In the end, most of the songs feel like demos--but that stripped result honors the joy of raw feeling.

The pace remains measured, the production pristine and the tone a tad too tame.

It’s great that Clark’s new songs separate themselves from genre restrictions. But, in the end, it’s the way he feels his strings that ends up touching us so deeply.

True to its goal, there's lots of fun to be had here, even if the music does lack depth and innovation.

It offers a crisp and worthy glimpse of a giant.

The album could use a hefty dose of editing, annoying to any listener--unless, of course, they’re too stoned to care.

The sound is more dense and self-conscious than ever, the twin Achilles’ heels of this star. At times, the mix blurs Tesfay’s vocals, preventing them from taking a deserved center stage.

The songs offer few individualized lyrical details, and no consistent themes, to pin on a particular person. The arrangements, likewise, have a slick adaptability that makes these songs serviceable cover material for any pop star of the hour.

That hybrid [hip-hop and pop], and Sparks’ new maturity, allows her to find her voice, as well as a potential new role.

Jon Fratelli proves a cleverly withering lyricist. Nearly all the songs treat lovers as thieves, imposters or liars.

Due to the era the album fetishes, the music sounds inescapably chintzy.... Jepsen’s improbably young voice helps distract from that.

He serves up several ballads, which salute hunting, fishing, and scarecrows. None are particularly convincing, given the anchor-man blandness of Bryan’s vocals.

Dre might have sounded fat and smug at this point. The good news is that, instead, he sounds hungry.

Miles never performed songs the same way twice, so these still carry surprises.

Though Hill shares the honoree’s alto pitch and stern vibrato, she’s transformed the arrangements of these classic songs to nearly the same degree that Simone did on her own versions.

The artist widened his palette this time, bringing in the country singer Jake Owen on one track, and soul star Aloe Blacc on a song that aims to repeat the magic Blacc struck on Aviici’s “Wake Me Up.” Unfortunately, Young’s nerdy sensibility kills that.

The new [album] sinks decent riffs and an earnest message in unlistenably didactic lyrics.

Ruess’ voice has great volume, but no body. There’s no roundness, or richness, to his tone. It’s all hard angles, offering no cushion for the screech. Worse, he often pushes his voice beyond its bounds, in the process making him sound as pinched as Alvin or one of the Chipmunks.

If the end result isn’t as big a blast as the star’s previous records, it still has his likable tone and witty character to count on.

The alternate studio takes shoot us into a parallel universe well worth entering.

Like all the tracks here, the sound clearly channels the past, but only to buff it with a current sheen.

Even as the band’s music keeps expanding, Welch’s lyrics have narrowed in focus. They’re less abstract this time, more attuned to the vagaries of love.

The power of Goldsmith’s words elevates it all to the next level.

Cohen vocals frequently sound more robust than they do in the studio, which is a surprise.... Still, it’s the band that gives the tracks the most animation.

Switching this band’s sound to international rock just amounts to trading one bland canvas for another.

The impeccable music Stevens has created gives shape to the chaos of his emotions.

The reconstituted Blur confines its wilder moments to the margins, using them to add creativity to the arrangements, or hint at the askew worldview expressed in the lyrics. The core of the songs recall the melodic sharpness, and rhythmic force, of the 1990s.

The new mix, as well as the broader melodies, lets the group escape the dreaded “retro” tag. But it’s the stun-gun effect of Howard’s vocals that puts the Shakes in a class of their own. She’s today’s most volatile singer, the one most prone to erupt when you least expect it.

The studio sound erased many of those aural pimples, acting like dermabrasion for the ears. The appeal of the songs also helps smooth things over. Adults may notice that this “singer-songwriter” rarely writes without armies of collaborators. But the material he’s been handed has hooks.

Unfortunately, the songs end up seeming more lightweight than they otherwise might.

The tension between the singers’ voices does the tradition of classic R&B harmony proud.

The long list of guest stars lends the songs a variety that Morrison’s most monochromatic solo albums could well use.

Often she sounds like she’s having a conversation with herself. If that sounds distancing, the honesty and intelligence behind it draws us close.

It's an album meant to be lived with for a long time--one of the few recent hip-hop that’s built to last.

Piece By Piece piles on the gloss and glop. It’s a fat sounding recording that fights with, rather than enhances, Clarkson’s to-the-rafters vocals.

As Tweedy has done with Mavis’ music of late, he filed Pops’ final songs down to their steely core.

Along the way, the long, 19-song album offers its share of groaners, missteps and songs more indebted to trendy production than solid craft. But its best moments boast some of the most finely structured pop melodies of Madonna’s 32-year career.

