Even on its mellower moments, the Bravery sound more excited about making music on this album than they have since their debut, making Stir the Blood a fine return to form.

Something this indulgent could only be a labor of love, but even die-hard Dandy Warhols fans might find embracing this album to be too much work.

A simplistic tour de force through a myriad of proven gangsta rap motifs. Beginning with the standard "I'm Bout It" variation, this time titled "Bout Dat," Master P and his post-Beats By the Pound production team -- primarily Carlos Stephens, XL, Ke-Noe, Myke Diesel, and Suga Bear -- move through the motifs without making them seem too clichéd and, more importantly, performing with an aura of confidence and poise, two attributes sorely lacking on Only God Can Judge Me.

The least necessary Mase album, but half the tracks point to a future that is brighter than ever.

It does seem like a step backward for them, and it doesn't help that there aren't as many memorable songs here as there are on the debut.

Much of the album is ruminative in a way that leans heavily on Dylan and Costello. Despite these echoes, the album is quite clearly Geldof's creation.

It's a remix album not for fairweather travelers but rather the hardcore Little Monsters, the kind who love every gesture grand or small from Gaga, but it also displays enough imagination to appeal to those listeners who fall into neither camp and are only looking for some darkly elastic dance.

Colon certainly sounds more comfortable here than he did on his first two albums.

There's little here that suggests Swedish House Mafia is more than the sum of its parts, and as Axwell, Angello, and Ingrosso split into three equally powered powerhouses, it seems this supergroup was more a fun lark than a focused project. Still, it's as fun as larks come.

Ultimately, while the toothy smiles might be wiped off the faces of Robertson and the rest of the Barenaked Ladies' faces, Grinning Streak reveals that their hearts remains firmly on their sleeves.

This is a record for longtime fans: it not only evokes warm memories, but it speaks to the band's present.

Flipping the unevenness and sonic confusion of their three 2010s albums on their heads, Bush take this opportunity to prove that they've still got enough in them beyond '90s nostalgia.

The sacred has always sat comfortably with the profane in Rod Stewart's art, and he's holding true to that on The Tears of Hercules, an album that's alternately baffling, absurd, sweet, and endearing.

Human After All ends up being just not-bad (a first for Daft Punk); that may be hard to accept for fans that demand nothing less than brilliance from them, but just because it isn't an instant classic doesn't mean that it's totally unworthy, either.

A handful of marginal highs aside (the minor urgency of 'Courage,' the fluid sobriety of 'Gravity'), it's hard to shake the feeling that Rules would be a lot more satisfying if it broke a few more.

18 Months shows Harris to be a solid producer with an easily identifiable sound.

Too often, his words and melodies end up drowning in their busy surroundings.

Devin’s redundancy is the reason fans keep coming back. They won’t be disappointed by Suite #420, which features the usual set of chilled-out weed anthems, sex jokes, and old-school R&B beats, along with those great oddball numbers the Dude uses to break each album up.

It's an unhurried, affectionate tribute, the News riding grooves that are considerably cleaner than the classic Stax sides they love so much, but they nevertheless wind up with a warm, soulful vibe.

Its glassy, placid groove isn't a reflection of his blandness, but how Sheeran knows that this is the sound that defines global pop in 2019.

This isn't edgy work by any means -- and for as hooky and chorus-driven as it is, it's music that becomes memorable through repeated plays, never quite catching hold upon the first listen -- but it's more colorful and well-constructed than a lot of contemporary mainstream rock in the mid-2000s, and it's arguably more appealing than Matchbox Twenty's earnest guitar rock.

Furtado isn't entirely successful; at times, the album is more impressive for what she intends to achieve than what she accomplishes. And yet for all its contradictions and clumsiness, it's hard not to admire The Spirit Indestructible, for it is that rare thing: a major-label album that bears the unmistakably messy, human stamp of an artist.

It feels true to who he is today: an entertainer who is happy to reveal part of his heart because he now knows there's an audience who cares.

Another collection of typical speed punk tunes, virtually indistinguishable from the work of Green Day and Blink-182, not to mention dozens of other similar bands.

The record boasts a huge, smooth production and is considerably more varied and accomplished than its predecessor.

Unlike its predecessor, there isn't much to dig into here; what you hear upon that first listen is exactly what you get.

No Pier Pressure seems genuinely weird, as it's perilously perched between the best and worst of Wilson's pop talent and Thomas' showbiz instincts.

For the most part, though, the songs are spilled out softly in McRae's high, honey-coated voice, and are centered around humble-but-plaintive acoustic guitar and piano patterns. This proves to be just the right mode for a guy whose worldview is rather less than cheery.