Instead of copying the aesthetic of 1970s rock ‘n’ roll, they’ve copied some of last year’s more popular indie records. The result, though at times satisfying, mostly feels contrived.

Turin Brakes’ expansive and more daring previous work held an encouraging arc that promised risks and excitement, but JackInABox, while a pleasant listen, fails to cash in on that potential, and is unfortunately a step back for the talented duo.

In a genre that’s desperate for new ideas, Allien’s lack of advancement on Thrills makes for a little less enjoyment.

The songs could have been chosen more wisely, especially because some significant fan favorites are absent.

Oasis has given us another album chock-full of jangley Brit-pop numbers and stadium-rockers, and the result is a formulaic rock record.

But even at its toe-tapping best, this quintet from Newcastle can’t convey a sense of passion.

Axes... has three distinct sections. The first is quite inspired, the second is mostly interminable, and the third is just inventive enough to rescue the whole venture.

It's the schizophrenic sound of a band starting over a decade later.

Although the venue doesn’t spark an unqualified masterpiece for the grand dame of alt.country, a musky reverence seems to seep into the record, and the best moments here are among the best she’s committed to tape.

If Sea Drum/ House of Sun was the debut album from some little-known psych act, I’d be hailing it as one of the year’s best records.... But from the Boredoms, Seadrum/House of Sun is nothing special.

The perfect antique Cadillac album.

The up-tempo songs don’t show much variation or excitement, but the real fire comes when the band slows it way down or steps out of the garage.

Odyssey is a little late and a touch weaker than its previous counterpart.

On My Way to Absence could have been such a moving album, had Jurado employed some quality control.

In small doses, Animal Lover acts as the perfect antidote to a musical landscape often cluttered by acts too timid to truly challenge their audiences.

More carnival claustrophobia than world tour.

Lullabies is ultimately a demanding, schizophrenic, lopsided album. At its best, it's an elaboration on what Queens have become known for -- distinct, droning, melodic, heavy guitar rock. At its worst it's futile, go-nowhere studio sludge.

Ghetto Bells finds Chesnutt running the gauntlet -- string-laden balladry, desert folk-rock, thumb-piano noodling.

Put simply, this music is slow, the same slow soggy tempo the whole way through.

Though comparisons to the Postal Service and M83’s newer work are somewhat understandable, the record lacks emotion in a way that makes it better suited for a Volvo commercial or a Starbucks compilation.

Though it’s soothing at times, A Few Steps More doesn’t really boast any kind of bumps, and it’s difficult to discern one track from the next.

Once you get past the initial, pleasing familiarity, though, In the Clear becomes a decidedly middling listening experience.

After nearly a half-decade of records, Johnson still hasn’t learned anything about time signatures or experimentation, but at least he knows what he does best and sticks to it.

Her effort is continuously admirable, but what is frustrating about The Beekeeper is the music itself: it’s almost formulaic, including even the token song that displays a powerful sense of womanhood.

Much of Awake Is the New Sleep feels labored, lyrically and musically.

Imagine Manu Chao, Serge Gainsbourg and the Cars all caramelized together.