Kid obviously lusts for the Man in Black’s bad boy image, but he ignores the demons that fueled it. Even the album’s production misses its role model’s core.

Sean doesn’t have Drake’s brooding soul, but he’s a lot more fun to listen to these days.

Ultimately, the strategy backfires. The Dragons’ approach may help them conjure effective public environments, but they’re devoid of personal expression.

The production has a creaminess that never obscures its clarity. The melodies have equal definition, shunning the clichés of the most rote, American R&B.

The album ends up seeming more like a stop-gap than a surge ahead. For the first two-thirds, Drake relies on his usual sing-song style, stoking interest only with his inventive stretches in phrasing.... Otherwise, cooler hooks, melodic flashes of R&B, or great variation can be hard to find.

The album, which features Beyonce, Ellie Goulding and Sia, stresses soft-edged production and slow build rhythms, bunched into some fairly catchy pop songs.

On the new Shadows in the Night, Dylan redefines the songs entirely, making them conform to his character rather than the other way around.

As song choices go, most pf these rate as overly obvious. But that’s not what turns this album into such a compromise. Krall shows no interest in pushing out the bounds of the songs.

As always, the words have a political edge, touching on the evaporating middle class and the difficulties of forging mass movements. Thankfully, they’re expressed poetically, with no stink of political correctness.

Trainor may be talented, with a large voice and a witty writing style, but over the course of the album she crosses the line from confident to smug.

“Uptown Funk” turns out to be one of the only lazy tracks on Ronson’s fourth album. Yes, the other songs obsess on the past, but most enliven it. Better, some revive a quirk of history others overlooked.

It’s a striking mix of sensuality and abrasion, giving a long-missing star a fresh claim on what’s current.

Disappointingly, Pink hasn’t taken Minaj further into the surreality that first promised to turn her into Missy Elliott to the 10th power. But there’s no denying the album’s catchiness.

Sucker ends up monochromatic, but that only helps Charli hone a persona. If the one here doesn’t exactly make her the new Joe Strummer, it does suggest a British answer to Kesha. She’s the likable brat of the hour.

At under 35 minutes, Rock or Bust is the shortest AD/DC album ever. Rest assured, however, this short album is no less sweet.

The dance songs don’t have nearly as much uniqueness or specificity.... By contrast, exhilarating ballads like “Whole Damn Year” make the most of Blige’s queen-of-pain character.

Only a few tracks, like “Guts Over Fear” (with guest vocals from Sia) bore inside the rapper to show his vulnerable side. But the snarl of the rest finds him at a peak of writerly dexterity and rhyming velocity.

Mockingjay has a distinct ’80s feel, evident in its more-is-more approach.

Instead of using that realization to push ahead, Four represents a step back in both sound and sensibility.

The lyrics also circle the wagons, settling on eye-glazing tales of football heroes gone to war, men who realize it’s more fulfilling to fish than to climb the corporate ladder, and piercing realizations like “the answer lies in people loving people.”

Unfortunately, River has some of the listlessness and compromise of “The Division Bell,” which itself left a bad taste in the mouth.

Like all of the band’s albums, Sonic Highways ends up enjoyable, sweet and insubstantial.

The full version does have a “you are there” advantage, letting the listener play a fly on the wall, taking in all the musicians’ experiments and gaffes. But the pruned version does a perfectly good job for most fans.

The orchestrations also let us focus on Young as a pure singer, rather than as a holistic musician. And he’s a remarkably effective one. In his aged, spindly whine lies a world of emotion.

The new wave sound--anchored on brisk claps, cracks and booms--gives Swift’s new songs a certain breezy appeal. But her choruses tend to rest on a songwriter’s laziest fall-back: the repetitive, arena-mongering chant.

Luckily, the sweeter sound is in no way slick. It’s balanced against the bare ache in the singers’ voices, and the pained beauty in their tunes. The women’s voices have also matured.

The ex-Eurythmics singer pumps new life in the war horses by locating their bluesy core.

It’s a richly orchestral work, eager for drama and full of appealing tunes.

The looseness of the takes, along with the breadth of genres they draw upon, lets Franklin work all of her tricks, from gospel shouts to Broadway belts to soul runs to a rock star belligerence.

The first half doesn’t downshift for a second, plowing through muscular rockers with the spit of his prime.

We get pure Stevie--needier than some might find comfortable, but also unexpectedly wise. It’s too much for the casual listener but catnip for the devoted.

