Political music only works with a strong point of view, which MUNA lack on this record. That said, it has at least a couple niche hits to round out summer playlists and Pride party sets. Even without the depth, MUNA know how to please a crowd — but the impression is fleeting.

A dozen listens to Train on the Island, the New Zealand songwriter's mesmerizing fifth record, will yield a dozen interpretations, a century's worth of pondering and re-pondering condensed into 40 minutes.

The irony of Kneecap's urgent political potency is that FENIAN is fun as hell.

Rashad has delivered yet another excellent project, striking a delicate balance between exploring new sounds and remaining true to what has always made his music so appealing.

With her sharp pen and a deft balance of traditional and modern sounds, Middle of Nowhere is a reminder of why Musgraves is a lone star of her calibre.

On Your Favorite Toy, it's all loud and all fast all the time. (One notable exception is "If You Only Knew," a relatively straightforward rock song that nonetheless stands out thanks to an excellent hook.) Compounding this problem is the fact that Grohl remains a frustratingly boring lyricist.

There are moments on Long Long Road where Burnett almost makes his case: the rollicking "Baby Don't Go" is endearing, and Ringo is especially having fun on line dance-ready "Why." Much like Brian Wilson's feature-heavy No Pier Pressure, however, Starr mostly feels like a guest on his own album.

Friko play with more lift and propulsion, creating songs that sprint and bloom with a confidence their debut, 2024's Where we've been, Where we go from here, only hinted at.

This far into their career, you don't need a They Might Be Giants album to be classic — you just need it to be a reminder of how great they are, and have been since before you were born, probably.

Much of what set WU LYF apart from other UK pop-rockers has been dulled to match their ambitions and ages. It's maximalist minimalism (or is that minimalist maximalism?) at its most heartfelt and bland, similar to other heartsick stadium "rockers" like Coldplay and Imagine Dragons.

Her sophomore LP embraces the more straightforward impulses of her pristine pop songcraft — to results that feel more jubilant and whimsical than anything else she's ever done.

A pretty perfect soundtrack to the never-ending battle against conformity, complacency and chords. .... There's a ferocity and alienness to the complexity. While Angine de Poitrine are certainly not alone in their explorations of microtonality, experimentation and funk, the music is nevertheless demanding in a way that other popular contemporary sounds are not.

It's a leap of faith, a self-assured reinvention, and a testament to Parks' chameleonic staying power.

On their 10th album, The Former Site Of, bandleader A.C. Newman has honed his playful gibberish to the point that it's become his signature style, delightful rather than simply a way to fill the syllables of his towering power pop melodies.

The beauty of Hurts Like Hell is rooted in this catharsis: transmuting pain — the good, the bad and the ugly — into a unit of strength and perseverance.

Honora feels a bit like a few different projects in one, its moments of revelatory beauty refracted through a slightly convoluted structure.

Altogether, Ö feels like candy: addictive, sweet, glossy; the ultimate sugar rush. While it remains to be seen if there's a crash coming, Fcukers are undeniably the life of the party.

While there's arguably nothing here that will dethrone your favourite all-time Robyn tracks ("Call Your Girlfriend" forever wins the March Madness bracket, doesn't it?), a great many stand proudly amongst them — and for most fans, this is very much enough right now.

Saputjiji is not an easy listen; at times, it's downright ugly. But as the empire's war machine kicks back into high gear, Tagaq's courageous offering is a much-needed wake-up call.

The album's blipping between hip-hop, footwork and a clutch of other electronic styles does carry a prêt-à-porter element, but one that hangs well on Gordon's frame with every new fit.

The Mountain does not reach the same heights as the one called Monkey at the end of Demon Days, nor does it have the same sonic depth as Plastic Beach. However, it does continues in the path of both of those albums.

Fancy Some More? is a lot of fun. It leans further into the '90s/noughties than its predecessor, intensifying its jungle and D&B undercurrent while also adding some Madchesterian flavour with SEVENTEEN's mix of "Illegal."

By the end of Nothing's About to Happen to Me, it feels as though Mitski has reclaimed both her home and her mythos. No longer lingering on the edges of the album, she steps into her art as presently as she can, trusting that it will continue to speak for her long after she's gone.

While she tries to impress upon us that the girl we knew is now a woman who reads tarot cards and engages in pure sexual pleasure, bold and brash have never entered the lexicon when it comes to Hilary Duff and her music — and maybe they never will. We love her because she stays earnest.

While it may not be flawless, it's another strong entry in a consistently compelling catalogue. His mom called it a masterpiece, and I guess that's all that matters.

Wuthering Heights expertly plays with the joys and violence of love, always leaving space for the nuances of both. As the sun finally rises at its finish, it's clear that this album is ultimately an optimistic love story, even if it's a Gothic horror set within Bluebeard's castle.

It's possible that hyperpop purists and longtime Harle fans will wince at the sanded-down edges and softened tones that make up this album — go listen to "Boing Beat" or "Interlocked" for an ungentle reminder of how bonkers Harlecore remains a half-decade a later. And yet, Cerulean is undeniably fun, and cements Harle's standing as a singular artist in the world of progressive pop.

Whether it becomes the hip-hop classic he envisioned will be decided over time, but this is peak J. Cole — for better or worse.