I have to think that as an EP, The Rip Tide would be a rousing success. But as it is, there are just too many bland, uninspiring tracks that drag down the whole experience.

Swift’s clever and insightful lyrics immediately grab those who pay attention.

Strange Disciple finds Nation of Language’s devotion to their craft and the acts that inspired them admirably intact, even dogged. It is probably their most listenable album from start to finish. Still, it leaves the sense that, cool as they are, a bold new turn may be coming due.

The Instinct isn't a bad record, especially if you like your music a tad frost-bitten; it's just boring.

The stylistic mix is dizzying, from Dylanesque odes to Motown soul, but more than that, Adams's influences are so prominent that you often feel like you're listening to other people.

Special is such a disappointment because you can hear the better album she’s capable of – but she insists on digging her heels in to crank out one-size-fits-all empowerment jams that can’t be resonating with anyone beyond someone just getting back to the elliptical for the first time in a year.

What may get lost in all this effect and craft is that at their base, many of Linkous’ songs are remarkably standard rock-song constructions.

On an album so brief, these less effective songs take up an awful lot of space, making for a record that is fun throughout, but still awfully uneven. Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea is hit and miss, but its missteps come as a result of admirable risks.

When all is said and done, The Fame Monster isn't going to win Lady Gaga any new converts, but it does prove something to her millions of fans: that she's not complacent with doing the same thing over again.

It contains at least one additional near-classic. But it falls into a type of rut that only long-lived bands can travel: Its primary purpose seems to be justifying its existence with an almost obsessive show of confidence. Which is a fancy way of saying it tries a bit too hard for its good.

Ash manage to connect more often than not, and when the songs do work, the riffs and hooks achieve a surprisingly effective balance.

Cognitive distortion is all over Emika and can at times be sublime... [However] there are points on the album meant to pierce that don't hit hard enough and moments of unease which seem swamped down by the overproduction muck.

By the end of the album I unfortunately just feel a little numb to the vocals. I’m willing to give this album a break because I love the production here, and when Sufi’s really hitting, he’s certainly a unique presence.

Desire Lines is a silver lining record, one that isn’t particularly compelling (especially relative to My Maudlin Career, which felt like new emotional territory for the band), but is impressively maintained.

If Franz Ferdinand were Pearl Jam, these guys would be the Stone Temple Pilots.

There are a couple of missteps, however, including the repetitive verse section of “Livin’ In Chaos”, which tires quite quickly. Then there’s “Save The Planet”, which features a refrain of, “We’ve got to save the planet! It’s the only one with beer!”, which is maybe a little too Dad-rock, or even Grandpa-rock, for its own good.... Still, This Is the Sonics is a fine and often fun record.

There are a lot of fascinating, really good pieces on Anthology, and several of them work well even removed from their film context. But the ones that don’t work as stand-alone songs end up calling attention to Carpenter’s limitations as a musician.

As an album, Comfort of Strangers comes across as a missed opportunity. For the most part the album sounds fantastic, and you really want the songs to hit the spot more than they do.

In the end, 30 Year Low might not match up to its predecessor, but it is surely a compelling album by a band both at its creative peak and its unfortunate end.

Potential highlights are held back by poor choices.

A Bit of Previous explores a candid, though less thoughtful, space in which guitarist Stevie Jackson’s Neil Diamond pastiche (“Deathbed of My Dreams”) is happy to sit alongside a congregational ode to Ukraine (“If They’re Shooting at You”) and a Huey Lewis-esque synth bop (“Talk to Me Talk to Me”).

It's possible that fans of mellow, laid-back rock will savor this album, but overall, lethargy overwhelms inventiveness on all but a handful of tracks.

If Never Let Me Go at least finds a musical footing, what really dooms it is the songwriting—or lack thereof. Molko uses the same stilted, broken phrasing in too many songs as if he is pausing mid-verse to try and think up a vocal hook.

If Mesirow let herself explore these weird sounds more fully instead of relying on the tried and true synthesized percussion, this album would reach another level of interest.

The result is a mish-mash of commercially viable tracks and more whimsical excursions that her fans will cherish but might leave others feeling warm, then cold.

While it is, at times, a challenging listen, there are enough catchy moments to prompt enough listens for the thing to grow on you.

The returns are decidedly mixed. Some listeners may get a satisfying-enough taste of what they loved about the first LP, while others will likely be disappointed and maybe even a little puzzled by a familiar favorite made uncanny.

On the whole, I Can Feel You Creep Into My Private Life is a truly good album and a number of the songs on it are notable successes, but the stark shift in sonic style sets it apart from the rest of Tune-Yards' discography and not in a good way. It seems safe, it seems almost timid at times.