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.

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.

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.

There are undeniable flashes of peak Joji scattered throughout the album, which only heightens the frustration. They serve as reminders of his ability to be great, confirming the unevenness as less of a lack of talent and more of an excess of underdeveloped ideas.

It comes as no surprise then that Megadeth, like so many of those latter-day albums, is an uneven affair, front-loaded with its best material in the time-honoured tradition — but when it's good, it's good.

Despite a greater variance in beat drops and textural flourishes (that way the drum machine fades into the post-chorus saxophone is the only redeemable thing about "Honey"), the middling mid-tempo The Life of a Showgirl strays even further from the magic Swift's pen once wielded.

Geese build up to the album's conclusion: a charged and accelerating train ride, 16 stops from Brooklyn into the darkest parts of "Long Island City Here I Come," Winter issuing poetic threats that crosswire Bob Dylan and Van Morrison into a barroom bible-mishmash scored by screaming guitars. It's a thrilling exit point, full of ecstasy and menace, but it still feels a little like dress-up rather than lived-in.

While it provides plenty of tell, there's not nearly enough show.

While it may not reach the heights of Acid Rap or Coloring Book, it doesn't feel as far removed — and, in some moments, indicates that those heights are still within reach.

Something Beautiful does, of course, sound beautiful — Shawn Everett's production is widescreen and larger than life, but still remembers to dial things back when needed, although maybe not always quite enough (Cyrus is an impressive balladeer! "The Climb" was a moment!) — but it also rings hollow.

Difficult to dislike. The knowing wink may feel a bit strained as the crow's feet deepen, but it will coax your face into a smile more often than not.

A mostly forgettable but sometimes good album.

The resultant album is cohesive, but slightly tiring; bogged down in ballad after ballad, all draped with the Weeknd's pretty but repetitive vibrato falsetto.

At its best, the album delivers contemporary counterparts to feminist folk classics, but the good moments are often rushed through for seemingly no purpose.

Guided Tour is not a bad record, but it's not a particularly memorable one. It features some excellent work by a powerful band ("Mind's a Lie" is possibly the best thing they've ever committed to record), while also forcing the listener to sit through some truly bland, unoriginal filler.

A pleasant float into the blue of Allison's mind. It's a safe and comfortable journey, but you might find yourself dreaming of bigger adventures.

The first half of the album is presented with the clean and stripped down grain of early Karate songs, but the feel is less their trademark over-caffeinated tension and more suburban dad that used to be in punk bands jamming to Thin Lizzy songs with his buddies in the car port. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it's not very remarkable either.

The songs on Cutouts feel jammy and jazzy, and while the trio are of course experts at their craft, the instrumentation tends to meander.

Y2K! certainly isn't a disaster, but it's decidedly inessential, providing some new material for fans of her early singles without revealing any new tricks.

Glover is clearly better than he's ever been in almost every regard; his rapping, singing and everything in between feel refined to a point they never have. The issue is that, without the movie, there's no connective tissue between these songs, as great as the majority are. For now, Bando Stone & the New World exists as a collection of songs that are mostly great, but lack any real sense of cohesion between them.

Inoffensive music Iike this is an affront to the very idea of what makes music so worthy of obsession and analysis. It's the antithesis of self-expression; this ain't no victimless crime. For the first time, I understand the term: this is pure co-worker music.

C,XOXO isn't a bad album, particularly when stacked against the imagined disaster it could've been. The problem is that it sounds like it's been purchased from other talents rather than being curated and homegrown by Cabello and her team. You gotta hand it to her for trying though, even more so for the fact that it nearly, just nearly, works.

Strut of Kings requires more than just a first go-through, as much of the album could have benefitted from moving past the "first thought, best thought" rubric. Although it seems crazy to say, this is an actual Guided by Voices album that could have benefitted from an editor.

When Love Heart breaks the feedback loop of its own foundational creation is where the record is at its most compelling.

The record's first two-thirds are very well-paced, from bashfully stoned ballads to instrumental to extended Floydian romp. It makes it all the stranger to see the album fall apart toward the end, where indistinct sanguine ballads are sent to die.

Although the band clearly wears its assorted influences proudly on their collective sleeve, this diverse approach can sometimes hinder progress, resulting in some songs that are vibrant, complex and uniquely Cola, while relegating others to the derivative badlands.