Mellencamp finds his own delicate melodies, including some of the prettiest of his career. Their finery offers a sweet contrast to the increasing grit in his voice and bile in his lyrics--the most incisive of which take dead aim at himself.

The 3rdEyeGirl album has a much cleaner sound, and a sharper focus, than Prince’s solo album.

Nostalgic fans will no doubt lap up Prince’s old-school falsetto preens and funk beats. But such a sustained recoil from the current world has a consequence. It can seem regressive or overfamiliar.

Much of the material sounds like it was fished out of the slush pile of hotter stars like Beyoncé or Nicki Minaj. Part of one cut, “Walk It Out,” even sounds like a second run at Bey’s “Flawless.” The album finally shakes awake toward the end.

At times, you wish he’d push up the speed--thrashing out blues-rock in the frenzied ’60s and ’70s tradition. But by today’s timid standards, this burns.

The obvious skill and spring in May’s delivery can excite, but her music has become too uniform, too fixed in its backward view to keep us rapt.

The songs’ dreamy quality won’t surprise Wilco fans. But, reflecting the relationship of the players, the album has its own low-fi, homey intimacy.

The match between Bennett and Gaga winds up quite differently from the one between the master and k.d. lang in 2002. Those two created a more sober and mature affair. By contrast, the duets with Gaga give Bennett a whole new hold on youth.

This time Cohen tackles some big subjects more abstractly. It’s also one of his most musically rich and varied works.

It's good for Brown that so many stars have rallied around him, despite his troubles. If only the new songs supported him as strongly.

Throughout, Streisand’s voice sound more robust than it has for some time, especially compared to her live performance last year in Brooklyn. But she has a tendency to oversing in an attempt to engage with her guests.

It's an album where the rich embroidery overshadows the essential garment. Details impress but the overall picture never quite comes together.

These seemingly underbaked songs reveal more formality and beauty with repeated listens. You have to hear through a lot of haze to get to that, but in the end, it's worth it.

The inevitable Heartbreakers comparisons in the new music offer a striking contrast to Petty’s lyrical point of view. While Petty “Won’t Back Down,” Adams’ theme sounds more like a “Breakdown.” If that seems needy and depressing, it’s tempered by Adams’ passion and rock-hard power. He captures the kind of pain that excites.

The hooks on the album are memorable mainly for the wrong reason; They’re so annoying, you won’t be able to scrub them from your mind.

The innocence in Grande’s voice helps her bring off the cliches in the more earnest material, like the soapy ballad “Why Try” or “Just A Little Bit of Your Heart,” co-written by One Direction’s Harry Styles. She proves less sure on more flip songs.

Every sign of the street has been gentrified, though the weed references never cease.

The result creates a perfect arc--one O’Connor has, here, fully realized.

It’s rock refigured as a Damien Hirst spot painting--a series of isolated, colorful pops that, together, mesmerize.

Many pieces highlight Beck’s mordant humor. Professional decadent Jarvis Cocker proves ideal for “Eyes That Say I Love You,” dealing wryly with the delusions of love.

It’s his catchiest, most sharply focused album in years.

In truth, 5 Seconds of Summer are unlikely to replace their elders any time soon. But they do provide a nice alternative--one with fetching songs and just enough sass to stand out.

Part of Morrissey’s charm is his resistance to change. Another part is the sick wit that lies behind his vitriol. The titles of his songs alone draw perverse smiles. He may be a pill and a scold, but you can’t deny the guy’s got style.

In sound, composition and performance, Sia captures the melodrama of teen life, with all the lunatic exaggeration it deserves.

Thicke’s considerable vocal skills can’t wipe away the sneaking feeling that he’s always doing an impersonation of someone else. Listening, you never feel you can entirely trust the guy, which may be the album’s most revealing aspect of all.

Actually, there’s nothing Sheeran does here that Mraz hasn’t done before, often more cleverly. Even so, Sheeran can write a hummable tune and, clearly, has something young girls love even more than looks: heart.

Only in a few songs does he draw on soul’s common language of strain and overstatement and it’s exciting when he does. At his most forceful he can sound like Simply Red’s Mick Hucknall. Far more often he’s in the erudite territory of Smokey Robinson, letting his falsetto waft ever higher.

A.K.A. finds J.Lo throwing anything she can at the wall to see what sticks.

The sound is so dense it threatens to asphyxiate the singer, which may just be the point. Everything about her work plays into fantasies of a potentially fatal manipulation.

The band that has most closely followed his lead--the Black Keys--sticks to conventional takes on American genres, but White treats them with something fresher: a sense of menace.