While they add a few new tricks to their arsenal, whether adding an extra layer of polish to their tried-and-true hardcore (SUNSHOWER, SOLE) or a touch of bright, jangly new wave (I CARE, SEEIN' STARS), their crossover attempts feel frustratingly half-hearted for a band that genuinely subscribes to the healing power of music.

What we are left with is a short, mostly enjoyable set that does not overstay its welcome and is quite confident of what it’s trying to be.

Cream is a victim of the times, no more than a mere face in a pop culture marketplace crowded with sexual aggrandizing and salacious controversy. The kind of antics Peaches has built her career on--pushing and pulling at the accepted boundaries, tongue-in-cheek shock value--are now a common rite of passage for artists pushing their edgy shtick.

It’s the most countrified record he’s released and, as such, lacks some of the more distinctive and heart-breaking qualities shared by his best work.

I remember listening to the new songs and really enjoying them, but wishing the sound wasn’t so thick and muddy sounding. It’s a production problem that plagues this album all over.

No matter how cliched and predictable this record gets, there are always some undeniable hooks to lure you back in before your patience wears thin.

These singles are still some of the best music being put out today, but the filler songs are so forgettable that it's hard to see the forest through the trees.

They sure had the knack to look through the lens of their younger selves, which makes one think whether keeping it sweet and snappy would’ve suited them better. Regardless of their intent to reach out of their limit, there are bursts of inventiveness in Trouble that make the risk taking worthwhile.

Kitty is clearly just having fun enjoying her time in the spotlight here, and for that it’s an enjoyable and endearing effort.

Though it often oversteps its own ability a few too many times, The Pariah, The Parrot, The Delusion is clear in aggression and ambition, rarely annoying listeners with undue hubris.

Despite its moments of lucid release, Minor Victories mostly likes to loom in the shadows with hardly any form at all.

While there are highlights, the album often feels very safe.

Regardless of its more sophisticated tone, the same cannot be said for the album’s rather callow lyrical content, which doesn’t just border on, but fully embraces, mawkish poetic cliches, which causes one to question if the band is truly willing to insert more of their own growth and experiences into adulthood. Which, in turn, reduces their return as nothing more than just a faithful look into the past.

A compelling failure.

I Can Wonder is not really a success musically, but it is worth recommending at least for the ideas that work.

As a first attempt, Tremors is stirring, maybe, but not earth moving, unfortunately.

The chances Young Jesus take here in a songwriting sense are commendable, and with technical chops to boot. But overall, it's not quite the powerfully compelling, or approachable, experience that Rositter will have you believe it is.

The lyrical themes in the album about living a quiet domestic life are aptly mature, but also a tad empty and lack much insight, literal to the point that you’d assume main songwriter Ben Bridwell was peering through a window during sessions to write about anything he could find.

Charging power-pop anthems like I’m So Free and Dear Life agree with his current stature as an elder statesman who can try to keep it cool, except that when he veers into strummy gloss pop (Up All Night, Square One) it makes him sound out of touch.

The beautiful melodies and harmonies don’t actually go anywhere, they just kind of float in and out of earshot, failing to develop or do anything harmonically interesting.

I Love You, Go Easy is an uneven album, not just going from song to song, but within the songs themselves. It offers a variety of moments, some brilliant and entrancing, but not without a few distracting decisions.

At 50 minutes, there is the overriding feeling that the album outstays its welcome, with the blueprint lacking the dynamism for it to maintain its focus.

While they haven’t quite found out how to convert that into an entirely compelling experience as an album, Wash the Sins... is still very much a welcome step in the right direction.

Tracks like Silver Timothy and Silver Joy showcase what Jurado does best, crafting songs that despite being a bit gloomy are beautiful and heartfelt.

Good Sad Happy Bad ultimately comes across as frustratingly hollow, a hodgepodge of unvarnished ideas that don't amount to their true potential.

Whereas those earlier songs brought to mind a stream of sunlight trying to break through a grayed sky, now there's a battering of haphazard lightning striking against a furious ocean.

The album definitely has its moments, and the first half is very engaging, but they lose it in the long run.

Musgraves plays up her lyrical prowess to the detriment of the instrumentation, which is crisp but generic and unremarkable. Neither is there much stylistic variety in terms of vocals or even the attitude Musgraves brings to her songs.

What makes You Know I’m Not Going Anywhere frustrating is the knowledge that Grote has all the right ingredients (including Fridmann in this case), but somehow isn’t consistently stringing things together.

Lasers is an expressive album, more so than his previous records.

These songs feel more accessible and much less significant. There are a few tracks here that reanimate that sense of excitement which permeated his previous record but they are few and far between.

There's a lot to love in Dedicated, but Jepsen tries to cover too ground even if they follow similar song structures, to the point where it may bring some boredom--it's best to stream individual tracks instead of listening to the album's fifty minutes straight through.

