This introduction isn't all that different than her debut, since it still presents a promising vocalist instead of a vocalist who's fulfilled her promise.

Anyone looking for some no-frills, straight from the heart indie rock that has no time for preciousness or TV commercial-ready softness, could do much worse than Sebastien Grainger and this jaw-droppingly good album.

Ye can feel uneven, sometimes boring, and more indulgent than usual, but it's a fascinating peek into West's psyche.

No, Endless Wire is not perfect -- its parts don't quite fit together, and not all of the parts work on their own -- but it is an endearingly human, impassioned work that more than justifies Townshend's and Daltrey's decision to continue working as the Who.

While Simulation Theory might appear to be overly polished mainstream trickery--all part of the simulation!--it's purely Muse at heart, successfully merging electronic-pop songcraft with their typically urgent, stadium rock foundation.

Motorizer falls short of essential and isn't quite in a class with Motorhead's best late-'70s/early-'80s output, but this album is definitely respectable.

Mraz pushes himself into new territory, creating music that's perilously close to sounding seductive.

Highly personal, heavily detailed, and brimming with wounded optimism.

Longtime fans, wondering what the Cowboy Junkies have been up to for the last three years, will probably find several songs to like on One Soul Now. Newcomers will be much happier by picking up Open.

A skillful synthesis of classic rock and modern sensibilities that's pretty irresistible.

Hitting the Ground is flat-out clever, cool, and cocky.

Retro-conning the existing Songs of Experience material to suit the political climate wasn't the easiest task and the album often shows its seams, particularly when Bono decides to tackle the crisis head-on.

While Sound of a Woman is slightly too long and unfocused, at its best it's a potent reminder of how much fun this sound was--and is.

She and her team of musicians, writers and producers straddle the line between twang and glitter on just about every song; sometimes it leans more in favor of line dancing, sometimes the glitter ball takes over, especially on the shimmering "Raining Glitter.". Sometimes, like on "Live A Little" or the very hooky single "Dancing," it's the best of both worlds.

Honey nonetheless comes across as an attention-grabbing experiment more than it does a third proper full-length.

There's definitely an unfinished and tentative feel here.

Though Psychic Lovers sometimes feels a little labored, it proves that the seemingly accidental brilliance of Dinner's earlier music was anything but.

Despite its intentionally unrefined character, the album is well crafted in terms of both songs and production balance, though they may not want to cop to it on record.

"Right 2 Left" (with Melé) constructs a tribal house banger using a sample of Busta Rhymes' "Dangerous," which ends up being a good idea, although it feels somewhat unfinished at only two and a half minutes. Still, the mixture of proper hits and slight experiments makes for a well-rounded album, and Diplo contains some of the jet-setting producer's best work since the Hollertronix days.

Do the Bambi isn't a radical change from Stereo Total's previous work, but it is completely enjoyable from start to finish.

Scatter the Rats is a triumphant return packed with odd comforts and familiar memories. Two decades later, L7 have aged quite gracefully, no matter how unfitting that word may be when describing this ever-raucous crew.

On Chroma, he's got enough lines in the water that he's bound to get a bite sooner or later.

Unfortunately, there's an underlying feeling of insincerity. More often than not, the lyrics are literal interpretations of song titles.

A bumpy, oddly compelling restart, Purpose should hook open-minded pop fans who previously paid him no mind, and it could even win back some of those who wrote Bieber off years ago.

The album's 70-minute length allows enough space for a bounty of mostly nondescript trap productions that support these simplistic boasts. In these tracks, Yachty sounds like he's going through a phase more than refining his individualism.

Mascis sounds like he's having a blast cranking up the amps with his old buddies, no matter if they're real or imaginary.

Like its namesake phenomenon, Recurring Dream's songs are a fascinating mix of elusiveness and inevitability that only grows richer with repeated listening.

Streamlining arrangements and song structures more so than in the past, the album's pop-leaning blend of dance-funk and the softer side of classic album rock is their most accessible yet.

The set employs the unique, off-beat flow preferred by the Michigan underground, which Yachty adopts well enough on tracks like "Concrete Goonies" and "Final Form."

He has highs, he has some lows, but spends most of his time somewhere in between--largely because he's doing it the same he always has.

The Colossus finds Rjd2 back to doing what he did when he first began recording: simply curating excellent productions instead of wooing a new audience by creating expressly written songs or telling a story with his full-lengths.

It's a mature, accomplished statement for one of indie rock's most reliably miserable men.

His castoffs and extras equal other people's gold, and $ingle$ 2 is worth its weight in trash.

Unfortunately, however, the adjectives that need to be attached to this record -- workmanlike, customary, unembarrassing -- aren't going to make music fans flood the record stores seeking copies.

All the Way isn't Growing's best or most essential release, but it's a likable outing and should have no problem appealing to the New Yorkers' hardcore followers.

China is terrifically rewarding.

