What's absent about The Center Won't Hold is that it presents a powerful and necessary premise, only to find out that there's not much of a message behind it. Sleater Kinney sure have a lot to say, but overall, they don't end up saying much.

Some good ol', serviceable rock ' roll always goes down easy, but with The Hold Steady, we know they're capable of so much more.

So much of Iz just blends together into a balmy, gelatinous goop of trap-flavored maquettes that could’ve come from anyone, let alone Big K.R.I.T., someone who I have always looked towards for quality bangers.

Craft's vocals feel like they were sent through a french fryer, cooked to a crisp. The result is, like the music that backs him, a voice that is merely functional, an approximation that falls well short of its influences. Craft's first album had swagger— hopefully, he gets it back.

She leaves enough open spaces to invite some speculation and creative faculty, but by all accounts, this is the story she had to tell during this period in her life.

While their more reflective and even pop-oriented moments keep the double album catchy and worth revisiting, this new avenue also affords a clearer view of Baroness' Achilles' heels, which are a propensity for predictable lyrics and an occasional Foo Fighter sappiness. But those flaws aren't terminal, and for the most part, Baroness takes us on a thunderous langskip ride through angry seas that is as addictive and thrilling as their past output.

Granted, the band's debased, arhythmic songwriting sounds a little obnoxious, if deliberately so, but they sure know how to translate their disarray into compelling expressionist noise.

Tracks like Nina and Part III give some motion to the album's swaying ebb and flow, while the intricate contours of Ghostride highlight how they craftily maneuver texture and groove. Nevertheless, there's also a hidden complexity behind Jinx's playful variations.

Much of Patience is visceral and fierce, but it is also skillfully melodic (think of Hole's Live Through This, or even Celebrity Skin), the result of a band that approaches pop constructs with abrasive guitar sounds.

Through the years, the band has sculpted their sound into full-fledged metal, and as the burly, serpentine tracks Arteries of Blacktop and Full Moon, Black Water attest, they incorporate palm-muted riffs and Sabbathy doom with much aplomb—even if the latter closes the album with delicate, melancholic guitars, saying goodbye to their departed loved ones with gentle compassion.

One of his consistently best albums and the one that perfectly captures the restless creative spirit that continues to push Yorke beyond his comfort zones at a time in his career where other artists would likely be happily settling into theirs.

It's a new start for an artist who many had proclaimed early retirement. And even if he hasn't cheered up, his return does feel consistent with his downtrodden nature—and we can only listen as it all unfolds.

There’s nothing new here, but it’s a strange feeling of someone else repeating back what you’ve probably been thinking. Tempest acknowledges she’s not saying anything revolutionary, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth saying.

Bandana is one of the most satisfying rap records I’ve heard so far in 2019.

The duo's closeness shows in their competent performances, and "Let's Rock" is faithful in intent and execution. But it can also come across as a cheat—it's easy to fool anyone that you've done something worthy when you undersell it.

On a song-by-song basis, this is a consistently solid album.

The band fills U.F.O.F. with a rich tapestry of textural tones, almost to the point of oversaturation. It's so embedded in their songs that they somehow get lost in their creation, filled with awe and wonder (and some healthy pretension).

It's a familiar, though still firm, return.

While Anoyo's showcase of Hecker's ambient textures, paired with Gagaku, is organic and interesting, it feels like a retread of ideas or an assemblage of scraps from the recording of Konoyo.

Woods uses the strength of her vibrant band to mask her reedy vocals, a minor drawback in an otherwise enlightening offering that positions her as one of neo-soul's essential new voices.

There's also a strong pop influence, an element that can interfere with Young Enough's otherwise snappy sequencing—both Capacity and Chatroom incorporate an electro-pop bounce that, though competent, feel more suited for an entirely new project. Still, Hendricks' love-stricken admissions never go unnoticed.

It’s hard to deny that this record is driven by texture and aura, rather than directly relatable content and meaning. But if you’re like me and can totally get with some heady sonics, this one’s a gem.

Abstractions give way to specifics, and the result is a cascade of feelings, ideas, and images overlapping and enhancing each other in the listener's mind.

In Western Stars, the old adage about finding meaning through the journey couldn't feel truer. And that's an idea that Springsteen can relate to—leaving a little bit of yourself in a landscape that feels immortal.

The soft-loud-soft dynamics she shuffles throughout provide a welcome songwriting variety, even if the softer side she tries to reason with doesn't convey as much excitement.

The band brings a vigorous energy to their quirky sentiments as they walk through their surroundings, instilling a comical bent at any opportunity. Even if they know that the farther they go, the better it is to stop for a second and just be in the moment.

YG regains some of the energy that made his early output stand out, though all the new elements he brings into focus--from the spirited features to his tribute to Nipsey--feel tacked-on and half-hearted, well-intentioned but not well thought out.

With The Best of Luck Club, Lahey has surpassed the achievement of her fantastic debut, changing things up enough musically to keep it fresh, but without losing any of the wit or songwriting prowess that made her one of the best young artists working today.