Moments like Living Up to Let You Down are unforgettable; it’s just a disappointment the rest of the album isn’t even close.

From subtle synth stabs to soft rock explorations, Hamilton and Thomas open their songwriting possibilities by paying attention to nuance. It's in those shadings that their music takes shape: slowly but surely, and with unassuming confidence.

His talent for frank, moderately depressing songwriting is still displayed, but the new album doesn’t have quite the candor and quality of his first full-length.

While Perry finds the occasional moment of quality here (Smile and Tucked both feel like the best possible music we could get from Katy Perry in 2020), Smile is an album searching for an identity—and when it fails, it falls back on lazy writing.

While it seemingly ends in the same place it starts (Bognanno singing on loop “I don’t know what I wanted” isn’t really a positive ending), this is Bully’s best project yet, lacing all of their marvelous qualities into a candid and catchy molotov cocktail.

Seemingly straight out of 1970, The Making of You is a lovely album to which to reminisce about pre-pandemic times.

Despite the album's likable, glistening production, though, the duo mostly chooses to dismiss the darkness rather than embrace it—emphasizing a pop veneer that is bold, bright, and, well, a little bit boring.

Fike doesn't make much of an effort to flesh out any of his genre-fluid ideas. Instead, he's content with writing half-written bouncy hip-pop anthems (Cancel Me) and tryhard "indie" jams (Double Negative) in hopes of charming everything and everyone.

Dehd are mighty expressive even if their songs are fairly one-note. With the personality thing down pat, imagine what they'll achieve when they continue to expand their scope.

Down in the Weeds is at odds with itself—where the band balances music that is ambitious in scope with some of Obert's most nakedly personal work. But just like his complicated and sometimes narcissistic persona, there's a good argument to make about how his over-the-top approach perfectly suits him. That aside, Oberst and his cohorts' generous offering does take them on new, unexplored territory while remaining true to his wry prose.

While there’s moments of excellence overall, the majority of Songs for the General Public feels like a self-aggrandizing duo getting high on their own supply.

These songs work as an extension of himself—coming from one of indie rock's most literate songwriters—delivered with thoughtful compassion and no shortage of ambition.

Despite the weak ending, Imploding the Mirage is a powerful album from a hungrier and more passionate Killers that have once again embraced bombast with fearlessness, aspiration, and confidence. You can hear the band prevailing over struggles and finding the joy in making music and being alive.

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.

Despite the amount of effort that appears at the surface, from the several websites to the layered and unique production, Dreamland is a project that’s as momentarily annoying as it is infinitely forgettable.

All in all, A Celebration of Endings is a curious, often potent blend of sounds and influences. While lyrically dark, its exploration is more often than not a very satisfying ride into the unknown.

One of her most consistent and wonderful collections of unique, heartfelt, and depressing songs yet, even if it’s somewhat hampered by the need to make it “as cathartic and minimal as possible.” While Andrew Sarlo’s production is occasionally sedate, the writing is still exemplary.

Despite its slightly misfiring concept, Beyond The Pale remains an enjoyable hour spent inside the world of one of Britain’s most revered songwriters—even if you're never quite sure what your host was meant to be showing you.

There are some appealing songs here that deserves to be on a Spotify playlist or in a chill lounge environment. However, they struggle to stand out next to subpar material over the course of a full-length record. There are lots of alluring instrumental pieces that show potential, but Kllo treats them as decorative rather than core aspects.

A Hero's Death is not about growth: it's a band assessing where they stand as rising up-and-comers and having the impulse to express themselves differently. Maybe their sulking comes with a bit of affectation, but at least it's a convincing portrait of keeping true to themselves—soaking in everything that surrounds them.

Ultimately, The Balladeer is a solidly enjoyable record, one that captures McKenna’s voice and style nearly perfectly.

What it lacks in polish it all but makes up for in immediacy—and lots and lots of raw power. She didn't just get out of a potentially sticky situation; she thrived and found a way to turn it into an advantage with great songwriting panache.

Maybe the lyrics fall a little on the simplistic side, which is frustrating considering the themes here can be pretty bleak despite the sunny and airy sound. But overall, Devastator is a more than enjoyable return for a band that always felt deserved more attention.

It may not come across as immediately ambitious as her previous work, but there are no tricks or gimmicks that create this intimacy; it’s just clever production and writing that never outstays its welcome.

Delicate and lovely new project, one that chronicles a relationship blooming and decaying in equal time.

Mrs. Piss’ sound is original, raucous, and delightfully angry. Self-Surgery’s only flaw is its brevity; hopefully, we’ll be hearing more from Mrs. Piss in the future.