Wallows play it safe on Model, with a lack of distinctive storytelling shackling the album to its mid-tempo pop melodies, its highs too few and far between.

A further expansion of the clean stream of consciousness that is her discography, Chaos Angel proves, at its worst, that Maya has found her groove and ain't nothing's going to break her autumnal stride.

Like the colourless photo of a near-anonymous Swift that adorns the album cover, it casts an artful pose but doesn't have the guts to look the listener in the eye.

There are admittedly some palatable textures here, an inevitability given the roster of talent, but so much of it is obfuscated in genre confusion and poor arrangements.

As a riff rock mood board, most of the album passes by nicely enough, with the occasional embarrassing lyric (the aforementioned refrain in "Must've Always Been a Thing," repetitions of "Ring dong / Ring-a-ding dong" on opener "The Dooms Day Bells") being the only moments that are actively unpleasant to listen to.

Bleachers is agreeable and safe, but there's a fumbling listlessness to the whole thing, a lack of dynamism that makes it fade into white noise. Antonoff’s latest is not the grand, drive-off-into-the-sun record that Strange Desire or even Gone Now strove to be and sometimes became — Bleachers is a commuter’s record through and through.

Untame the Tiger feels more like something that was worked away at as a healing distraction, put down and picked back up at irregular intervals. The album’s first half generates a positive charge that tapers off toward its conclusion, but Timony’s sly guitar magic is always there to provide a jolt of life.

Ultimately, Daniel is perfectly pleasant.

Wall of Eyes is an album of background music, a cinematic compilation that feels like a collection of songs that just weren’t good enough to be on its predecessor. It’s too jammy, too undercooked, too unedited — an overextended comedown without the requisite high.

You can't help but wish he'd leaned into the dive bar clatter and freewheeling wildness that always feels just at the periphery of his music. As it is, And the Wind acts as a solid addition to your deep-summer-backyard-beer-drinking soundtrack — sometimes that's all you need.

In shearing off that thorniness, Drop Nineteens have returned as a highly competent, often lovely, and perhaps less interesting version of themselves.

Taken as a bit of a lark, Skye's I<3UQTINVU exists as a bag of mostly disposable — but exciting! — what ifs. Without the grounded warmth of Ellery's songwriting, the album has the perhaps unintended effect of sending us back to the originals to appreciate the duo's more controlled creative alchemy.

falling or flying may fall a bit short of the expectations set by her debut, but it does fly in the face of what you'd expect of someone on their second outing as a solo artist. It's a solid effort despite some missteps — among the clutter is some of the best material of Smith's young career.

Overall, the album doesn't have a lot of replay value besides a few stand-out songs like the Drake-featuring "Oh U Went" and "Went Thru It," which is led mainly by the strength of Metro Boomin's production.

Cynical and crushing, Bright New Disease is the sound of a short-term supergroup flexing their technical skills and boundless musical knowledge. It stands as a commendable and blistering — albeit slight — diversion from either band's respective output.

There are a few new sounds here — prominent vocal harmonies in the chorus of the opening title track, electronic snare hits and a soft synth hum on the saccharine "Looking for a Vein" — but for the most part, this is familiar DMB.

While highlight "The Glass" is an undisputedly heartbreaking acoustic-tinged ditty about living the rest of your life in someone's absence, the mid-LP tracks unfortunately do little more than fill obligatory spots on the Foo Fighters spectrum.

Overall, Gloria seesaws between being compelling and generic, with just enough highs to keep you interested throughout.

While the sonic textures remain in their typical buzzed out territory, the tracks where tempos ramp to harrowing speeds don't entirely work.

The band's 10th album, is basically standup comedy that transcends parody by being so utterly silly that it's almost charming.

The result is a fine record, but one that ultimately fails to leave a mark.

There's a lot to like about Songs My Friends Wrote, especially the way it celebrates lesser-known tunes — but unfortunately, not a lot of the charm and wit that Corb Lund fans have come to love.

There are good moments here and there, and the only sin Harlow truly commits is that much of the LP is boring and forgettable, not even bad enough to be entertaining besides a few head-shaking lines.

It's opulent and immaculately composed but lacks the strong perspective that's usually central to FJM's work.

Despite many of the songs not building on the promise of the opening track, there is a sense of playfulness to the proceedings. You can practically hear Grohl grinning throughout as he indulges in some thrash metal cosplay. Unfortunately, it sounds like Dream Widow was more fun to record than it is to listen to.