How long this approach will remain fresh or whether Hoiberg can maintain the quality of his productions after the novelty wears off are questions for later records. For now, enjoy Wedding Bells. It was made for no other purpose.

Very, very few people have something clever to say and the musical ability to put it into song. That leaves us with ten pleasant songs about nothing much in particular, sung by vocalists of middling charisma.

If they are willing to try out different moods and feelings, while still using that winning formula of tones and instruments, they could be a great band. On Mordechai, Khruangbin gets one step closer.

The more tastefully formulated tracks just can’t offset the profusion of soppy lyricism and the tedium of weaker songs. Ultimately, Odd Blood reads as a well-informed but poorly executed homage to the ‘80s.

It’s a good comeback for De La Soul, and there’s plenty to really enjoy here, but there are too many occasions where tracks loiter for too long, not outstaying their welcome as such, just not doing a great deal with it.

Static is remarkably self-assured and meticulously produced, but such traits cannot disguise its throwback trappings. It’s hard to look away from its unfortunate backstory, and the music never really makes a point to consider it outside of its context.

Like their past work, subpar filler holds the album back. It’s worth joining them for the climb, just know that it’s going to be an uneven ascent.

It’s certainly one of the edgier twee recordings in recent years, almost an oxymoron in itself, one that falls short on its promise to channel its internal chaos with sprightly reminiscence.

Ultimately The Weight's on the Wheels works on the whole. Its finest moments are excellent examples of the wry electro-pop that TRF are certainly proficient at; at its worst, however, the album lacks any evidence of an evolution in sound or style, suffering from mediocrity rather than being distinctly poor.

Challenging and proudly disjointed, Innocence Reaches showcases a deranged songwriter whose fickle character knows no bounds.

Those in search of classic Barlow would do far better to dig out their battered old copies of Bakesale.

Presley’s made a competent facsimile of a 60s psychedelic album.

Mylo Xyloto does have its unpredictable moments, some of which work more effectively than others.

There’s the promise of another knockout. One that, unfortunately, takes the liberty of reshaping past half-baked ideas without really adding much flair to Clark’s otherwise intriguing exploration of fame and femininity.

Overall, Almanac is a good follow up that helps cement the band's holding in the new age of dreamy folk rock.

The nine tracks on this record are nimble, charismatic, and ultimately make for an enjoyable if unspectacular listen.

There seems to be an innate knack for melody on display here that produces several moments of pop joy.

The tempos vary, sort of, but there’s a mood on this record that’s hard to qualify and never wavers.

Fading Parade may be trodden down, and it does meander on too much diffidence to make it readily distinguishable. It is also a pleasant lull, prepped with a rich gamut of melodic rewards.

They manage to satisfy the listening needs of die-hard Fleet Foxes fans, but fail to truly carve out their own unique musical identity. This isn't to say Poor Moon doesn't offer up some great moments-they really do-just not ones that stick with you long after the record is over.

Slow Summits presents The Pastels at their most amiable, bearing the quiet, understated splendor of a picnic with friends on a warm Sunday morning.

Even with a diversity deficiency here, you have to admit that this is album is noteworthy. My suggestion is to gather up his entire catalog and put it on a random shuffle so you don't suffer from the monotony.

The excellent-to-annoying song ratio on this album is definitely high. Still, their first record was solid from start to finish, and this one smacks so much more of Lennon/McCartney than Kapranos/McCarthy.

Hiperasia is an incoherent mess, sure, but a fun one, too, splattering all kinds of disparate, colorful sounds in the hopes that some of it will stick.

The dangers of crafting intricate visual and musical landscapes, as is the tradition with Empire of the Sun, are exposed with Two Vines. Getting it right is so rewarding, but it's a daunting task to replicate such a vision on each track. When they fly, they soar. But when their artistic façade fractures, the cracks are just too glaring.

Ritual Union is catchy and well-produced, but it certainly doesn't demand any more than a handful of listens.

It is that sense of self that prevails over the pop sheen of Rolling Papers and makes it worth more than a passing listen.

It's good, but it's not essential.

It’s Frightening isn’t a bad album in its own right. There are certainly worse things than making a record that’s frequently catchy but not terribly exciting.

With this latest (and perhaps last) album, it’s still true to say that Xiu Xiu haven’t delivered a wholly complete work, but then it probably wouldn’t be a Xiu Xiu record if it was.

Overall, these tracks feel more like the B sides of Random Spirit Lover, maybe the acoustic B sides, the tracks that didn't quite make the cut but would definitely be of interest to ardent fans.

If albums could have Nutrition Facts, Quarantine would lack the vitamins and minerals we normally associate with Laurel Halo's production, but it's hard to dislike the album entirely because, after all, she's still quite skillful at making her Metal Gear Solid-esque ambiences seize and enrapture us with their swirling, bubbling drones.

Listening to a couple of tracks in isolation is fine, but taken as a whole, the record feels airbrushed to the point of predictability. Pleasant, of course, and well assembled, but devoid of the spark that characterised their earlier work.

