There are some songs that sound like they were last minute add-ons (“Alchemy” is so plodding you can almost watch time stand still), but taken as a whole, Fool still finds Jackson playing some of the best pop music out there, immune to fads and current trends.

Not all the songs on Hardly Electronic are as affecting--and some of them are just good bubbly pop fun. There are some misses--the country-ish “Bye Bye Crow” isn’t very good--but most are at least solid and surprisingly fresh, and a few are much better than that.

The World’s Best American Band is all about cutting loose and having a blast via the method of catchy guitar-based rock & roll tunes--simple, direct and oh so very effective.

No one's asking Jackson to bare his soul. Still, there's a surface-y, writing-exercise quality to many of these songs. (I Can't Get No) Stevie Jackson doesn't really give us much Stevie Jackson, just some clever jottings and puns and tunes he's scratched out in a notebook.

Jason Lytle's solo excursions express a bewildering mix of emotions. Dept. of Disappearance, his sophomore set, muddies the waters as much as before.

Lyrically, the album is pretty mediocre, but the band has always seen their playing overshadow the words; Black Beehive is no different.

For as much effort Keenan puts into the head-scratching, overarching plot of this project, he puts as much gumption into the music that, on its own, could illuminate an applause sign.

Hatfield more closely follows the model of her most popular work, with multi-tracked vocals and hooky arrangements to boost the pop quotient.

To be sure, low fidelity contemplation has generally been Johnson's stock in trade, but even so, there's no denying that Scorpion simply lacks sting.

So while songs such as “Beautiful Dream,” “Run” and “Gloria” may be anchored with a touch of techno, there’s also plenty of sparkle and substance to keep most folks satisfied.

At 29, Winslow-King clearly has a bright future ahead of him, but Everlasting Arms shows he’s come a long way already.

Much of today’s music draws inspiration from more recent antecedents. Arguably Freedom Jazz Dance: The Bootleg Series, Vol. 5--even as a collection of material originally deemed unsuitable for release--is superior to much of what is new.

In the best cuts, the dance elements win out over doom-y post-apocalyptics. “AS A.W.O.L.” layers metallic-ringing keyboard notes (like a music box made of tin) over a sinuous, vaguely ominous beat.

An admirable effort in terms of daring and experimentation, Choir of Echoes reverberates ever emphatically.

The set eschews songs in any traditional sense, opting instead for murky soundscapes characterized by minimal piano and acoustic guitar, suspended strings and a dense overlay of synths and drums.

At times, Pterodactyl wedges in too many layers, so that the parts blur together in a formless murk.

Newcomers may be a bit overwhelmed by all the frenzied drive of their delivery, but the combination of irony and assurance guarantees populist appeal.

On Oni Pond, their fifth, is quite possibly the closest they will ever come to being considered de-cluttered.

Divine Providence apparently isn't a realm for the faint of heart, but those with the verve to vent their all may find it a welcome retreat.

Badwater is more accomplished but also less astonishing, a victory of craft over pure sensation.

Immunity pounds and pulses with pneumatic energy, its rhythmic tracks (“Collider” but also “Open Eye Signal”) gleaming with machine-precise hedonism.

Ultimately, Whispers suggests a kind of sublime sensibility, sentiments that will hopefully encourage all potential fellow travelers to quickly get on board.

Crocodiles play with great passion and honesty, and the album tackles every human emotion. Consider it an instant classic.

Songs like “Preludes,” “Tracking Shots,” “Tangletown” and “Rescue Blues” find his pliable vocals emitting that certain verve and swagger.

Whenever they appear close to becoming unhinged, that rowdy, reckless approach is even further affirmed.

While there is nothing particular off about this quiet, solid collection--consisting of little more than Hitchcock’s voice over quite acoustic guitars and the occasional piano and cello--it’s still a pretty muted, low-energy affair that is not immediately memorable.

Heaven isn't 100% bliss, but the Walkmen have taken themselves and their fans one step closer.

In the end, Pure Comedy isn’t anything close to the laugh fest the title implies, but it does provoke a deeper reaction regardless.