daring, fresh, and inspired in their own ways. Compare that to the lifeless "High Speed Train" which plods along in perfectly measured time for the longest five minutes I've ever experienced with the band.

Almost Everything… is a piano pop-rock album, much in the vein of the Fray with lots of violins and guitars to go around but aimed just outside the top-40 bull’s-eye.

Billed as a move back to an indie label (Banter, in this case) and a “return to form,” this five-track EP aims itself squarely between the two full-lengths, yet it still doesn’t find the correct balance.

The New Classic will never be a classic, but it isn’t anywhere as bad as anyone will expect it to be.

While Evolution is certainly well-crafted it won't be nearly enough to invigorate or re-invigorate anything or anyone.

Undeterred by fashion and musical movements having moved on, Stellastarr* have created a joyously out-of-step album. And it deserves to be heard.

Coming from an artist as singular as Klein, Reasons to Live fails in one very frustrating way: it sounds like the kind of record that anyone could have made.

Even the most open-minded hip-hop heads might dismiss it simply based on Keith’s age and inconsistency over the past few years. But there are still shades of brilliance throughout, both in the raps and Kurt’s spacey production, so this one deserves at least a couple of spins before you look elsewhere.

Seal IV is actually much better than one would expect from an artist whose last decent album is now nine years old. At the same time, something about it is off; for the first time, Seal is not merely outside his time (good), but behind it (bad).

The Presidents found on These Are the Good Times People are officially lame ducks, serving out their term while rock music elects a new Chief Executive.

As much as B-Real still seems lively, Sen Dog seems to have smoked himself out of being a rapper. He sounds exhausted and unimaginative all over this record. He doesn’t even appear on all of the tracks. This imbalance, coupled with the array of random producers, causes an inconsistency in the LP’s sound that hurts Rise Up on tracks.

With III, Shiny Toy Guns basically prove that marinating in the sounds of the '80s is something they clearly aspire to. It's just that they're more interesting when they reach a little higher and beyond that.

Ultimately, Sweet Talker falls short of pop glory.

Sadly, Parks’ spectral strains are probably the most memorable part of her hookup with Brian Jonestown Massacre’s sitar swinging Svengali Anton “Keep Music Evil” Newcombe.

It’s the residue of that band making a cynical attempt to polish the gloss off their music to a dull matte to the benefit of the lowest common denominator of pop listeners.

Close Your Eyes is an utterly listenable pop playlist from one of New Zealand’s national treasures.

Slash goes through all the proper motions (distorted guitars, squint-eyed staring-into-the-distance guitar solos, loads of star power), but the end product doesn't satisfy me on a visceral level, and closer examination only magnifies the fact Slash can't establish instant chemistry with just any name he pulls out of his address book.

Pleasing, accessible, but ordinary and lacking depth.

A 12 song pop rock record aimed at pleasing your overzealous ex-girlfriend from college more than, say, the girl you finally deemed cool enough to settle down with.

In the end, it is Aguilera's overzealous penchant for excess that leaves this comeback short of, well, being any good.

The Jezabels are a talented collective, but I find their latest set half as compelling as it could have been. The Brink remains grounded when it should soar.

Nothing But the Beat is in many ways a showcase of everything that is bad about pop music in 2011: derivative, novelty, shallow, rushed, Auto-Tuned to the ends of the earth and thoroughly uninteresting.

The Avetts have been doing this for too long and are too accomplished as songwriters to make an album that's a total dud. The good stuff on Closer Than Together is really quite excellent. But when the balance is just a bit more good material than mediocre (or worse) material, you start to question the production choices involved.

For all its louche jangling, for all its pleasant naivety, there isn't very much here that's worth waking up to, nor lounging to, least of all gently lamenting the passing of the seasons to.

This album is a step down from Hurley and a bigger step down from the Red album, but it's pretty much on par with Raditude.

Despite a few obvious highlights and stuff worthy of mention, you’ve heard this all before and, unfortunately, done a whole lot better.

Their instrumentation is not potent enough to overwhelm their poor lyrics, and their lead singer hasn't figured out how to use his voice in a way that moves masses.