It's a vital record that charts a completely different direction, one that's less innovative and more mainstream than Future Chaos, but succeeds nonetheless because of its match of Simenon with ace techno producer Gui Boratto,.

If she had the right co-writers, the kind who could pull melodies out of her sincere strumming and down-home jamming -- the kind the whole American Idol empire was designed to bring into the equation -- Farmer's Daughter would deliver on Bowersox's promise instead of sounding like a local singer/songwriter performing on a stage she's too modest to fill.

It's still a label sampler at heart, so a pre-love of platinum gangsta music and that slick Maybach sound are still advised.

This music glides across the ears, never indicating how deeply its hooks are sinking in; these songs wind up growing in the subconscious, suggesting how Matthews knows precisely how his obscure art works.

The results are approximately as scattered. Gray's obvious comfort level and charm, however, help compensate for the less than ideal quantity of magnetizing material.

It's not quite focused enough to place among the best of his other work.

Apart from the sly and sweet 2-step rhythm on "Wasted Times," the sound of the EP is bleary R&B with beats that drag and lurch, suited for Tesfaye's routine swings between self-pity and sexual vanity, chemically enhanced from one extreme to the other.

American Central Dust doesn't have the feel of a step into new territory the way Son Volt's past two albums did, but it consolidates old strengths and confirms Jay Farrar is still an artist worth caring about to 20 years after Uncle Tupelo cut their first album.

There is a successful degree of experimentation on the songs that is not only tolerable but helpful for an act to constantly remain on top of its game and be relevant with fans.

As contrived and calculated as a Mariah Carey record, only without the joy.

These days music fans will be hard-pressed to find an album so satisfying.

A complex and rewarding exploration of the many musical and lyrical themes that tie contemporary reggae and hip-hop together.

Joan of Arc have once more surpassed themselves as artists.

This is a return to the sound of Sixteen Stone, complete with big, grandiose production propelled by ballsy grunge riffs and real hooks in the guitars and vocals.

The heavy lyrics are curious in the framework of mostly bright sonics, but the combination makes Destruction in Yr Soul a more thought-provoking listen, drawing the listener back to certain phrases or sections of its colorful pastiche of sounds to better understand its unique duality.

On the surface, Tiller still gives off that wallflower baller vibe; the brashness of the debut largely remains. The lack of connection made on the one stylistic shake-up--the lightly jutting "Run Me Dry," a cousin of Rihanna's "Work" and Drake's "One Dance"--suggests that Tiller will likely be better off continuing to refine the sound for which he's known.

With Widow's Weeds, the band hasn't necessarily reinvented their wheel, but there's a deep sense of change and growth, both in personal perspective and potential direction. While it takes time for the album to really sink in, it ends up being one of Silversun Pickups' most emotionally satisfying and cathartic listens.

By slowing things down a bit, they're able to let the knack for melody do a lot of the heavy lifting, giving the songs an airiness that's unlike any other electronic band out there. This makes The Speed of Things not only an excellent follow-up to their already stellar debut, but an album that you'd almost have to try not to like.

Cyrus has always sounded older than her years, and as she leaves her teens, that's a good thing--especially since The Time of Our Lives shows her music is catching up to her pipes.

Thankfully, while Nash has moved to a more extroverted, aggressive sound, she hasn't sacrificed any of the personal, intimate lyrics that marked the best of her early songs.

Both artists are gifted social commentators with a love for snarky, collegiate cynicism that hides a huge sentimental streak.

In sum, this the most representative outing from Grace Potter & the Nocturnals to date, and displays, however slickly, a heady quotient of strut, crackle, and groove.

It's a disappointing turn of events for the band, the kind that might lose them a bunch of their fans, while failing to win them any new ones in return.

This time around Murs delves into even more of a funk sound, and tracks like "Troublemaker" and "Hey You Beautiful" bring to mind the sound of such similarly inclined contemporaries as Maroon 5 and the Wanted.

Last of Our Kind is the sound of a band unencumbered; it's an album that was probably as much fun to make as it is a joy to listen to.

Begin resonates most when Hervey and Goodman are left to themselves.

The guys have grown up and the results are as catchy and enjoyable as anything they ever did in their youthful heyday.

After a while the tracks all begin to sound the same, disco beat with Seal style R&B vocals, no bad thing but nothing much original and nothing to come close to the single 'Black And Gold.'

Despite a few stumbles, Identified achieves its goal: it anticipates that Hudgens' fans will outgrow "High School Musical" soon enough, and gives her a better chance of staying relevant to them as they move on to other kinds of pop music.

Two years later, Picture Show proves that the band's flair for writing almost aggravatingly catchy songs is as strong as ever.

Also rife with a bubbly, '70s funk groove is "Coconuts," whose cheeky, double entendre lyrics not only celebrate Petras' Queer identity, but speak to the playfully flirty, tongue-in-cheek atmosphere she achieves throughout Feed the Beast.