Wicked City proves that Jockstrap have nothing if not range, and secures their place as one of the UK’s most intriguing new bands.

Gibbs is a masterful curator who knows who to match his flows with, like on God is Perfect and Look at Me, splicing soul loops, movie clips, and inventive beats etched into his gruff vocals. The beats are an attraction in itself, but make no mistake: they wouldn't be as good if Gibbs weren't behind the mic spitting his poetic yet matter-of-fact observations.

Even if the songs sometimes lack some nuance, as is the many thematic layers the band puts on display, Standell-Preston manages to keep the album afloat when she's at her most open-hearted and assertive.

The album is the sort of ridiculous over-commitment to a style that is appealing and fun to hear, even if it's not great.

The Waterfall lived up to its lofty ambitions, as the band navigated an enchanting patchwork of enchanting orchestral folk and winding prog rock. And that's just scratching the surface—by comparison, The Waterfall II is a little looser and rough around the edges. It's also a more overt attempt at sending a loving homage to their favorite pop songwriter.

Healing is a Miracle is an entrancing album from start to finish, and will be a gratifying listen for both long-time Barwick fans and newcomers to her music alike. Barwick’s continued development as both a soloist and collaborator resonates beautifully throughout this truly healing project.

Quiet or not, and despite the jazz-trained musicianship on display, Pearce’s production never buries the vocals—Stokes’ or anyone else’s for that matter. In The Beths’ case, their most valuable instruments are the ones they were born with—and that shines through every step of the way.

This album’s got plodding drum work, tasteless guitar work, and some of Paulson’s worst lyrics ever, but it’s also an interesting album.

Overall, WIMPEE is an easy album to love, which, more than anything else, shows the trio's natural chemistry as musicians. ... Having chosen to maintain an upbeat, positive outlook to outweigh all the despair does big favors to the band—featuring a sparkling production that fits many, many moods—though it makes one wonder what could've been had they let us in just a little bit more.

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.

Every song on here comes from a collaboration from a different source, or a different trend that Legend is hopping on. There’s nothing personal here. ... Bigger Love’s second half has painful trap pop (Don’t Walk Away), plastic soul (Remember Us, Always), and a piano ballad closer with no defining traits or features (Never Break), all in classic John Legend fashion.

If you listen to it twenty times, you still find something new.

Overall, Lamb of God is a solid outing featuring a handful of tracks of potency with some genuine disaffection behind them, which shows the group has plenty left to say ten records in.

As it is with his most defining works, Rough and Rowdy Ways will have us trying to decipher and untangle Dylan's thoughts for sixty more to come. But the one thing he wants to make clear above all else, even when contemplating his mortality and the transcience of life, is that he's far from writing his obituary.

Over the past few years, it may have seemed like Bridgers was a team player, but on Punisher, she reannounces herself as a solo songwriter reaching her peak.

Notes on a Conditional Form is a fantastic 12 track, 45-minute album. It’s just a shame that The 1975 decided to make it into a 22 track, 80 minute one. There’s certainly enough going on to recommend repeat listens, but the quality level waxes and wanes so much throughout that it won’t take you too long to find your favorites and start returning to just those.

As Arrow progresses, we get a clearer sense of how she's beginning to understand what she seeks. And though we're never exactly sure what it is, her music leads us to a full conclusion.

Jennings appears on the album’s penultimate track, the fine Hurts So Bad, where his harmonies pop out of an average song. It’s one of the few moments on Wyatt’s album where her usually honest writing feels more cliche than distinct. Jennings’ harmonies are fine, but it feels like the tune easily could've been cut. Still, this album’s got plenty of superb moments.

Kehlani replaces any hint of controlled pop presence with a lowkey, gloomy vibe that doesn’t suit her strengths at all. Her raspy voice is now placed upon liquid synth bass and irritating trap production, leaving her songwriting to be the record’s only strength.

Recorded by Steve Albini, the Shellac’ish touches of The Mine, the sturdy Wet Concrete, and the album’s finale, Terms of Visitation, provide plenty for listeners to enjoy. But, Antarctica, itself a seldom-visited location, is rife with ground that’s already been well-traveled.

Owen makes it look easy with her articulate songwriting—and though taking many cues from The National's Aaron Dessner (who produced the album) in sonic terms, she deftly controls her somber arrangements with a depth that is wise beyond her years.

She's a vibrant presence on Anywayz and How Did You Know, pushing her operatic vocals over soaring, anthemic choruses. But that's not enough to save an album that, despite sounding so busy and hectic, fails to generate much excitement—even if Stelmanis' emotional downward spiral is compelling in the lyrical sense.

