Marty Stuart has always stood in awe of the history of country music, even as he's forged his own legacy within it. At age 12, he started playing mandolin and guitar in Lester Flatt's band; in 1982, his second album was a jam session featuring the likes of Johnny Cash, Doc Watson, and Earl Scruggs; and he's assembled one of the finest collections of country artifacts, with plans to set up a museum. Not long ago Stuart was out on the road with Chris Hillman and Roger McGuinn for the 50th anniversary of the Byrds' Sweetheart of the Rodeo, an endeavor that inspired his first album with the Fabulous Superlatives since 2017. Indeed, there are plenty of cosmic-country golden threads running through Altitude, including the searing guitar jam "Lost Byrd Space Train (Scene 1)," the easy harmonies and psych-lite vibe of "Sitting Alone,” and the rollicking, free-wheeling "Vegas," —an ode to the city that "sparkles like a diamond when the sun goes down," with guitar clear and piercing as a bell. "Country Star" matches the Byrds' "So You Want to Be a Rock 'n' Roll Star" by stripping away the horns and layering on some honky-tonk badassery: "I was raised by alligators ... Fell in love with a woman who was half wild cat/ Wore a big diamond she stole from Lester Flatt." Near the end, Stuart's voice soars off the cliff as he sings his motto: "All I need is a motor in my car/ Crank it up, hit the road/ Be a country staaar." But Stuart's catholic country could never be confined to just one corner. So there's a wink at the snarling rockabilly of Carl Perkins on the revving "A Friend of Mine," and a take-your-sweet-time swagger for "Nightriding," with Chris Scruggs's (grandson of Earl) bass setting the cool pace and Stuart's guitar strutting like a bantam rooster. The excellent title track, a slow roll absolutely shining with twin fiddles and steel guitar, nods to Bakersfield and features piano from the legendary Pig Robbins who played with everyone from George Jones and Loretta Lynn to Neil Young and Sturgill Simpson; this would be one of his last recordings before passing away in 2022. 'The song is a reminder to me, and to anyone else still interested, that there's a few of us out here who still know how to make authentic country music," Stuart has said. He summons up his own Flatt days (and some outdated tropes) on the racing "Tomahawk," with its lyrical shrug of "There's absolutely nothing new underneath the sun.” "The Angels Came Down" is a Cash-like ballad of redemption, with goosebump harmonies, that shows how the eternally youthful Stuart's voice is only just starting to exhibit signs of his 64 years. And it's intriguing to hear his usual knife-edge delivery chill out and recline for the cosmic slow jam "Space," complete with harmonies that blow in on a breeze. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

Just because it took them 13 years to deliver a studio sequel to their 1994 live album Hell Freezes Over, don't say it took the Eagles a long time to cash in on their reunion. They started cashing in almost immediately, driving up ticket prices into the stratosphere as they played gigs on a semi-regular basis well into the new millennium. So, why did it take them so long to record a new studio album? It could be down to the band's notoriously testy relations -- Don Felder did leave and sue the band in the interim, settling out of court in 2007 -- it could be that they were running out some contractual clause somewhere, it could be that they were waiting for the money to be right, or the music to be right. It doesn't really matter: there was no pressing need for a new album. Fans were satisfied by the oldies, and the band kept raking in the dough, so they could take their time making a new album. And did they ever take their time -- the 13-year gap between Hell Freezes Over and Long Road Out of Eden, their first album since 1979's The Long Run, was nearly as long as that between their 1980 breakup and 1994 reunion. Far from indulging in a saturation campaign for this long-awaited record, the Eagles released the double-disc Long Road Out of Eden with surgical precision, indulging in few interviews and bypassing conventional retail outlets in favor of an exclusive release with Wal-Mart, which is not only the biggest retailer in America but also where a good chunk of the band's contemporary audience -- equal parts aging classic rockers and country listeners -- shops. (The album was also available on the group's official website, eaglesband.com via musictoday.com.)It was a savvy move to release Long Road Out of Eden as a Wal-Mart exclusive, but the album is savvier still, crafted to evoke the spirit and feel of the Eagles' biggest hits. Nearly every one of their classic rock radio staples has a doppelgänger here, as the J.D. Souther-written "How Long" recalls "Take It Easy," the stiff funk of "Frail Grasp on the Big Picture" echoes back to the clenched riffs of "Life in the Fast Lane," and while perhaps these aren't exact replicas, there's no denying it's possible to hear echoes of everything from "Lyin' Eyes" and "Desperado" to "Life in the Fast Lane," and Timothy B. Schmit turns Paul Carrack's "I Don't Want to Hear Anymore" into a soft rock gem to stand alongside his own "I Can't Tell You Why." It's all calculated, all designed to hearken back to their past and keep the customer satisfied, but yet it often manages to avoid sounding crass, as the songs are usually strong and the sound is right, capturing the group's peaceful, easy harmonies and Joe Walsh's guitar growl in equal measure. The Eagles burrow so deeply into their classic sound that they sound utterly disconnected from modern times, no matter how hard Don Henley strives to say something, anything about the wretched state of the world on "Long Road Out of