While both sides [of the album] are well executed, neither makes as much of an impact as it has in the past. It may not be ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead's most exciting album, but there are still enough bright moments here to keep fans engaged.

My Favourite Faded Fantasy may come on as a bit underwhelming at first but that's the intent: it's not designed to grab, it's designed to soothe and then slowly worm its way into the subconscious, which is where these eight songs reveal themselves to be as strong as anything else Rice has written.

It's a strong finale in the duo's signature style and whether or not this truly is the end or merely the end of their album era, The Inevitable End sits among the best in Röyksopp's catalog.

Give My Love to London is as complete a portrait of the artist--at least from the late '70s on--as we've ever had. In total, it reveals no abatement in her creative renaissance.

Gilmour and Mason know this is their farewell, so they're saying goodbye not with a major statement but with a soft, bittersweet elegy that functions as a canny coda to their career.

As it is, BRONCHO need to head back to the studio with some Red Bull and a producer who can light a fire under them, because judging by their first album, they can do better than this.

Powerful stuff itself, Stalley's excellent debut proves Funkadelic's hypothesis of "Free your mind and your ass will follow" while taking Dr. Dre's advice of "Keep their heads ringin'" to another level.

Disarmingly subtle yet flush with enough confectionary touches and left-field presence (not to mention pure craftsmanship) to warrant cult status among smart-pop aficionados, Niagara goes down so easy that most listeners will need more than a few spins to realize how rich of a tonic it is.

It is certainly their most well-rounded and diverse, one that adds some pop-machine savvy without losing any of the insouciant charm they've had to spare in the past.

The serious vibe and timely message of Hang make it an album that fans of the band (and punk in general) won't want to pass up.

Ultimately, it’s Haerts' combination of straightforward, rootsy melodicism and more experimental, ambient inclinations that helps them grab your ear and your heart.

Even when London muddles quasi-philosophical gibberish and pro-fellatio sentiments on "Water Me," the hooks and basslines dig deeper. It's more creative, too.

Almost all of this virtual grab bag's 12 songs go in slightly different directions, from the spoken-sung punk essay of the title track to cold lo-fi synth minimalism on "Psycho Structures" to a fairly straight-faced cover of Nancy Sinatra's country-rock classic "These Boots."

Ultimately, with Alix, Generationals deliver quirky, catchy pop songs that stick in your head like DayGlo bubblegum on a hot summer parking lot.

Below the Pink Pony doesn't always carve out a signature sound for the Fauntleroys, but there's a whole lot of talent in this band and they know how to make room for one another; hopefully there will be a full-length Fauntleroys album that will allow them to build on the impressive work they put in on this quick, dirty, and rewarding debut.

A Minus the Bear record is fairly consistent, but given the quality of this band's output and the uniqueness of their sound, it comes as no surprise that not only are their cast-offs pretty solid, but that make for an oddly good album when strung together.

Human Voice represents an artist's drive to push his work forward, but also retains the signature relationship with melody and emotional presentation that have always set Dntel apart from the rest.

With Hold My Home, they emerge as a more straightforward band, and also a more confident and engaging one.

Nude Beach were already a better-than-average garage punk combo on their first two long-players, but they're growing into something more on 77, and it's smart, well-crafted stuff that could possibly move them to bigger and/or better things.

Ultimately, what is so great about this release is how well Mariachi El Bronx balance their love of traditional mariachi music with their desire to write utterly catchy, contemporary pop songs.

Blood In, Blood Out, much like Cannibal Corpse's 2014 offering Skeletal Domain, sounds remarkably dialed-in for a band so long in the tooth, and while it doesn't break any new ground for the stalwart rockers, it certainly does little to tarnish their reputation as thrash royalty.

Devilish and delicious, the album can be precious to a fault, as following all the Queen-sized arrangements and all the Adam Lambert-esque sass isn't an everyday thing for most.

The band sounds vital and energetic, and while there's still a hint of sour grapes to be heard, all in all the album feels like a return to the basics.

Where the band's last effort was rooted in their past, Last Act of Defiance has its feet firmly planted in the present with a message that feels both important and timely, making for a solid album that shows Sick of It All aren't just going through the motions.

