Unfortunately, the desire to capture that vibe outweighs strong melodies or a tight sense of dynamics on the first half of the album.

Where the debut flaunted relentless production and Waka's defiant word associations, this has more spacious and savvier tracks.

Few of the covers exceed the charms of the originals and a couple are a little too faithful, including Antony's lovely, heartfelt "Landslide." But the whole endeavor gets points for digging past the surface.

The result is less serious than his last release--the kind of thing we might hear back from aliens in response to radio waves that escaped our stratosphere long ago.

While memories of the accompanying visuals of the jokes from the series helps, it is by no means strictly necessary to enjoy the humor and musicianship of Freaky.

Luckily, the New Jersey trio also continues to bolster its puppy-love perspective with an increasingly substantial brand of power pop that grows more palatable to the general population with each release.

This time, the energy is clear from the start, giving tracks like 'Heart It Races' and 'Lazy (Lazy)' the momentum to burst into the sonic equivalent of confetti.

Guitarist Omar Rodriguez-Lopez and singer Cedric Bixler-Zavala are the creative duo driving the band and once again deliver on a standing promise to blow any mind that is willing to stay open.

Chesney returns to that reflective, often acoustic, place for Life on a Rock and again hits a high-water mark.

At age 72, Franklin can still shut down the competition with a breathtaking, gospel-trained grace and power.

Be it personal or observational, O’Connor is definitely in charge on Bossy.

The tunes... are uniformly strong, and the playing and production neatly manicured, if a bit dense in places. But the lyrics are spotty at best.

For all its talk of death, this album feels like a rebirth.

The album is sophisticated and layered with deft orchestration. And yet, the band's songwriting and delivery display an earnestness and lack of pretension that's pure rock.

A power-pop record that’s unfussy in its pursuit of jingle-jangle melodies and circular choruses that linger long after they’re over.

The Cambridge collective employs its considerable--and considerably appealing--strengths with gleeful assurance. Euphoric cross-hatched harmonies; gobs of fuzzy, low-end guitars; and various embellishments (mellotron, organ, Casio synth guitar, etc.) make the whole shebang sound like one big, loopy carousel ride at a cracked carnival.

Loyalty is more low-key than its predecessor and less focused.

It's a gift to hear anything from Winehouse in the wake of her untimely death, and this new compilation features true treasures.

A collection of highly listenable roots-rock tunes that stray little from its longtime formula.

This album is flush with easy-listening ballads, but they are often wondrously rearranged by Diamond, who continues to be a restless experimenter.

"Dirty Laundry" is brave (and dramatic) stuff. But the track itself, a forgettable slow groove, makes the tune more compelling as confession than music. People should venture further into Talk a Good Game, because a good chunk of the rest of the album--a mix of easy pop, shiny dance tracks, and a dab of retro soul--reflects a better balance of sound and sentiment.

Captivating.

The band’s determinedly bare-bones instrumentation is undeniably refreshing, with nary a drumset or piece of electronics in sight, but it also lends itself to a mild-mannered monotony that is broken up only intermittently.

This is all about mood and texture - some of it is beautiful, some of it is noodling. Moby is smart enough to leave most of the singing to others, but the soundscapes and melodies are commanding enough by themselves.

The tracks are impeccably manicured, super-tuneful, and offer lyrics about the various agonies and ecstasies of love that are unremarkable in and of themselves but reach nuclear-threat levels of desperation thanks to Lewis's voice.

He also brings a touch of jazz to the proceedings with hints of smoke and elegance in that voice. The songs themselves are a tuneful lot with nimble musings on love (“Heaven Help Me’’) and the expectations of filling big shoes (“Good Enough’’).

The band's sophomore disc, which teems with drama and dark dollops of piano that swarm beautifully around singer-guitarist Tom Smith's clarion-call voice, continues to make good on the hype while again drawing on the past.

There's no doubt about it, though, as in-your-face as some of these songs are, the Proclaimers are at their best when, well, proclaiming and protesting vehemently over simple melodies and a stomping march of a beat.