Taken together, Butterfly feels less like a fusion of Daphni and Caribou, and more like an uninhibited manifestation of Snaith's ever-changing tastes and proclivities.

Singin' is comfortably the most accomplished and self-assured Ratboys album to date.

An overstuffed and engrossing album that's a bit of a mess.

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.

The project hits a bit of a rut with "Rachel's Song" — an anachronistic cover of a Vangelis composition for Blade Runner — and the subsequent "Stardust," whose droning synth line and latent drum pattern ironically also give the impression of the film score for a sci-fi thriller, albeit an underbaked one. Fortunately, Tragic Magic rediscovers its rhythm on closing track "Melted Moon," a song written in response to the tragic wildfires that consumed much of Los Angeles last January.

The result is a dozen highly listenable songs that don't sound like anything else in the world of rock music right now.

A saviour of lost noise, it's plunderphonics at its finest and most process-oriented, data and the digital transmogrified to something warm, nostalgic, tense — and, above all, timely.

As a whole, Stardust is Brown's strongest album since 2019's uknowwhatimsayin¿. This is a concise, confident and encouraging body of work that will instill hope in fans for what's to come.

The record is in constant danger of toppling under its own weight. Thankfully, Rosalía largely manages to keep her head above the swell of her own ambition. Built on enormous waves of strings, brass, choir, thunderous kettledrums, bells and flamenco rhythms, it's a miracle just how nimble LUX sounds.

Reflecting on their shared experiences in the rural landscaping of the South Central states, Pedigo helps the band break out beyond the confines of their genre, sawing through the crust to bask in the heat of a molten core.

Despite Snocaps' supergroup pedigree, their debut album feels less like boygenius-style star-making moment and more like a low-stakes romp. With a spirit of fun and camaraderie, this feels a bit like the rock-leaning cousin to Katie Crutchfield's band Plains.

A couple tracks are crowded and rambling, as the theatrical cacophony obscures intention and meaning in a way that bores rather than intrigues. But for the most part, the album's depth and texture are a refreshing contrast to the industry's current hyper-polished pop moment — and the complexity of the arrangements is essential to support the magnitude of Welch's vulnerability and fury.

An argument can now be made for the significance of Through the Open Window, because it's ground zero. Although large chunks of the material have circulated previously (as, well, bootlegs), the restorative sonic care and Wilentz's chronological contextualization is invaluable.

All in all, the brilliance of West End Girl lies in its lack of pretension, and the fact that its room feels mostly cleared of committee.

If Touch were the first album by a brand new band, it would likely be judged as an unequivocal triumph — but Tortoise suffer from the burden of their iconic back catalogue.

Save the Gun is certainly Militarie Gun's most "mainstream" record, with synths, strings and studio tricks co-mingling with distortion and Shelton's caustic, confessional roar. Unfortunately, not every song is a winner, with a number of uninspired tracks in the second half of the record plodding along without the energy or muscle of the first. .... Thankfully, the final act is positively anthemic, with Shelton's voice and the band's booming sincerity keeping the songs from entering derivative "stadium rock" territory.

Mileage on the more pastoral, slow tunes may vary, but bar italia are now a band in flux: they've mastered the chaos, and here is their first, true attempt to merge the hypnagogic impulses of their early efforts with the choleric punk of their present.

Perhaps it's the vulnerability at the core of THE BPM that really makes what Sudan Archives is doing still feel so fresh. Standing out in the club music scene, it sets a new standard for anyone interested in playing with sound while maintaining an accessible heartbeat.

Belong is a welcome addition to Jay Som's discography, and will undoubtedly solidify her reputation as your favourite pop singer's favourite pop singer.

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.

For the most part, Based on the Best Seller feels like a revitalized bunch of friends cutting loose and having a blast. The wheel hasn't been reinvented, but you get all the inside jokes because they're your friends — and you're just happy to have been invited along for the ride.

If you wait, there is a reward for those interested in committing to a whole album; a final refrain. This is the reality of taking chances — and, as the protracted ending of "Match-Lit" proves, Case refuses to compromise for her artistic vision for digestibility or easy answers.

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.

In constructing such an ornate snarl of emotion and eloquence, Le Bon has effectively created in Michelangelo Dying a bummer album that doesn't actually require any wallowing to digest.

Full of complicated emotions and sombre nostalgia, it confronts the darkness and the details, the granular and grandeur, the trivialities and the everything. That's just life, and that's just Wednesday: an exercise in horrible, wonderful contradiction.

There's a contentedness here; a playfulness; a willingness to be silly. Instead of shying away from the shadows of life, the band embrace the dark with the light, relishing in it all. It's such a sharp contrast to their earlier work, this sense of acceptance with a knowing smile.

If 2023's Blame My Ex was the Beaches testing out new dimensions of their sound, they've honed it on No Hard Feelings, cementing themselves as a band that's earned a place in the public consciousness internationally, possibly for years to come.

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