This album does its best to give certain fans exactly what they want in sexually-driven club grinders while offering up real, honest-to-goodness substance. It isn't always a perfect situation, and parts of the album border on forgettable, but when they get it right, everything's groovy.

It's Real is a traditional rock record through and through. But like that secondhand vinyl sitting on your shelf that never got reissued, it contains deep, thick grooves that always sound fresh regardless of its dwindling shelf life.

This new one is definitely worth checking out, or maybe even seeking out, if you dig the whole African guitar Indie rock thing. If you don’t, you may still be pleasantly surprised.

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

With varying strains of droning guitar sound carrying the album to a close, Boris’ sonic recognition of their roots pulses and shrieks, sounds that seem merely revisited and not completely inspired.

The Rip Tide lacks an extension into flair, even though their music is already considered exotic by the instrumentation alone, the creative panache is missing.

Our Love to Admire’s lesser tracks seem to have placed a greater emphasis on texture than melody or even rhythm, which is arguably the band’s most potent weapon. As a whole, though, Sam Fogarino will be satisfied.

Though evocative as they may be, those who are familiar with his discography can occasionally feel an unexplainable sense of deja vu.

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).

he annoying melodrama that made his rap material so exhausting is what gives his new music some real power. For the first time ever, the instrumentation suits Baker’s natural whine.

No amount of musical pedigree can save her commonplace lyrical sentiments, though, which are too noticeable to ignore. Which, to a degree, slightly misstep a personal journey where she takes account of a bevy of life experiences with genuine autonomy.

Not Even Happiness isn’t just an extension of the spare, if sometimes unremarkable, compositional elegance of her debut, Room With Walls and Windows. The production is slightly enhanced, and she’s also raised the stakes by featuring a wider array of instruments.

The album isn't faultless by any means, but Trailer Trash Tracys have made one of the most interesting albums of recent months.

Overall, Silver Landings finds Moore regaining her footing.

Most of the artists have slipped into their most generic, polite, Obama-supporting personas. However this is not to say the album isn’t enjoyable and featuring so many high caliber artists, almost all the songs are good and some really hit the mark.

At times, the irregular rhythmic contours they employ get woefully tiresome, especially in its rigidly monochromatic second half. But Autolux’s dogged pursuit in doing things their way, and without an hourglass by their side, is worthy of admiration.

If Thirstier was a declaration of love from the rooftops, What an Enormous Room is the relief of a serene evening in her partner’s arms.

Some of it doesn’t work, a weakness that stems from bringing too many inspired minds together. But it’s also a welcome curse, and the experience they’ve gained has given them the excuse to just ride along with it without worry.

In an indie-rock landscape where so many bands climb to eminence on the shoulders of pseudo-academic attention-seeking, a shrug and a good pulse can go a long way.

Her exploration of the self in Pain Will Polish Me sometimes feels lacking, which makes the project seem somewhat drab. But it’s the small touches she adds, such as the instrumentals named after her child, Hera, that are unexpectedly poignant.

Caught in the Trees might have scored even more highly if it didn't trail off a bit, with Jurado seeming to run out of inspiration towards the end.

In a way, we’re witnessing the rest of the evolution that began on "Son," as Molina experimented with the ways the human voice could be manipulated electronically, as an instrument.

While it may not attain the dizzy heights of I'm New Here, Smith's deftness ensures that We're New Here is far more than just a vanity project

Despite the uncontrollable urge Hundred Waters have to cram in too much of their creative energy, they surely have the prowess to write an ornate pop record that puzzles out through well-crafted scrutiny.

Not Waving But Drowning showcases why Carner is heralded as one of British hip-hop’s biggest talents, but this isn’t quite the revelation his debut was. That being said, any album that includes an interlude dedicated to England winning a World Cup penalty shootout will always go down well.

There's no denying the adroit songwriting that’s on display here (they are veterans, after all), as they continue to chug along with low-stakes, yet engaging releases that cement their place as living rock royalty who’ve never gotten their due.

Given the long list of contributors, the singularity and cohesion achieved in Goodnight City is something to be applauded. It is also solid evidence that Wainwright’s creative well has not run dry, but rather thrives upon the influence of others.

[The album is] really nothing but fun, and it sounds for the most part like it was put together that way, if we can allow that Lynne's idea of fun is carving out a perfect piece of pop production for each delectable morsel he offers up.