Chamberlain sounds like he's exorcizing some demons with Sleepwave, and he's doing so in the style that comforts him the most.

Despite a few bright moments, Motion is disappointingly bland--especially since Harris has made plenty of memorable electro-pop before and after his EDM makeover.

Mysterious and riveting, Rhythm is one of the most stunning distillations of Wildbirds & Peacedrums' powers yet.

The way Arca plays with and decorates time, letting sounds and moods mutate spontaneously, makes Xen a complete picture of his artistry and also promises much more.

It may not displace Toro y Moi as Bundick's most satisfying project, but as an outlet for his dance music urges, Les Sins works very well.

The smaller Guggenheim portion, served up in smaller doses, decreases the tension only slightly on Clark's most exhilarating work yet.

While Ruins' sound is stripped-down, it's filled with emotional magnitudes. Harris' confessions are that much more devastating thanks to their almost overheard nature, and her whispered vocals mean her audience has to listen to them as closely as possible.

Even on these songs, it feels more like Deerhoof are coming full circle than looking back; that they've been able to put different but cohesive spins on their sound so well, and for so long, is truly remarkable.

By delivering this big, sloppy valentine to everything he is and everything he loves, he's not being neat but he is true to himself.

These sly revisions gave the 1975 album a slight veneer that's been stripped away by this unfussy, startlingly clear remastering, but the big difference is that the chronological sequence on The Basement Tapes Complete gives the set a narrative.

Ultimately, while Bass Drum of Death's reach never exceeds their grasp--there's no MC5-style ersatz free jazz, let alone a guitar solo to be found here--Rip This nonetheless grabs your ears like a drunken biker in a bar fight, letting go long enough for you to pick yourself off the floor just in time to get pummeled again.

A large portion of Black Metal resembles the kind of lo-fi, quantity-over-quality, solitary works of eccentrics who would have been at home in the mid- to late '80s on labels like Factory Benelux, Creation, or, well, Rough Trade.

Sense of purpose gets eclipsed by sense of self on If There's a Hell Below, but Black Milk deserves to ride the vibe of his previous work more than most. Consider this a returning fan's album, and then go about becoming one.

Third album Lifer continues that album’s gnarled tendencies, offering up blurry washes of ghastly rock that have more in common with '90s metal-leaning grunge acts than the sometimes artsy punk undercurrents that wander in and out of Dope Body's sound.

It's a stellar record, one that captivates both the heart and the imagination with an almost imperceptible grip, clutching the listener's attention with its painstakingly beautiful construction and a sadness that is all-consuming but somehow warm and comforting.

This kind of work doesn't make for an album which one is inclined to return to for repeated listening.

Once again, they have succeeded and prove that they aren't just an oldies act; they are at the forefront of the modern shoegaze/noise pop scene.

At their best, recall a sort of world-weary punk troubadour but occasionally feel a bit too put on. For the most part, though, Restorations succeed in delivering a well-built album that feels ambitious but remains engaging, with its sights set on the wide-open horizon.

Just like Kendrick's stunning Good Kid, M.A.A.D City, Under Pressure is an autobiographical and odds-beating debut that arrives more fully formed than expected. Maybe all those mixtapes were all called Young Sinatra because the best was yet to come.

A beautiful collector's piece commemorating one of America's most vital indie bands.

Even if The Night Is Young could have been improved by better editing, it's still a welcome return from one of dance's most endearing acts.

If Florida Georgia Line feel anonymous, that's not a bug: by design, they're playing to the largest possible audience, so nobody should be surprised that Anything Goes is so broad it avoids such messiness as personality.

Blurred is unique, although akin to the old 808 State and LFO efforts where blue rooms met bass music and all the hoodies understood, but it's that same meeting happening in 2014, after house and bass followed their own indie and dubstep routes.

Honor is the first album where Rancid sound obvious, like on the heavy ska "Everybody's Sufferin'," where the lyrics about how everybody's suffering are delivered in cornball Jamaican accents. It's the first time they sound empty, too, like they're going through the motions with little or no passion driving them.

