At times, the mid-tempo brooding gets a bit monotonous, but Cole is an engaging enough character to make this a solid debut.

Wilco's ace eighth album, the first released on their own label, dBpm, is a real kick in the pants.

Olympia, Washington's Wolves in the Throne Room have made their most accessible album to date.

While a layer of fuzz covered most of that debut, here the production is sharper and highlights Dee Dee's voice and twangy guitar lines, and her vocals are more confident and evocative.

While the songs sound effortlessly crafted, there's a complexity to the melodies and structures that surprises on repeat listens.

Annie Clark, aka St. Vincent, is an astounding electric guitarist, yet on her absorbing third album she never puts her mastery of the instrument ahead of a great song.

An album that vacillates between raucous and refined without losing sight of the dance floor.

Green Naugahyde is very much a return to their glory years, which makes it a great introduction for new ears and a satisfying addition to the catalogue for long-time fans.

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

It's heavy at times, but always thoughtful and interesting.

The lyrics are bizarre ("I'm DJ Khaled / I'm a daikon radish") and confrontational ("RapGenius.com is white devil sophistry / Urban Dictionary is for demons with college degrees") but also cohesive and purposeful.

Estella and guitarist/singer Eric Cardona trade quirky elocution and harmonies with twinkling, twangy arrangements that toe the fine line between charming and cutesy.

Dedicated serves not only as an introduction to a criminally overlooked, pioneering pre-R&R group but also as a reminder of why Cropper remains so well respected.

Hard-driving Helen Marnie-sung tune Melting Ice, meanwhile, is surely Ladytron's steely attempt at self-aware irony.

New wave influences are also apparent, specifically when the vocals channel Lene Lovich or Ric Ocasek. These vocal quirks don't always work, and a couple of songs don't hold up to the album's best, but this is a fun introduction nevertheless.

As the title suggests, the band is evolving gradually rather than in dramatic swells.

Despite the evident talent of his backup band – vocalists Patti Griffin and Jill Sobule, guitarist Smokey Hormel, bassist Don Was and Giant Sand's Howe Gelb on piano – it takes a while to get into, in part because the arrangements are often so busy that they verge on chaotic.

You'd figure we'd at least get a one-off novelty track, but the flat, repetitive melodies and gimmicky rhymes even fail to do that.

Girls' have traded their early work's immediacy for something that requires more patience but goes much deeper if you've got the time.

Not sure what's more embarrassing: the Good Charlotte/Atreyu sleaze rock take on Dr. Teeth's Night Life or the idea that this tribute's hope is to make adults want to feel like kids again. Either way, the whole thing deserves a Miss Piggy karate chop.

Casually clever lyrics, gloriously fuzzy guitar leads and that immediately identifiable off-kilter pop genius dominate.

It's not quite perfect: his voice is the star of the show but is occasionally buried under the clever beats and production. But that's a small complaint about someone who's looking more and more like one of the most exciting artists to emerge this year.

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.

Even when she strays into overwrought moodiness during the disc's trip-hoppy second half, her menacing omnipotence has a way of willing you onward.

The features wouldn't be so bad if Game didn't yield to the wattage and personalities of his co-stars. (Again, he can rap when he tries.) Used as a constant crutch, however, they quell his ferocity.

Not every song succeeds, and the best moments tend to be the danciest.

He's still getting more women than a taping of Ellen, but on Tha Carter IV – his most emo album to date – it sounds like what he really needs is a hug.

Nevertheless, I'm With You is a strong record, with Brendan's Death Song and Police Station among the highlights, especially considering the challenge of replacing Frusciante's creativity.

Most impressive is the lightness of touch Hynes brings to his arrangements.

CSS are so desperate to do something new that they never stick with their strengths.

Because The Night, a Bruce Springsteen co-write whose lyrics she penned for Fred Smith before they were married, still holds special power, especially this remastered version.

The record, lacking choruses or pop hooks, isn't one to turn to for instant gratification. Instead, it's an engaging marriage of words and music.

The Miami radio DJ and Terror Squad member takes few stylistic chances, making We The Best Forever a mostly tedious listen despite its flashes of lyrical invention.

Gucci spews absurd, nihilistic imagery that demands attention, while Waka's penchant for repetition and siren-call ad libs can be magnetic.

No doubt they know to bury weaker material; the last few songs are less memorable.

[It] treads a fine line between charming and cringe-worthy.

There's not enough doo-wop or doom on much of the material, and their willingness to get far too goofy with the lyrics and delivery gives the sense that they're not taking the project seriously.

The tunes mostly stick to a low-tempo, shuffling formula, though Bridges gets a chance to stretch a bit in a few scattershot moments of idiosyncrasy.

His arrangements sometimes outshine his melodies and lyrics, though. Whereas the first album packed an emotional wallop, the enjoyment of this one is in its details.

The most surprising letdown, though, is vocalist Luke Top's decision to sing mainly in English, which only serves to highlight his shortcomings as a lyricist and emphasize an unfortunate nasal quality that didn't seem nearly as annoying in Hebrew.

