This Loud Morning winds up as an album that's primarily textural mood music for the morning, and one that's not all that loud either.

While it's often an absorbing listen, it's hard to fathom this appealing to anyone but the terminally obsessed.

Knight has a certain hunger to his performance, giving these steely, cluttered soundscapes a semblance of warmth which makes it a far cry better than the cold calculation of The Block.

Because the Fratellis are no longer rushing toward the finish line, In Your Own Sweet Time can seem a little stiff and fussy, but the group's instincts remain sound, and that helps turn this album into something handsome instead of something stuffy.

Afraid of Ghosts isn't as immediate as some of his other records, but it will suit the needs of anybody craving a record that sounds like Ryan Adams used to make them back in the day.

Jeniferever shows some serious potential on this album, but much of it remains to be realized.

It has to be said that the overall experience is far from Yung's magnum opus, but it is the sound of a young band finding its feet in a meaningful way, breaking down past experiences, and creating a record that isn't restricted by preexisting ideas of youth.

The band are an almost classic example of one element working incredibly well and another almost tripping it up as it goes. What works is the group's collective ear for those previously mentioned sounds and styles, which the trio plays excellently throughout.

This is Bowie in his mode as a crowd-pleasing professional, playing with considerable charm and skill, offering no surprises but plenty of pleasure: it's not the first album that will come to mind when thinking of live Bowie, but as it's playing, it's hard to resist.

Broken Bells is an honest-to-goodness debut album--there are as many promising flashes as frustrating moments here. Mercer and Burton have obvious chemistry, but they need to blend more for true alchemy.

Her earnestness is nearly as appealing as her prettiness, a quality apparent in both her voice and her surroundings.

While the songs are sturdy enough to withstand such gentle rocking, this is a vibe record, the sound of an old pro playing not because it's necessary but because it's fun.

Ultimately, listeners who can embrace the idiosyncrasies of Rothman's voice and the throwback production (don't miss the Kristin Kontrol track, "Jordan," for that niche Casio-and-saxophone sound) will find an intriguing if hit-and-miss set of underlying songs with strokes of classic Brill Building and sophisti-pop.

Wildfire is the work of a determined singer/songwriter who prizes craft over poetry or introspection. Platten specializes in skyscraping melodies and big, bombastic surfaces and these are the elements that not only fuel Wildfire, they distinguish it from the singer/songwriter's clear antecedents.

I-Empire is an easier record to like than "We Don't Need to Whisper," as it marks a very small, very tentative progression toward DeLonge realizing that he can expand his sonic and emotional horizons without abandoning the pop songcraft that remains his greatest strength

If you can get past that feeling and embrace the polished, shiny surfaces, and satin-jacketed AOR clichés, then Love Sign delivers a pleasing dose of nostalgic, good-time (almost) rock & roll.

Songs are built with obvious hooks and structure, and are lyrically intimate, keeping them in line with the slick electro flavor and emo sentiments of Miike Snow and VHS or Beta.

The Empire Strikes First isn't a return to Bad Religion at its most vitriolic and unstoppable -- whether that could ever really happen is unclear, and probably unnecessary.

It does seem like a step backward for them, and it doesn't help that there aren't as many memorable songs here as there are on the debut.

While it's a pleasant enough listen, the entire album falls short of the potential opulence hinted at by its best tracks.

Even when London muddles quasi-philosophical gibberish and pro-fellatio sentiments on "Water Me," the hooks and basslines dig deeper. It's more creative, too.

There are no hooks, nothing to suck in the many adults that liked Clarkson's first two records.

Catfish Haven, led by the booming voice and songwriting of frontman George Hunter, seem to have all the right ingredients in place to be something really special, so it's a bit mystifying why this second full-length feels like it comes up just a bit short.

This is pure NPR music, all neo-jazz melodies and martini-lounge flourishes without the sly bite of its predecessor.

Upon first listen, No Line on the Horizon seems as if it would be a classic grower, an album that makes sense with repeated spins, but that repetition only makes the album more elusive, revealing not that U2 went into the studio with a dense, complicated blueprint, but rather, they had no plan at all.

If the show doesn't quite manage to be memorable, it is certainly engaging, a worthwhile 38 minutes even if it doesn't quite have much more than a historic hook to warrant repeated plays.

With On Desire, the Drowners sound more confident and more in tune with each other as a band, but they still remain captives of their influences. They're evolving, but at a pace that may never yield any new fruit.

There's nothing wrong with a change of pace, but there's a startling lack of depth in either the words, which are entirely too literal, or the music, whose hooks are at once too obvious and not ingratiating enough.