If the first album was the supernova, RTJ2 is the RTJ universe forming, proving that Mike and El-P's one-off can be a going, and ever growing, concern.

Nobody else can sing like Jerry Lee and it remains a pleasure to hear him sink his teeth into nearly any song, especially when he's supported by a team as sympathetic as he is here.

A record with an expansive world-view delivered with a kinetic kick and infallible melodies, a record that gives no indication of where it's going upon first listen but remains compelling upon further spins, after all the dazzle dissipates and Little Big Town's craft shines through.

Ultimate Painting may not reach the commercial heights of either guy's main band, but it is fully the equal and in some ways more interesting.

Nobody Wants to Be Here and Nobody Wants to Leave's naked emotions and sophisticated music mark a new high point for the Twilight Sad.

It's an album less for blasting out of car radios and more for dusty Sunday afternoons and at times, it can feel a bit dulled by its own weight. Still, it's nice to hear the band stretching out and evolving, and even if Keep You requires a little more patience there is still much to like about it.

Although die-hard Beatles fans might see the album as a bit blasphemous, the Flaming Lips' treatment of the classic work makes it clear the band have a great respect for the Fab Four's legacy and influence, making the album a wonderful distraction that provides fans with a window into the influences of one of rock's most enduring and joyously weird bands.

Tell 'Em I'm Gone confirms that Yusuf still has the talent and passion that made him a star as Cat Stevens, but the efforts to find a new sound for him don't quite work, and Rubin doesn't quite catch the light but emphatic touch of Yusuf's salad days; maybe a full reunion with Paul Samwell-Smith would be worthwhile for Yusuf's next album.

Undoubtedly, she has the charisma and chops to be convincing on both bubblegum and ballads but 1989 is something else entirely: a cold, somewhat distant celebration of all the transient transparencies of modern pop, undercut by its own desperate desire to be nothing but a sparkling soundtrack to an aspirational lifestyle.

While having their most celebrated drummer on hand adds an element of stability to what is a pretty far-out concept even for Primus, the addition of Bass and Dillon allows Primus to really push their sound to its creative limits, making Primus & the Chocolate Factory one of the band's oddest, yet most strangely compelling, releases to date.

While the album's roots are deeply embedded in the past, the band has never sounded more present tense.

His father's son through and through, Baxter Dury not only sounds a bit like his old man Ian, he is attracted to a similarly chintzy production that pushes attention away from the arrangements and to his words. This is especially true on 2014's It's a Pleasure.

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.

Lennox has crafted an album that brings to mind the sophisticated, contemporary sound of her original studio releases while allowing her to revel in the grand popular song tradition.

A state-of-the art country-pop record, a modern update of urban cowboy that works because it never hides its soft aspirations but never makes a fuss about them either.

The energy she put into these versions helps make up for the vocal shortcomings and audible use of Auto-Tune.

What makes a difference here is the general lightness of his new songs and Was and Lee's sympathetic production; the two play off each other perfectly, turning this into the first latter-day Diamond record to feel quintessentially Neil Diamond.

Some of the styles are undeniably tacky but, hey, bad taste is part of Idol's legacy and Kings & Queens of the Underground touches upon that garishness along with his exaggerated swagger, fondness for hooks, and an irascible snarl, and that makes it an autobiography even if it never tells a story.

As defined here, Soused accurately means "drenched" in sound. Walker's and Sunn 0)))'s individual identities, while always on full display, are brought jaggedly and thunderously together in an enthralling recording that equals the sum of its mighty parts.

Listening to the album, it's clear that even though Slipknot aren't over the loss of a dear friend and colleague, they're able to channel their grief into a productive album, allowing them to continue moving forward while paying tribute to a fallen comrade with one of the strongest albums of their career.

Phantom Radio shows that a bit more production polish and digital styling hasn't fogged Lanegan's message, and Phantom Radio reveals the singer and his songs are as strong and as eloquent as ever.

Howard expects you to meet him on his own terms and provides just enough aural enticement to give him not just one listen but a second, which is when I Forget Where We Were really begins to sink in its hooks.

