It might as well be Harcourt’s thesis: marrying the histrionic truths of the deeply aggrieved with the formal mastery of great pop. More often, Harcourt’s failed attempts at mimicking Jeff Buckley throw whatever genre he tries off balance.

Give Adem his props for chancing a foray into the cover album field, a move which always carries its risks. But Takes simply doesn’t warrant much attention, no matter how much its material means to its creator.

Now we get Cuomo name-dropping Eddie Rabbit, Joan Baez and "a Cat named Stevens," which makes Weezer sounds like a retread of "Built To Spill," who did the recycled-classic-rock-cliché thing back in 1999. Did it better, too.

These songs were already so impeccably performed that Johansson didn’t have very many new places to take them, and although her effort and nerve are commendable, “not as terrible as you thought it would be” just isn’t the same thing as good.

El is the kind of album you listen to once--and appreciate--but never really groove through with any regularity.

Unfortunately, its during these rather naked moments where the album falters, mostly because Duffy’s robust voice often overmatches the music that surrounds it.

The Brooklyn band’s innate charm and accessibility allows forgiveness of its near-abandonment of bass-driven new wave.

This record is not for everybody--including, I suspect, the majority of Arctic Monkeys fans. Nonetheless, Turner deserves props for unleashing his inner Bowie and embracing artifice with such nerve and verve.

U.K. upstart Jamie Lidell’s latest is trapped squarely in this box, but the quality of his vocal performance generally keeps things from being stifling.

Konk is a bit too glossy for its own good, with neatly distorted guitars, swooning multi-tracked harmonies and perfectly manicured choruses working against the energy inherent in the performances.

Now the kid’s a toddler and his pop is widely known as Stephen Colbert’s hyper-literate, prog-rocking green-screen nemesis, but Sings Live! calls to mind a simpler time.

In terms of mere diversion, though, the perfectly titled Hold On Now, Youngster… is best administered in small amounts; otherwise, you run the risk of overdose.

Wonderful as they are, imagining the 76-year-old “Rocket 88” creator singing the weary gospel of “Remember When (Side A)” or the reflective “Things Ain’t Like They Used To Be” makes Dan Auerbach’s vocals sound tragically demo-like.

It's only fair to consider Saturday Nights, Sunday Mornings in the context of the rest of the Crows’ catalog, and with that in mind--to borrow a phrase from Duritz--this one might fade into the grey.

With Real Emotional Trash, he proves he can retain both, leaving behind the controlled one-man-band environment of 2005’s Face the Truth and issuing his most eclectic and unpredictable album yet.

The band gets bogged down far too often with a slow-verse-then-guitar-solo model, making Shots a nice overall listen but not much more.

For fans who’ve followed the singer/songwriter since the demise of Soul Coughing, there’s a lot to recommend on Golden Delicious.

While never unpleasant, Lucky represents a slowdown from the roll Nada Surf has been on.

The lack of sticky material that has beset each of her albums since 1992’s "Ingénue" continues with the self-written, self-produced Watershed, preventing it from rising above the level of tasteful mood music.

But even the highest highs soon crash and dissipate, wallowing once more in a proggy bog.

Costa’s jazz-tinged neo-folk songs are boyishly engaging for as long as they last, but they drift away without leaving a trace, as he too often settles for merely maintaining a feathery, bittersweet modality, so that the McCartney-esque tunefulness of the title track, the Mungo Jerry-like lilt of 'Miss Magnolia' and the ever-so-slight edginess of 'Cigarette Eyes' stand out by default.

45:33 is as much gallery-crawl as beach-run; purpose-built in gliding tempos and warm-down synth shimmers for iPod-strapped runners, yet appropriate for a cruise through the Whitney, too. [Review of UK release]

Young uncorks his storied one-two punch, mounting a pair of sweeping, detailed social narratives while ripping away at the guitar strings, laying his psyche bare. Long may he rave.

With few real rockers, Born is more disappointing than it had to be.

Too often though, the digitized productions act as ?ller, sounding forced.

Put in context, White Chalk serves her purposes, much as Bruce Springsteen’s "Nebraska" served his. On initial listen, the album is not a step forward, nor is it a step back, but rather a lateral move intended to leave breathing room for her next attack.

In Our Bedroom After the War isn’t Stars’ best effort, but it ultimately satisfies: in wartime, one takes solace wherever one can.

In Our Nature’s fingerpicked reveries, sonic gentility and lugubrious vibe might tug at your eyelids, but be warned: Its heavy-hearted sentiments are hardly the stuff of dreams.