There’s promise here to be sure, but it’s a promise as yet unfulfilled.

For those fans unable to acquire a ticket, this finely recorded set of songs makes for an ample substitute. For non fans however, this is unlikely to thrill.

The Catastrophist is an odd record--an album that was probably more interesting to perform than to listen to.

There are times when their elementary to songwriting can make them look as if they’re stuck in their teenage angst, which is expected considering their genuinely fun play on nostalgia is quite detrimental to their brand. But the tunes do stack up, and when it’s delivered with this much conviction, that’s reason enough to rekindle that loyal, longstanding friendship with their most ardent fans.

Clutching Stems doesn't hit the highs some of the band's albums have, but it features some added-in coherency that quite helps the album along.

It’s promising, but if it catches you in a bad mood, it might cause a headache.

theyesandeye is charming, and even throws in a cover of The xx’s Angels, but is lacking the dimension required to make it anything more than a polite and pleasant affair.

There is some nice arrangements here, even if too many of the tracks sound like they belong on some type of chillout/easy listening compilation.

All that it has going for it is the promise of adolescent wit, and even in that regard it completely fails to deliver.

The mood and the energy here is as catchy as it's ever been, even if the duo's clever, tightly-wound experiments sometimes come across as intriguing rather than complete.

Tracer certainly makes a good attempt at being a strong electronic album, and there is still plenty of content here for big fans of both EDM and IDM music to enjoy. Unfortunately, Teengirl Fantasy still needs to learn how to incorporate more of themselves into their music.

There's a lot in here that brims with life but, somehow, it never quite unfolds.

There is a clear aspiration for this album to be ubiquitous, and well, overbearing with tunes. Rather than follow the typical pop formula, Rihanna gives an album specifically catered to where she is now with her career, music, and life. And blaring seems to be the point.

Lee’s music comes from a place that’s pure, completely at odds with his current urban environment, handled with loving precision; nevertheless, it also fails to resonate when he’s too wrapped up in his own insularity.

Both Welcome to My Island and I Believe are true pop bangers, and Smoke has an arrestingly powerful bassline that melds beautifully with her shimmering voice. Still, there are enough missteps for my palate that keep this squarely in the “just fine” column and keep me scratching my head about its overall reception.

Little Fictions is Elbow's weakest album since their second LP, Cast of Thousands. Despite the flaws, several tracks stand out among their strongest work.

Most of the album sounds immaculately produced, of course, the result of him basing his operations in Nashville with a group of seasoned musicians. But Dylan remains mostly anonymous throughout, letting others shine while he adds some occasionally poignant touches.

There's plenty of material worth diving into on this album, but the results could have been much, much stronger.

As it stands, the best that could be said about Ceremonials is that it's a pleasant enough listen that will change absolutely nobody's mind about Florence and her machine.

At times delightful, yet not without its flaws, this is an encouraging debut.

Certainly few guitarists playing today evoke the kind of mad intensity on display here, but like the Comets on Fire, the whole package rarely comes off as good as you think it should.

Frightened Rabbit keep their slight edge with stripped down versions of songs from the aforementioned album, while the necessity of this release remains questionable.

An occasional retread, Innocence remains difficult to dismiss.

This is such a charming little band, such a charming little album that one wants to like it more than it deserves.

Hilton tries to be many things, oftentimes all at once, though sometimes it works.

As an addition to a remarkable oeuvre, then, Working On A Dream has its worthwhile moments, but it's as a snapshot of a window of hope from an increasingly seasoned cultural commentator that it borders on the essential.

So, the record is not an epoch-defining instant classic. It’s just fine. Occasionally amazing, pretty in parts, patchy in others.

Middle Kids haven't quite found a way to articulate their sudsy emotions with deft intention and control. But if you're looking for pristine pop that, admittedly, sounds really, really good, you can't go wrong with this pleasant diversion.

In refining their approach, Horsegirl stumbles onto a new set of influences that takes away from their true identity. Nevertheless, there are flashes of brilliance -- Frontrunner, accented with a lovely twang, details a story of romantic yearning that hits deeper as it progresses.

All but doing away with the wry humor of the group's earlier work, Hot Chip's lyrics on One Life Stand focus on affection and romance in a way that says, “We’ve settled down.” However, the stylistic decisions betray the fact that they are still searching for their center.

So the bottom line is this album turns out to be about half good, is probably not going to mean much to people who don't remember them, and while it hits all the right notes in places, it doesn't quite deliver any moments of pure pop perfection the way they used to.

If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve heard before, you won’t be disappointed – all the darkness, grime and perversion is here or implied.... But if you’re looking for variation, innovation, or thematic depth, it’s unlikely you’ll find it here.

The overall effect is of an album written and recorded on prozac that never achieves the emotional highs or the lows needed to make this kind of country soul great.