Spring certainly isn't the worst Weezer album (don't worry, Pacific Daydream, that title still belongs to you!), but it's frustrating to hear them sabotaging their own songs in a futile attempt to pin down the sound of a season. So far, SZNZ feels less like a lofty concept and more like silly gimmick.

The current release of the album otherwise known as Donda 2 — is a noticeably unfinished album. ... Not that the album is unfinished to the point it's entirely unsatisfying; there are clear winners here.

Lacking the depth of his more memorable efforts, Digital Roses Don't Die sounds more like an album Big K.R.I.T. made for himself rather than something he expected his fans to collectively laud.

Things Take Time, Take Time is an exceedingly nice-sounding record — but with almost no quotable zingers, it's hard not to shake the sense that something is missing, is missing.

Rubinos's major folly on Una Rosa seems to be her desire to push her craft forward and to challenge herself. And while that may be the main ingredient for truly groundbreaking music, she forgot to draw up a blueprint beforehand.

CLB is a serviceable enough Drake album, but he has a number of prior projects that showcase his dynamic rap abilities and frenemy quarrels at a much higher calibre.

This is a collection of songs that wink at what previously made this band great and hint at some interesting paths forward, but ultimately declare that BNL have simply become unrequired listening.

Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night, Antonoff's third album as Bleachers, is at best a heartfelt batch of tracks that are nice to experience in the moment, but rarely anytime after. This doesn't mean there aren't a few glimpses of the full potential of Bleachers' musical direction; they're just crowded by much of the same heard on records past.

Despite poor production choices and lazy song structures, Pop Smoke's energy and solo spurts of brilliance won't allow for this stale posthumous release to tarnish his legacy.

It's clear Atreyu crave rebirth in the crucible of lifeless arena rock, but with a selection of tracks this dull and inoffensive, they'll probably get their wish.

Phair is at her best when she confidently picks a lane. Soberish is uneven because of her indecision, but it's still her best album since 1998's Whitechocolatespaceegg.

Commerce is pulling more gears than art here. Simply skip the lows and ride the highs. Because when Khaled does hit, it can still be fun as hell, like gorging on popcorn and 'splosions.

Richard remains a testament to boundary-pushing, genre bending and expectation-shattering art, though Second Line's tempered grandiosity ultimately leaves her ambition underserved.

The mixtape format may excuse the lack of sonic cohesion for the project, but it does not explain the faltering artistic direction that is more than likely to leave Yachty's fans disoriented and disenchanted.

Although Bieber created a decent body of work, it's hard to get past that the sentiments of the overall message is skewed by the lack of effort towards creating music that addresses any sort of justice or lack thereof.

Most of the material just hovers around the same tempo, tone, lyrical style and sound dynamics, robbing the listener of any sort of emotional peaks or valleys that are so important when floating a double album. It's simply a shame that the execution of Cyr fails to match the naked ambition Corgan's concepts promised.

Donoghue and Holland continue to be unmoved by the larger cultural forces around them, producing a record that doubles down on their best and, at times, worst impulses.

MOPN would have landed much better if it abandoned the balancing act between the past and the present in exchange for wholehearted embrace of Lopatin's current realities. Lopatin has proven to us that he can deliver hits; it's time that he believes it himself.

Gone are the crushing riffs and transitions, replaced with subdued progressions. It's a real blight on much of the record, unable to keep the listener enthralled or interested.

Dealing with Demons I has its moments, but the music is ultimately plagued by the inescapable realization that DevilDriver are better as a band than as Dez Fafara and company.

While Savage Mode II is by no means a lacklustre album, it may not be the exact product their fans hoped for.

There's nothing super memorable about this record, nor is there anything horribly offensive about it either. Ultimately, ACR Loco doesn't match A Certain Ratio's past glories, but it doesn't erase their legacy either.

On By the Fire opener "Hashish," Moore and his trio wholesale borrow the intro, main riff and melody from Sonic Youth's 1998 single "Sunday," while the most poppy and compact track on the LP, "Cantaloupe", freely cops the guitar rhythm of SY's 1992 classic "Sugar Kane." But once Moore becomes tired of repurposing old riffs, noise breakdowns, and tunings, he reverts to simply repeating intros and harmonies across the album's nine tracks and 80 minutes, melding together elements from the sluggish "Calligraphy" and the guileless "Dreamers Work."