On Sideways to New Italy, the five-piece continues their solid methodology of songcraft, even if it may feel a little stale by the album’s end. It’s the cream of the crop when it comes to modern reverbed-out jangle pop, but there’s really only so much one can take when it comes to this midtempo playlist-rock.

Goons Be Gone won’t go down as No Age’s best, but it benefits from its directness.

There may be some subtle shifts here and there, but overall, The Prettiest Curse revels in the simple pleasures of big hooks, chunky chord changes, and sing-a-long melodies.

Sports Team does have the tunes to match their swagger, and having a sense of humor certainly doesn't hurt.

Græ is a textural wonder, with soft electric guitars, Sumney’s beautiful voice, and glittering synths making up most of the album’s heavenly sounding songs.

These are tracks that are built for individual consumption across a myriad of online platforms, so the composition of the album perhaps lessens in importance. Nevertheless, a couple more from the darker end like Free Woman' and Replay would achieve a bit more of the blend I suspect she was going for. Chromatica has its moments, but it isn't an album to play on repeat.

NO DREAM carries the listener comfortably through Rosenstock’s entire wheelhouse, leaving no genre unturned

Woods consciously goes for simplicity, not depth. The musicianship complements that goal appropriately on Strange to Explain, an album that hazily focuses on themes of dreams and sleep. The wah-wah guitars, Mellotron, and gentle, upbeat drums match the laconic subject matter to relaxing and pleasant, if forgettable, effect, sort of like a dream.

Set My Heart on Fire Immediately isn’t a perfect album. There are a couple of wormholes that Hadreas gets lost down and the sequencing causes a slightly jilted second half, but once these songs nestle in, they’re impossible to shift.

At 41 minutes, this album covers every type of song Isbell does best; from tight rockers to disappointed country tunes, Reunions hits the spot.

Despite its sizable number of tracks, Quickies does move along at a brisk pace—even if its scattershot sequencing makes it better to digest as the five 7 inch-EPs presented in the physical version.

Very rarely, this album finds a moment of excitement. And when they do, you have to savor them, because you aren’t going to get another one for a while.

It’s another intriguing entry into the Charli XCX canon, even if it does feel like more of a stopgap than anything. But hey, right now, that’s okay too.

Small quibbles notwithstanding, Future Nostalgia is the perfect antidote to quarantine-induced cabin fever.

Petals for Armor succeeds best at sustaining a mood throughout, capturing the chaotic ups and downs of depression. Some moments are sugary sweet, while others are biting and angry, but the album keeps things healthy by switching between infectious pop tunes and mellow art-pop parts.

Lindén had some false starts in trying to realize her true vision with Warnings, and it shows—the effort she went through to craft a sound this painstakingly meticulous requires time and patience. And though we know how far she and Balck can push themselves, we're still not quite sure who exactly they want to be.

Ultimately, the project is still a little lightweight, if not a solid effort.

Its searing synths and chopped vocals can feel unjustified as a whole, but the songcraft is strong and the style supports some of its best moments.

While there are moments with more levity, Marling casts this world with a haunting backdrop of striking stories and superb instrumentation. It’s the rare album where a stripped-down approach entirely works, making these tales central and unmissable in their telling.

On their latest album, The New Abnormal, The Strokes have mirrored the career of Beck, offering a mimetic approximation of music they think people want, instead of music generated from their raw, inner demons or whatever fueled them on Is This It.

For music that's this visceral, every heart-rending confession can feel like a victory lap—but even the best runners have to take a breather to renew their energy.

Overall, Silver Landings finds Moore regaining her footing.

The shrill production manned by Ben Hillier over-amplifies the percussion and bass textures, making the entire project muddy in a way that can’t be intentional. While the joy occasionally breaks through (the glitchy From the Mouth is a blast), Melt Yourself Down kneecap themselves repeatedly on 100% Yes.

Where Chapman excels where others fail is that he's endearing about his self-deprecation, often conveying truths that read as casual as his relaxed arrangements. He also likes intertwining astronomical reasoning and science into his contemplating, because why wouldn't he.

Bloom is a little over 21-minutes of relentless noise pool of percussion and clatter that’s somehow relaxed by the gently pressed piano keys that methodically pierce its surface, a contrast that rests the mind over the length of this track when it might otherwise induce anxiety.

The Loves of Your Life was designed with each song intentionally being about a specific person, which makes even the worst songs interesting tales.

No amount of technical prowess can disguise O'Brien himself as a frontman, whose voice and personality is agreeable but never compelling. Because even if he feels it, it doesn't necessarily mean it's there.

