More than any of Neil Young and Crazy Horse’s past classics, “Colorado” recalls Young’s last album, 2017’s “The Visitor.” Like that record, “Colorado” is a politically charged, uneven release that at its best comes close enough to recapturing Young’s past glories to satisfy his diehard fans. And if you don’t like it? Well, there’ll probably be another one next year.

Lack of distinctiveness pervades “Beneath the Eyrie,” both on a song-by-song basis and taken as a whole.

How much Gorillaz fans enjoy The Now Now will depend on why they became fans in the first place. Anyone captivated by Hewlett’s world-building will probably feel a little let down, as will those who fell for their eclectic, big-tent approach to pop. That leaves the Damon Albarn diehards.

Songcraft is a problem throughout the album’s 12 bloated tracks, but the fact that they’re long isn’t the issue--Marr can, and has, held our attention before. It’s more that they lack conviction and structure.

Over seven songs spanning 24 minutes, “Ye” is immediately disturbing (“I Thought About Killing You”), slightly exhilarating (“Yikes”), bafflingly underwhelming (“All Mine,” “Wouldn’t Leave,” and “No Mistakes”), and fleetingly brilliant (“Ghost Town”). The one thing it’s not is coherent.

The only time the Neighbourhood really comes to life here is on the disc’s final track, refreshingly summery toe-tapper “Stuck With You.” That track aside, this release will do little to convince critics that the Neighbourhood is anything more than Maroon 5’s monochromatic photo negative, and about as intriguing as that descriptor suggests.

As a pop-R&B hitmaker, he could let his genius producers do the heavy lifting while getting by on showbiz-schooled charm, but the styles he dabbles in here aren’t as forgiving of average songwriting. When Timberlake does commit to his theme, the results are mixed.

The reworked M A N I A never coalesces into a satisfying or particularly listenable whole; in spreading themselves between sounds even more disparate than on 2015’s maximalist “American Beauty/American Psycho,” Fall Out Boy have only succeeded in diluting their strengths.

Taken as a whole, Songs of Experience isn’t a bad U2 album--just an uneven one. For every dull rehash of past glories, there’s something like the slinky Zombies pastiche “Summer of Love” to restore one’s faith that U2’s well of inspiration hasn’t gone entirely dry.

We have Low in High School, which is sometimes brilliant, sometimes infuriating, and 100  percent Morrissey.

Peace Trail is a hard record to get a hold of at times. The songs are so bare-bones--and, at times, meandering--that it feels a bit tossed-off.

The manufactured atmosphere ultimately distances the listener. With a few exceptions, including the song “Blue Mountain,” the production also fails to find the best way to deploy Weir’s voice, holding it too far back in the mix.

Further songs follow suit, rarely deviating from verse-chorus-verse-chorus rigor. The upbeat “Sunday Love” breaks that mold with its rhythmically catchy verse and earworm chorus, which almost hides the fact that the song--about the would-be bride seeing a girl everywhere she goes--repeats the album’s most common problem: It’s unclear just what the song is about, and how it relates to the core concept.

Conscious may be polished to a high gloss, but it lacks the personality and emotion that made Broods’ debut such a shadowy revelation.

Co-producer Jacknife Lee overcooks tracks, alternately adding too much sugar and bluster (“Bitter Salt”). Throughout, it seems Bugg’s ambition has clouded his creative judgment.

Echoey wall-of-sound sheen, soft-rock flourishes, guitar bombast, and omnipresent programming predominate. Presumably the intention was to create a sonic mood to match the album’s thematic concerns, but too often the execution leaves the songs sounding plodding and inert.

The band’s glossiest record yet seems geared toward merging its brassy, retro-glam aesthetic with a commercial-minded agenda. For a time it succeeds, meting out earworms with take-no-prisoners rapidity. Eventually, though, Fitz’s mainstream pop ambitions outpace its once-emblematic sense of funk (and fun).

Kidsticks swings back toward electronica; the problem is that it’s poorly done. It’s the first time she’s written on synthesizers, not guitars, and frankly it’s a mess.

A sophomore record that does Catfish few favors in exposing its limited lyrical scope (mostly concerned with lost lovers) and tedious reliance on shoehorned guitar solos and uniform drum lines.

The middle of the album is a problem, especially the Hiatus Kaiyote number, “Little Church,” a strange, bloodless clunker that drags down the Mvula (“Silence Is the Way”) and KING (“Song for Selim”) features that follow. The Badu track, the electro-bossa nova “Maiysha (So Long),” is fine but familiar. Miles Davis concept aside, Glasper’s still in “Black Radio” mode. It works, but it needs a little dirt, and probably a new challenge.

The results are mixed. Half of I Still Do falls into the easy-listening, cruise-control blues of Clapton’s later career, a long way from his fiery days with Cream and Derek and the Dominos.

The few gold nuggets too easily get lost among the many chunks of lead.

Trainor continues the self-esteem party on Thank You, and the cracks that were already forming on her debut grow a little wider and deeper on its followup.

With nearly 20 production collaborators, the record has plenty of invention--and way too many cooks in the kitchen. ... [A] busy, unfocused record.

Save for the playfully tempestuous “Th’Expense of Spirit in a Waste of Shame (Sonnet 129),” they’re serviceable and, like the spoken-word reprises by the likes of William Shatner and Siân Phillips, take few risks.

The album generously includes 16 new songs, so if you’re a fan you’ll find enough to like. But finding a new lyricist should be a higher calling.

Distortland, the band’s ninth album, sounds downright insular: fully formed, in its way, but nearly impenetrable.

The music ranges from Beach Boys baroque-pop to the awkward hip-hop flow of “Thank God for Girls” when not reiterating rote (if pleasant) Weezer crunch-pop anthems.