Eden," "Frail Grasp on the Big Picture," and "Business as Usual." These tunes are riddled with 21st century imagery, but sonically they play as companions to Henley's brooding end-of-the-'80s hit The End of the Innocence, both in their heavy-handed sobriety and deliberate pace and their big-budget production. That trio fits neatly into the second disc of Long Road Out of Eden, which generally feels stuck in the late '80s, as Walsh spends seven minutes grooving on "Last Good Time in Town" as if he were a Southwestern Jimmy Buffett with a worldbeat penchant, Glenn Frey sings Jack Tempchin and John Brannen's "Somebody" as if it were a sedated, cheerful "Smuggler's Blues," and the whole thing feels polished with outdated synthesizers. None of this is necessarily bad, however, as it's all executed well and the doggedly out-of-fashion sonics only make the songs more reminiscent of the Eagles' older records, especially if their solo work from the '80s is part of the equation. If that second disc does seem a bit like the Eagles' lost album from the Reagan years, the first disc recalls their mellow country-rock records of the '70s -- that is, if Joe Walsh had been around to sing Frankie Miller's blues-rocker "Guilty of the Crime" to balance out Henley and Frey's "Busy Being Fabulous" and "What Do I Do with My Heart," a counterpoint that serves the band well. That first disc is the stronger of the two, but the two discs do fit together well, as they wind up touching upon all of the band's different eras, from the early days to their solo hits. It's designed to please those fans who have been happy to hear the same songs over and over again, whether it's on the radio or in those pricey concerts -- listeners who want new songs that feel old, but not stale. That's precisely what Long Road Out of Eden provides, as it's an album meticulously crafted to fit within the band's legacy without tarnishing it.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Ever since forming his backing group the Fabulous Superlatives in 2003, Marty Stuart has specialized in exploring various paths in country music's past. Way Out West, his 2017 album, continues this tradition by taking them and his crew out west to collaborate with Heartbreaker Mike Campbell in a fevered Fantasia of cowboys, truck drivers, surfers, and other rebels. The brilliant thing about Way Out West is that Stuart doesn't limit himself to either the pile-driving sounds of Bakersfield or the burnished country & western sounds of Hollywood cowhands. Each of these styles gets its own showcase -- "Air Mail Special" rampages like the best of the Buckaroos, "Old Mexico" splits the difference between Johnny Cash and Marty Robbins -- but Stuart not only swaps these sounds, he synthesizes them, so Way Out West winds up playing like an idealized version of California country. To that end, he even incorporates the big jangle of the Byrds -- "Time Don't Wait" rings and swirls like prime 1966 psychedelia, a move that shouldn't come as a surprise with Campbell as the album's producer -- and creates a holy ruckus on "Quicksand," which plays like Link Wray teaming with a Cosmic American honky tonk band to play a dive in Santa Monica, or "Please Don't Say Goodbye," a shimmering desert ballad that hints at the lush soundscapes of Lee Hazlewood. For anybody familiar with the rich traditions of West Coast country and roots music, it's fun to spot the influences on Way Out West, but this is neither an exercise nor a history listen. Stuart and the Fabulous Superlatives are having an outright blast indulging in their imagined wild west, and the end results are so clever and kinetic, they're difficult to resist.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Because they work in a field that isn't usually taken seriously, the Pet Shop Boys are often ignored in the rock world. But make no mistake -- they are one of the most talented pop outfits working today, witty and melodic with a fine sense of flair. Very is one of their very best records, expertly weaving between the tongue-in-cheek humor of "I Wouldn't Normally Do This Kind of Thing," the quietly shocking "Can You Forgive Her?," and the bizarrely moving cover of the Village People's "Go West." Alternately happy and melancholy, Very is the Pet Shop Boys at their finest.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Pet Shop Boys followed the release of 1993's Very (their only album to top the U.K. charts) with their third world tour, which brought them to Australia, Singapore, and Latin America for the first time. A particularly electric concert in Rio de Janeiro was filmed by a local television crew and released on VHS and Laserdisc as Discovery: Live in Rio in 1995. Inspired by the vibrancy of New York City nightlife, the duo focused the tour on uptempo dance songs, and embraced spontaneity more than they did on their earlier tours, which were more staged and theatrical. They're joined on-stage by a quartet of free-spirited dancers, a pair of percussionists, and charismatic backing singer Katie Kissoon. The energy is more than reciprocated by the audience, who scream, cheer, and sing along throughout the entire show. The arrangements totally embrace the type of hyper-glitzy Euro-dance which was everywhere at the time, and older singles like "Always on My Mind" and "Domino Dancing" sound absolutely huge. Early B-side "Paninaro" is given a reggae-disco remake, sounding even more charged-up than the version released as a single around the same time as Discovery. Elsewhere, PSB nod to several then-current dance hits -- the crowd goes wild when "One in a Million" slides into Culture Beat's "Mr. Vain," as well as the medley of "Left to My Own Devices" and Corona's glorious "Rhythm of the Night." They also perform Blur's cheeky