While there are moments that feel less remarkable (the insignificant Hasdallen Lights or the groovy but repetitive Asteroid Blues), Heavens to a Tortured Mind succeeds when it’s mostly focused on creating a sensual yet serious mood throughout.

An album can't wear the pants of Carpenter, Carlos, and Oldfield, all of whom crafted electronic epics built around unforgettable melodies and precise attention to detail when Stevens and Bram hop from one track to the next before any of their soundscapes journey beyond the front porch.

CALM is occasionally inspired, sometimes incredibly stupid, and most of all: surprisingly fine.

Some of the arrangements stick, and some of them don't, but it's always enjoyable to hear where his open-ended narratives take you.

For the most part, Code Orange leans upon evocative writing that pairs heaviness to thoughtful lyricism. While there are a handful of phrases that feel sloppy or obvious (“The digital knife's edge that cuts us all” on In Fear, or Cold.Metal.Place’s “The fire burns down our 3D world”), Code Orange’s self-seriousness almost entirely works because of how badass they are.

The further you get, the sharper the writing becomes and the more introspective and unique the album feels.

Outside of the soaring Retrograde, a prime example of how Pearl Jam has ultimately matured, most of Gigaton shows a band whose collaborative efforts and expertise can still resonate if they open their minds to the challenge.

Given that Uneasy Laughter is guitar-centric first and foremost, both Saving Face and What Separates Us benefit from having muscular riffs that help offset its huge synth lines and Solomon's tenuous vocal range. Which is Moaning's greatest strength, but can be a weakness too, as they haven't been fully able to add more personality to their vulnerable, dark romanticism.

Every solid moment on American Standard is outmatched by a one to ten ratio of awry choices for songs that shouldn’t be hard to ruin. It’s almost impressive to see James Taylor screw up songs that are fundamentally easy to cover.

Margolin's bare-faced humanity is what's at the core of Every Bad, heightening the complicated feelings inherent in every one of us. Still, don't feel fooled into thinking that Porridge Radio's music is simple in terms of character and dynamic range. Whether they intend to or not, their tuneful, guitar-driven songcraft practically obliterates the left-of-center indie that's softened the genre into dreamy, pillowy mush.

Ultimately an excellent record. Where the message is muddied, thankfully the music is often, simply put, beautiful.

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.

Swimmer and a few other songs hint at what could have been, only to have the other half of the album play it safe. If only more of Tennis' songs took risks on unexpected palettes of emotion and drew from more complex poetic wells, then they might provide us with something special. Instead, they've created another enjoyable, if a bit rote and predictable album, like a relationship drifting into comfortable and boring domestic habits.

It’s a heavy, at times uncomfortable listen, but one that feels intensely relatable. It finds strength in the somber and the morose by paining it in bright colors and wonderful riff work. Once you’re drawn in, you won’t want to turn away, no matter how dark the journey becomes.

Man Alive! fleshes out Krule’s song crafting abilities to make for a slightly more cohesive and concise listening experience, albeit, one that remains perplexing—and still has a killer bite.

There is no doubt that it takes several cycles through the album for things to start to click. That’s if you find yourself willing to give in to the album’s concepts and approach.

When We Stay Alive at times unintentionally underscores that struggle through its weakest moments, but it also embraces the perseverance required to come out on the other side with a renewed sense of self. Poliça sound eager to take that next major step and embrace a fresh start, even if they don't seem to know exactly where to go from here.

Snaith's gradual evolution is more than evident in Suddenly, a reflective and also outgoing mood piece that shares insight into what he's learned in the six years he's been away since 2014's Our Love.

At its strongest moments, you can make out its appealing qualities. But at its weakest, you start to understand why they announced the album with a blog post that said: “Wait, they’re still a band?” Aside from the haunting Fallin’ Thru, with its sparse piano notes and whispery vocals, Mercy is a broken-down, mostly acoustic album that only feels empty.

It's in how she alters her ghostly, choral-like voice that she's able to elevate her entire environment.

It's only after several listens that the album's wholeness clarifies. Because the tracks tend to be downtempo, reflective, and downright sleepy, it takes time and patience to realize Bejar is working like a good storyteller.

At 58 minutes, it does run a little long—and I probably would’ve cut songs like On Track or the two-minute flatliner Glimmer. But every time I’ve started this album since it clicked with me, I’ve finished it. Isn’t that the most you can ask of any record?

You only need to read through the song titles to get a sense of it all, but the carefully constructed builds of tracks like Wish We Had More Time and This Is Where It Ends make spending time with sorrow hard to resist.