On a track-by-track level, Detour has a few stumbles--the biggest is "Night Life," and that's due to the gravelly growl of Willie Nelson, not Lauper--and if it's taken as a collection of performances and not a coherent record, it's fun.

It's the first album of hers that's a sheer pleasure to hear.

The just fair pop tracks keep it from being classic, but this is the best the talented team has sounded on record yet.

Compiling the best tracks from each of their previous releases to make one solid EP would've been a better introduction to the band than The Printz is.

It's hard not to wish that the album had a bit more of the quirks and muscle that gave Breach its backbone. Without it, Red Letter Days isn't quite as forceful, but it is accomplished, melodic, and attractive.

Unlike most electronica We Are A & C is song driven rather than a collection of grooves and noises stitched together, and therein lies its timeless pop appeal.

The album's scope and ambition are admirable, but the group sound best when they're full of energy, and their slower, more reserved moments can be difficult to get excited over.

Don’t bother unless you can stand a healthy helping of sleaze, because this flashy party is for adult fan club members, the ones who don’t mind Wayne the show-off or Wayne the trashy smart-aleck.

These are recognizably Weezer songs, but they're livelier in execution, benefitting from a palpable sense of playfulness on the part of the band.

Despite its flaws, Forget Tomorrow has enough beauty and creativity to suggest that Macha's best music may still be ahead of the band.

This might be enjoyed by folks who are really into the Burzum albums Varg Vikernes made from his prison cell, but even Suicide fans will likely find Stigmata hard to get excited about.

More to the point, it sounds like a souvenir CD you might pick up at the gift shop of a historic battlefield site.

There's something to be said for Jepsen's girl-next-door persona, which helps make Kiss one of 2012's best, and sweetest, pop albums.

The band has found a nice balance between the more contemporary prog-inflected craftsmanship of Field Music and the retro synth romanticism of bands like Delphic and Naked and Famous.

My Garden is a mix of colorful party anthems and substantive, pull-no-punches ballads with warmth beneath the surface.

While it'd be nice if the slower songs were as sticky as the speedier tunes, this nevertheless maintains a classy, well-manicured mood throughout.

Barely out of their teens, the band's enthusiastic aping of their idols can be forgiven (they even go so far as to build the largely nonsensical "Le Song" around the lyric "come a little bit closer," which is the refrain from the Walk Among Us gem "Vampira"), but they'll need to dial down the hero worship on future endeavors if they ever want to establish their own legacy of brutality.

Not quite as catchy or harmony-rich as a few of their earliest songs, some of Little May's early adopters may be a little bummed out by the material, but many will find it hits a sweet spot between the heart and head in which to snugly settle.

For now, on Everybody's Dying to Meet You, the trio sounds like a worthy heir to the classic noise pop sound and the genre's best bands, like Shop Assistants and Tiger Trap.

There's more than a hint of soul and gospel, tempered with arty arena rock that's drawn equally from U2 and Peter Gabriel--but the overall feeling isn't anguished, it's consoling. It's a subtle but notable shift that lends emotional gravity to a singer/songwriter who already favored weighty topics.

Whether he's performing an ode to tequila, juke joints, or covering Johnny Paycheck's "Old Violin," Strait sings with humor, tenderness, and ease, qualities that lend the deliberately nostalgic Honky Tonk Time Machine grace, resonance, and depth. Perhaps this isn't a new trick for Strait, but it's one to be cherished nonetheless.

Alternating between imaginative reinterpretations and faithful renditions of familiar hits, offering a testament to the resilience of the songbook of Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers.

Listeners put off by Nash's cheekiness in the past may find her more relatable here, or at least more compelling, though Yesterday Was Forever still refuses to pander.

Yeat's off-center linguistic twists and personality-heavy performances are still the stars of the show, and LYFESTYLE balances Yeat's enormous presence with guest appearances from Kodak Black, Lil Durk, and Don Toliver.

Rewolf ends up being a failure in two ways. The first is that the songs aren't strong enough to withstand the acoustic treatment....The second major flaw, and the one that really kills the album, has to do with what the lack of volume and energy uncovers.

After releasing a couple albums that showed the Washed Out sound could be altered in interesting ways, coming back with something that's textbook chillwave can't help but be a letdown, no matter how pretty and soothing it can be.

Nobody is concerned with reinterpreting the songs or surprising a listener, they just want to enjoy re-creating sounds and tunes they've loved, an attitude that's rarely alienating although it's never quite infectious, either.

They sound more natural than they ever have on record, and Brian Vander Ark and Donny Brown respond by their best set of songs.

Many of the songs have a similar feel and lack distinctive melodies to keep them from blending together.

Perfectly, almost aggressively pleasant.

They've sounded stuck and overconfident before, but this old-school-styled, true hip-hop album finds the Mobb hungry again.