For a band that's spun fanciful yarns from the farthest reaches of time and space and the inner recesses of their own minds, this grounded perspective could be another interesting change of direction. But for now, it feels more like a retreat.

Medium Rarities isn't essential. A few tracks stand out, but the real excitement lies ahead. Mastodon's last few albums have crept up the top 10.

It's a logical continuation of 2007's slick Cassadaga (less so 2011's rock-inclined The People's Key) — but given the renaissance Oberst has enjoyed with his side-projects in recent years, it doesn't quite live up to Bright Eyes' lofty name.

While Eight Gates seems mostly germinal and is not the ideal introduction to Molina's work, fans will likely forgive the album's inchoateness and simply appreciate another dollop of the artist's distinct melancholia — nine tunes that underscore his attunement to suffering, inconsequence, and the brutality of the corporeal world.

The result is that Pyramid is an imperfect and uneven album that satisfies two different audiences, as the front half is packed with wandering jam band noodling while the second half tightens into a slightly more focused and rhythmic set. It's just a shame that Jaga Jazzist wasn't able to give the listener a more cohesive and unified version of what they were trying to achieve with Pyramid.

Skullcrusher's debut points to Helen Ballentine's undeniable skills, particularly as a melodist. A bit more distancing from popular templates, however, may have served to further distinguish her work from that of her abovementioned contemporaries.

Every step is like the last, every dune made up of the same inconspicuous pebbles. Species can make for an exceptionally trance-inducing listen if you have it in you to push past the monotony.

The fact that each member of the band produced their own tracks comes off like a harbinger to why Endless Dream simply doesn't work, ostensibly ending Peter Bjorn and John's secret winning streak.

Couple the simultaneously sparse and noisy production with the overall scant running time, and the album unfortunately fails to leave an impression, especially in an area of music that has become more and more saturated since the band's 2018 breakthrough.

This album feels like they need to take another walk in the trees to reconnect with their namesake.

For each song where the more minimal sonic approach comes up short, there are places on Temple where it succeeds.

Despite its brisk pacing, Starz still suffers from bloat. Songs like "Iceheart," "Dance in the Dark," and "My Agenda" could have been left off the track list and made the album more coherent and enjoyable to experience.

Lacks the clever subtlety of innuendos on songs like "Can I" (featuring Tory Lanez) and "F&MU." "Bad News," "Everybody Business" and "Open (Passionate)" are the album's standouts, showcasing elements of Kehlani's strongest contributions to music thus far, and highlighting her ability to make vulnerability a strength.

GLUE will appeal to fans of '90s alternative rock who are looking for more, but will continue to alienate Boston Manor's longtime pop-punk-loving fans.

The New Abnormal is not a bad record, but it is a frustrating one, made by a band that feels pulled in a dozen different directions.

The stuffed effort could be Lil Baby's attempt to showcase his growth. But one mark of artistic maturity is exercising restraint — less is often more.

Despite its "six years in the making" descriptor, Allegiance and Conviction feels more like an EP of collected experiments toward a new, more realized work. A satisfying stop along the way to the main attraction.

While the narrative correctly serves to examine our relationship with machines, and the execution feels as precise as something purely from the world of artificial intelligence, A Separation of Being struggles to find a sonic identity, which might make this a polarizing listen.

Mixing Colours shows Roger and Brian Eno at their most casual and unguarded, but there's simply not enough variety, curiosity or sense of adventure here to dub it as a must-listen.

Raspberry Bulbs paint a seductively dystopian image through Before the Age of Mirrors, but its aesthetic cannot fully carry the weight of its musical shortcomings. There is both too much runtime and too little substance here.

Stetson does an admirable job finding ways to maintain a tone of persistent unease, but his compositional skills are tested by the film's reliance on abstract horror with occasional visceral shocks over any kind of concrete story or consistent character beats. Detached from the visuals it makes for a pretty bumpy ride.

Ceremony is one of Phantogram's weakest records, one that struggles to set itself apart in the sea of electro-pop still stuck in the aesthetics of the late 2010s.

There's some really great songwriting on the album and a handful of tracks worth adding to your daily rotation, but it viciously grabs your attention without being able to hold onto it for very long.