Ware continues to express a multitude of emotions with superb elegance. The material, unfortunately, is on a lower plane.

Bright, big, and Pharrellian, Paperwork still finds T.I. at the center of its well-funded variety show, allowing him to bounce back to his streety Trouble Man persona after schooling all the Iggy's and Macklemore's in such vital uptown slick.

While the newer additions to Thurston's muse are all well and good, The Best Day is most exciting when he returns to his most familiar trademarks, again investigating a sound that has spawned generations of imitators but still sounds like no one else.

The album effectively sets a mood but tends to lack the richness and labyrinthine quality of the previous album. It's too direct, skeletal, and mechanical to function as more than background listening.

Even if it's not her most intimate work, Taiga allows Nika to be inventive and craft some some stunningly beautiful moments along the way.

Quite possibly We Were Promised Jetpacks' most vivid album to date, Unravelling finds the band making music that's harder to place than ever--and that much more interesting for it.

There's only one track with any forward motion, and it's the overly slick and one-dimensional "I'll Be Back." Otherwise, Otherness is mostly murky and overcooked ballads, without hooks or much emotional impact.

Rips mixes simple pleasures and complicated ones into a completely life-affirming debut.

As a songwriter, Ubovich still seems to be getting his sea legs; many of these tracks seem to be more about jamming than delivering melodies that will stay with you after the record comes to a close.

Standing in the Breach is a back to the basics Browne album, and is all the better for it.

The 13-track set adds some relatively subtle flourishes of electronics to the mix while dialing back a little on Sean Mackin's signature violin playing, but fans looking to conjure up some nostalgia for the band's Ocean Avenue heyday will find what they're looking for.

Indian Ocean is sad, sweet, and warm as an August afternoon, and while its charms may feel old-fashioned and better suited to vinyl, the hardships it details are undeniably contemporary, and their conclusions oddly comforting.

All in all, Hungry Ghosts is another solid album from one of pop's most versatile and charming bands.

His penchant for on-the-nose phrasing and big pop moments would be grating if those instincts weren't so sharply honed and the sugary results so immaculately delivered.

Righteous anger, razor-sharp songs, and killer music is a trifecta few punk bands can claim on their first album, but Single Mothers hit the jackpot on Negative Qualities, and if this doesn't turn out to be the best punk debut of 2014, then the music has been having a truly great year.

Even if Museum of Love sometimes comes across as a sampler of DFA sounds past and present, it's an album that those who enjoy the label's output will almost certainly like, and a promising debut in its own right.

While there's some charm in the fact that Seger is loose enough to keep his ends untied, Ride Out is hobbled by that exacting production: conceptually, it's something of a ragged mess and it'd benefit from sounding like one.

The Toronto trio's first album is an impressive debut that shows the band to be masters of taking psychedelic, experimental, and simply interesting music of many eras and delivering them all wrapped up in one shimmering package that's easy to absorb.

However they dress up their music, it remains easy to connect with and this album proves it.

By emphasizing melody and feel over art and angst, Lambert's come up with a debut that goes down quite smoothly.

At its best, Pink Palms is quirky in the best sense of the word; it's got a lot of personality and plenty of unexpected twists. Though it might be wise for the Bots to narrow their focus next time around, wondering what they'll do next is a big part of this album's fun.

The album is at its most gut-wrenching when it puts the humanity behind its creation on display.

Unfortunately, the final product often feels joyless and manic, and many listeners may give up before sitting through the entire beast.

Though the album contains plenty of odd twists and turns, there's enough of the old Melvins to keep things from straying too far from home, offering more than a few comforting oases for listeners to refresh themselves before they head out to explore some of Hold It In's weirder moments.

He fares better on "Silver and Gold" and "Humour Me," where more energy and sensuality keep things afloat, proving once again that soul-searching and dancing don't have to be at cross purposes.

While Sweet Talker's lack of a clear artistic voice makes it wildly uneven, it just might be loud enough to regain American listeners' attention.

I've Been to Many Places sounds like the record Shipp had to make for his own edification, one that chronicles his expansive, fearless push toward the spirit of the unknown with purpose, one that deepens and widens the already expansive reach of his language.

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.