alt-dance classic "Girls & Boys," which they had previously remixed, fully transforming an already PSB-indebted song into one of their own. Wisely, the duo know when to dial the energy down a notch from time to time, so that everyone involved avoids the risk of short circuiting and burning out. In this manner, even "West End Girls" feels like a bit of a comedown. Joking that they were never asked to appear on MTV Unplugged, they offer largely acoustic versions of "Rent" and "Suburbia," which only leave more room for the crowd to shout along. Of course, there's no way they couldn't do this show without ending it with a bang, and the final sequence includes "I Will Survive" into "It's a Sin," an Olympic-sized "Go West," and of course the poignant fan favorite "Being Boring." Long confined to obsolete formats, Discovery was given a long-overdue CD/DVD reissue in 2021.© Paul Simpson /TiVo

Making household names out of its cast -- not to mention lots and lots of money -- High School Musical was too successful not to spawn a second installment. While the original movie had a surprising amount of personality and sweetness, as well as songs that actually sounded like they could have appeared in a high-school musical, its glitzy sequel feels more like High School Musical: The Ride. Likewise,High School Musical 2's soundtrack is louder and brasher, operating under the principle that turning up the volume will distract from the fewer, and less inspired, songs here. Disney found more stories to tell about Troy, Gabriella, Sharpay, Ryan, Chad, and Taylor, and more songs for them to sing -- High School Musical 2's plot revolves around summer vacation, a love triangle, and, of course, a talent show -- but this soundtrack feels a lot closer to Radio Disney than show tunes. "Gotta Go My Own Way," a bittersweet duet between Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens, features the gentle beats and acoustic guitars that have been mainstays of teen pop ballads since the late '90s. The shift to an even more conventional, pop-friendly sound isn't really surprising, especially considering that nearly all of High School Musical's stars released solo albums in the wake of the movie's success. That includes Ashley Tisdale, who returns as thwarted musical theater queen Sharpay and is the soundtrack's star. A childhood musical theater veteran herself, Tisdale's chirpy, slightly saccharine voice is perfect (and sometimes, perfectly annoying) on songs like "Fabulous," a piece of diva-tastic pop that could also appear on the soundtrack to My Super Sweet 16. However, her turn on the Polynesian-flavored "bonus" track "Humuhumunukunukuapua'a" crosses the line from cute to far too cutesy, and could be the final straw for listeners past their early teens. A few of High School Musical 2's songs balance story and character-intensive lyrics with memorable melodies as nimbly as the original movie's music did, including "Work This Out," which finds the gang livening up their summer jobs, and "I Don't Dance," which turns big-band brass, a melody borrowed from Prince, and a stomp section into a jock jam. Meanwhile, "You Are the Music in Me" is a big, sweeping love song that sounds fairly funky and young while nodding to show tune traditions. High School Musical 2's lack of inspiration really shows on its bigger numbers: the soundtrack closes with "Everyday" and "All for One," two wannabe rousing songs that blend into one big, bland singalong. While it suffers from a bit of sequel-itis, the soundtrack isn't outright bad; too much is at stake for Disney for it to be terrible. High School Musical 2 is big, bright, and energetic. It's tailor-made for kids to sing and dance along with, and they might not notice that it's not quite as fresh or imaginative, relatively speaking, as the original was.© Heather Phares /TiVo

Their breakthrough success. The title track and soul covers point the band in a new, more mainstream direction.© Cub Koda /TiVo

Apparently not all the Killers wanted to leave Sam’s Town behind. Left to his own devices, Brandon Flowers rushes back to the faded facades, tattered dreams, and overheated pomp of the Killers’ second album, a divisive lab exercise in splicing the DNA of Springsteen and Echo & the Bunnymen. Flowers’ tales of West Coast losers on a last-chance power drive are pretty much the only differentia between Flamingo -- with all his neon lights and turned trick cards, it’s surely named after the fabulous casino and not the bird -- and a Killers album. Perhaps Flamingo doesn’t push its points as forcefully as it would if Flowers were backed by the Killers -- its emphasis is on atmosphere, like most records produced by Daniel Lanois -- but even without harder rhythms and prominent guitars this is cut from the same cloth as the band’s three albums, pushing surface as substance. So florid are Flowers' obsessions -- not every songwriter squeezes two song cycles out of Las Vegas -- that it’s always a bit of a shock to realize that he truly, deeply, madly means it all: his odes to Sin City are devoid of irony, his spectacle isn’t meant to have a shred of camp, his mini-epics are intended to paint him as the Springsteen of the desert. This blinkered earnestness blinds him to just how silly all this is. From Flowers’ five-dollar words to the operatic bombast, every little moment of Flamingo carries weight, which means every moment cancels out the one that came before: it’s all sequined stage costumes shimmering under blaring lights. But that’s where the earnestness kicks in and saves him: he’s the diva taking the spotlight for her solo crossed with a schoolboy satisfied with his final project, believing so much in his fussy grandeur that he almost gives Flamingo meaning.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo