Satisfying as it is in its old-school simplicity, its songs never really go anywhere, not so much resolving as dissipating like a foggy chuff of dope smoke.

Gareth's voice has gone from excited and jubilant to pained and miserable -– an uncanny cross between Robert Smith and Conor Oberst.

There's something cataclysmic yet meditative about the album, which is just seven songs long.

The songs are effortlessly pleasant even when they threaten to dissolve into the ether like the woolly memory of a sweet dream receding into your subconscious.

Farm actually bests "Beyond’s" triumphs.

Jiaolong feels more organic and warm than the kinds of bangers the genre's superstars are playing in massive arenas.

There's much at play here--personalities, loud/soft dynamics, noise vs melody--and Williams and Baldi strike just the right balance.

Overall, it could use more joyous highs to balance out the lows. But still, his classical piano chops mean there’s never a dull moment--even with eight-and 10-minute tracks.

Thorn succeeds through low-key, simple arrangements and her empathetic, sensible voice, which has the all-seeing authority of a storybook narrator.

It's an extraordinarily consistent pop album.

Not a dud in the entire meticulous love letter to a da-do-ron-ron era.

The best tracks are the most pointed, because they go beyond technical style and really delve into each rapper's head.

What stands out more than the production is how consistently solid the album is, and how effective the lyrics and songwriting.

The insightful tunes are cleverly composed, with a sharp sense of wit and a comprehensive knowledge of the game.

Gorgeously inventive.

The lyrics are earnest as all hell, but only once--on Hard To Tell--borderline twee.

Blue Wave fails to clarify what kind of band Operators truly is. Are they post-punk rabble-rousers? A modern pop band hiding behind retro synths? A gritty indie rock trio? Of course, they're all of the above, with Boeckner happily shape-shifting in between.

Matt's Mind Over Matter stands out by digging in a little harder tonally and rhythmically, adding some grit to all the sweetness. And it has such a classic Matt Murphy chorus and guitar licks that our nostalgic hearts go a-flutter.

Boring grooves that last a couple of minutes before ending abruptly just don’t cut it. What a letdown.

It's a more solid album than the critically acclaimed debut that put him there in the first place.

Producer Ewan Pearson occasionally falters in connecting her vocals with the arrangements; there's a nice engagement on the slower, non-beat-driven tracks that you wish he'd mastered on the clubbier cuts.

Here, Jamie Stewart and his crew of arty innovators use the penchant for sonic deconstruction they honed last time round to take their project of disemboweling pop songs to a new plane.

Ruminations is difficult, packed with depression and despair. But closer Till St. Dymphna Kicks Us Out, with its rejuvenating piano, shows us that things haven’t gone completely dark yet.

These kinds of shameless retro-isms would usually be cause for a scathing review. But as much as we’d like to snub their lack of originality, it’s hard to deny that the Pains do what they’ve set out to do quite well.

Lyrically, Styles is at his best when he’s biting. 0000... He’s not exactly mining unexplored territory. But, he’s an Internet Boyfriend – and Internet Boyfriends are non-threatening. As he inches closer towards the adult pop contemporary charts, Styles is thankfully owning his one-fifth of the One Direction power-pop legacy.

Occasionally sounding like Vast Aire’s little brother with Bigg Jus aspirations, this immense man spills his solemn life lessons while treading the literal lyric territory that Vast owns so effortlessly.

Plenty of bits tug on the heartstrings, but only in the moment. Once that swelling piano ceases or Watson stops singing, the goosebumps disappear.

The Sheryl Crow duet works where his Norah Jones collabo didn't; I Taught Myself How To Grow Old is classic tortured Adams, and Pearls On A String is a rewarding reflection of the time he spent hanging out with Willie Nelson.

The Nashville band’s ninth studio album is definitely sleepy and nuanced, only Wagner’s halted singing is disintegrating further into the background as the overall sound inches closer to adult contemporary.

Adele's husky, powerful voice is what keeps you listening, but here's hoping she experiences something besides betrayal before writing her next record.

He’s sounding more Sly Stone than Otis Redding this time, which gives him room to get delightfully weird and psychedelic while still keeping everything deeply rooted in R&B.

She writes old-fashioned love songs enhanced by Ward’s expert arrangements and reverberated girl-group harmonies.

There’s no mistaking the album for anyone but Yorke’s, but despite his rep as a singular genius, he does play well with others.

His intentions sound pure, but Shaggy's musical moonshine will leave all but the biggest fans with a heavy hangover.

Save for a few minutes near the end, almost every second of Machetes gets smothered with their vocal duelling; the songs are never allowed to come up for air.

Li's productions tend toward a functional minimalism that works well for DJ singles but to some ears might lack the dynamics expected from albums. If you can get past that, though, Under The Same Sky holds together as a compelling exploration of a theme.

They do try to mix up their formula, a move that pays off when subtly employed (the reggae textures in Satellite, for instance) but fails in the big, obvious spots.

Though the music is breezy, Kenny's sage, unfussy meditations on life and love add welcome weight.

It’s the middle songs that are most immediately enjoyable.

It's got the same mix of mid-tempo power chords and slow-moving ballads, and the lyrics are just as thought-provoking and insightful as ever.

His clever quips, wonky wordplay, raunchy voice and oddball timing combine into something beyond reproduction by anybody, not that any other MC is daring enough to try doing this type of grimy, soulful crunk-hop

Though deftly orchestrated, Everyday Robots feels deflated and aimless, and the nature-versus-technology theme frequently results in clichés.

Like Mickey Mouse conducting the ocean in Fantasia, she often seems more a celestial vessel for the heady energy and abstract imagery than a relatable character--a balance she doesn't always strike.

In reconnecting with her former Eric's Trip bandmates, Doiron rediscovers her edge, wrapping her warm, frayed vocals around awkward and occasionally dissonant melodies, layering multi-track self-harmonized phrases over heavyish rock-focused arrangements and crafting dynamic songs that leave you with a satisfying sense of being shaken up.

The best songs are the few featuring Keenan's lovely voice, like Teresa, Lark Of Ascension, which serves as a sad reminder of the talent we lost.

The album is full of the group's signature dreamy arpeggios, massive drum rolls, epic builds and breaks--expertly produced with Stuart Price. But it's the push and pull between the sociopolitical reality and urge to escape into nightlife, where dressing up, social cliques and the pounding beat of pop music can feel life-saving, that fuels the drama.

With this single self-produced masterstroke, Alela Diane has effectively shaken off all the ill-fitting labels of “new weird America” and “freak folk” and given notice that a warmly expressive and unique voice has arrived with stories to tell.

This EP, a teaser of what to expect from the full-length album scheduled for January, sees the vocalist reining in some of his more histrionic tendencies while expanding his palette of influences and sounds.

RAA's secret weapon has always been the expert drumming of Paul Banwatt, and here he's given more of a chance to shine.

This collection of B-sides, recorded over the past few years, is way more put-together than Modest Mouse’s previous rarities comps, Building Nothing Out Of Something and Sad Sappy Sucker. But it lacks the carefree charm of Isaac Brock’s pre-success indie rock experiments.

This debut is mostly a collection of re-recorded singles so there aren’t any filler tracks. Excellent find, McGee.

The result is murky, hazy, psychedelic and endlessly replayable.

Their fourth album reveals the breadth of the genre.

Near the album’s close, the psychedelic insanity of Ka Re Ha Te Ta Sa Ki is a whirlwind of pounding drums, circular chanting, spasmodic guitar noise and violent soloing that perfectly exemplifies Smile’s fusion of panicky, heavy abrasiveness and lush, melodic and dreamy sprawls.

The Baltimore psych-experimental rock band's ninth begins in a youthful and joyous way, but the exuberance unravels into something close to obnoxious chaos.

The songs are not so much about love as the memory of love and, accordingly, there's a chasm between her aggressive vocal runs and the cautiously generalist lyrics, especially on the maudlin latter half.

They have returned to (non-mariachi) form and then some.

Each is gently strummed, sparsely drummed and deeply crooned by Brett. Rennie takes care of the lyrics (and a few sweet harmonies) and deftly avoids love’s clichés.

Rhumb Line gives the impression that mostly good things are ahead.

Even though the songs are full of warm analog synths, a strong sense of cold melancholy and anxiety permeates even the most upbeat electro-pop moments.

[Alex Turner] and the lads put their trust in Queens of the Stone Age heavyweight Josh Homme to help craft a record that, though not completely successful, frequently surprises, takes chances and demands further listens.

Both sides are endearing in their own way, and both show off a musical legend with plenty left to say.

Their distinctive differences as songwriters (Emily Saliers is soft and spiritual, Amy Ray punk rock and raw) are often complementary, but sometimes the songs cry out for more input from the other.

Phil Ramone’s austere production seems designed to let Lynne’s voice carry the album, and that’s a big mistake, since she has neither the emotional range nor the soulful finesse to convey the real hurt at the core of this material.

XXXX is more than just pastiche, however. Songs like "Lonely’s Lunch," "She’s Spoken For" and "Glory," a callback to their earlier sound, reveal a chemistry that is entirely this band’s own.

Lux sounds a lot like the kinds of slowly evolving patterns you can generate with those apps, but they come across as disappointingly ordinary when divorced from that participatory element.

Maus sounds as pretentious as his album title when he's at his least self-censorious, delivering empty, eye-rolling provocations on Cop Killer and Matter Of Fact.

It's the ballads--a side of her repertoire that had taken a back seat to forgettable chart-chasers--that show Jackson's at her vocal and songwriting best.

This disc won't change your life but makes for a pleasant 40-minute listen.

The overall level of creativity bodes well for Harvey’s next proper solo outing, but this one is a mixed bag.

It's not all bad. Many of the other 13 songs on her 11th studio album (financed by pledgemusic, with a percentage going to animal shelters) show flashes of the melodic brilliance of her early 90s output.

It sounds grimy enough to suit the lowdown vibe they’re after, but the songwriting is a letdown.

For everybody else, an album of atmospheric repetitions and meandering jams likely won’t be overly exciting.

Be Your Own Pet attacks with enthusiasm, and everything here rocks sufficently, although some remedial songwriting classes may be required before they make the move to sports arenas.

Much of it sounds like it could have been played by humans using traditional instruments.

Perhaps the thinking is that a softer, subtler approach will make Antibalas more palatable to a wider audience. Unfortunately, it's come at the cost of what originally made their music so exciting.

His arrangement choices are flawless. While guitar stays front and centre, piano, strings, group vocals and slide guitar make fleeting, effective appearances.

[It] offers the comfortable familiarity of an old flannel shirt from the 90s but leaves you wondering if time has stood still for the Chicago post-rock quartet. It has not, as is apparent on the five follow-up songs.

Hope is brought together by Pemberton's distinct vocal style and lyrics, which perfectly capture the disaffected, post-millennial, iPod-DJ, over-tweeted, quarter-life-crisis condition.

Though the tunes themselves seem unassuming, based on conventional chord progressions and strumming patterns, that simplicity draws attention to Darnielle's fine songwriting.

Drake's hooks are flimsy and irritating. His long-winded emo choruses gnaw at your brain. He complains about fame way too much. He mentions Kelsey Grammer for no reason. He's completely humourless. Worst of all, he sounds like a frog – not like Kermit in Rainbow Connection, but actual croaking.

The Mississippi native leads a spartan group that includes the Felice brothers’ Ian Felice and Greg Farley through 10 woodsy cuts that convey warmth, loneliness and the rural South’s sinister underbelly.

The complexity of some of the arrangements and the bouncy danceability of most of the songs make it easy to overlook the lyrics initially, but with repeated listens they start sinking in.

Even when West’s going in uncomfortable directions, his music feels alive.

Dreamy and hypnotic, alternating between sparse and lush, these tunes' tempos tend to stay down, and things can get pretty stagnant, but there's a great sense of ambience and mood.

It’s an effortless but unpredictable experience. Hynes may not turn up until midway through a song, but he glides seamlessly into the album’s comfortable atmosphere.

Universes builds on that vibe [of a late-night P.A. set] with exuberant bangers full of snappy, discofied drums, repetitive phrases and dusty funk that could fit nicely into a DJ set of classic Philly soul re-edits or slickly produced tracks from the current UK garage revival.

It’s a much more musically diverse album than the Raconteurs have done before, but there are many more misses than hits among these 14 tracks.

Despite the somewhat pessimistic prognosis, Davies is a sharp enough tunesmith to keep his darkly droll song cycle upbeat and rockin’ throughout.

For a band so heavily influenced by modern classical music, Mono are not at all restrained, and that's what's great about them.

The interchanging players fit beautifully into B&S's repertoire of unrequited pop anthems and introspective acoustic ballads.

The first release under eclectic singer/songwriter Solange Knowles’s boutique label, Saint Records, the younger Knowles weaves a collection of alt-R&B songs together seamlessly.

Like the best singer/songwriters, Callahan is an English major's lyricist, and by deftly blending the personal, the political and the mythological, he again leaves us plenty to pore over.

Though Bragg leaves behind punk rock fire for the personal, there are still political--and optimistic--moments, weariness be damned.

He still sounds like Hayden, but he’s stripped down the production to better approximate the sound of a band in a room. That bare-bones intimacy works perfectly with his delicate voice and melancholic songs.

Finally, a top 40 album that attempts to capture the restless energy of recent times and spit it out in a way that doesn't just feel good, but honest, too.

If In the Vines isn't a record that impresses at the level of individual songs, neither is it something you throw on in the background and forget about.

The crisp production makes this more accessible to newbies, but it’s definitely still a Souleyman album, successfully capturing the raw, unbridled energy that’s fuelled his jump from the wedding party circuit to indie rock festivals.