The lack of memorable choruses and melodies is made all the more frustrating by the surprisingly decent production.

It's easy to get lost in the pleasant, euphoric drone, but at 47 minutes the album is more of a marathon than a sprint.

Some of the hunger and electricity he displayed in his pre-prison era seems to have diminished. This is something to tide people over until his next record, not an artistic statement by any means.

It's a solid album, but too conservative to make many converts.

The occasional bright spot (Ghostface's blistering verse on Meteor Hammer) is always counterbalanced by a low point (Trife Diesel's middling turn on Laced Cheeba).

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

There's the occasional clever turn of phrase, but MellowHype's brand of vulgarity is subtler and less arresting than Tyler's.

Here I Am concerns itself with the kind of bland, radio-friendly R&B pop that equates sex appeal with self-confidence.

Recorded in various New York studios, it has a live, intimate feel despite its overdubs.

Here, every song tells a little story in which Johnson assumes different perspectives and uses broader instrumentation.

Lots of bands pillage from the pop music canon; few do it with the aplomb of the Horrors.

While Big Sean is a charismatic and occasionally clever rapper, he often fails to dominate the big production elements he rhymes over.

Deep, wobbly bass, twinkling synths, crisp programmed drums and esoteric guest spots by Holly Miranda and Tegan and Sara's Sara Quin seem crafted with blogs in mind, ensuring the album's freshness in the moment but leaving it vulnerable once the hype dies down.

More a lyricist than a singer, he gruffly talk-sings through much of it, making it hard to grab hold of melodies.

Despite interesting bits of psychedelic texture, the album floats around your consciousness without making much of an impression. It's pleasant, but not particularly memorable.

The slick production values and mighty arena-filling guitar and drum sounds will jolt fans of the New York City band's charming lo-fi debut.

If they were a little less self-conscious about their style and more comfortable with being just a good pop band, they'd have a great album in them.

Yes, there are some jazz and soul influences here and a few earnest lyrics, but this is way more dark, futuristic and cutting-edge than you'd guess.

Despite the album title, there's an undercurrent of humour in these songs of loneliness, betrayal and death.

It'd be one thing if the new trio built on the band's legacy. Instead, Yours Truly regurgitates Sublime's 90s ska-punk blueprint and gussies it up with a new layer of radio-ready sheen.

I'm Gay is a rebuke to the purists who complain he can't rap and that his out-there freestyles are basic and unintelligible.

It's the kind of warm summer record you put on without much thought, and that's a large part of its charm.

Mixing punk rock with cute pop, the Atlanta, Georgia, quartet are a fine addition to Slumberland's near-flawless roster.

The choruses are stronger, the harmonies, guitar and banjo lines as tasteful as ever, and the brittle edge that crept into 2003's Soul Journey is nowhere to be found.

The album drowns in atmospherics to the point where it could be entirely instrumental. Greene casts an enjoyably suggestive spell but it wafts right through you.

The only tracks that don't make us cringe are the back-to-basics club bangers likely added to pad out the album, and even those don't contain anything to get excited about. Someone needs to explain to Digitalism that it's way too soon for mid-00s retro.

Often he's trying too hard to be cool, and it's unconvincing. When it does work, the band sounds surprisingly like Broken Social Scene, but with more cowbell.

It's not always the most comfortable thing to listen to, but like the proverbial car crash, it's hard to tear yourself away.

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

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.

Neither as playful as previous efforts nor as spooky as it wants to be, Mirror Mirror is a middling effort by a good band.

While it's true that Was I The Wave? is no booming party-starter, it's hard to deny its emotion and beauty.

Best are her vocals – as strong, clear and distinct as ever – and the energy she infuses into the songs. If she's grown tired of her shtick, you'd never guess it.

There's nothing cerebral about her lyrics; she's a captivating, blunt performer, here emphasizing classic arrangements and raw emotion over poetic invention.

Treading territory similar to Wilco's and working with producer Thom Monahan, they layer drum machine, vintage keyboard, organs and strings atop acoustic folk-rock textures and Cabic's soothing vocals.

The album is a fun novelty, but as with most tributes, there's not much to keep it in rotation.

A Treasure is a snapshot of an era when Young's then-label, Geffen, went to war with him for not representing himself in a commercially viable way.

Many other songs retread themes of self-doubt and disillusionment, reaching previous levels of intimacy but without taking us anywhere new. Musically, Green does take C&C into somewhat unfamiliar, heavier territory.

It's a lot to wrap your head around, especially given the brief run time, but it also hits with a powerful immediacy, even on first listen. Justifies the hype.

In the end, Horses is another addition to a catalogue short on standouts.

he 10 unconventionally structured songs are less shaky-tent-in-a-snowstorm and more ambitious-skyscraper-blasting-into-the sky.

Throughout, the material is simultaneously current and nostalgic, recalling the optimism and discovery of the 60s and 70s, especially on Progress, sung by Jim James of My Morning Jacket.

They're all talented musicians, so it's actually a pleasure to hear them go off on the occasional jazz fusion tangent, which they approach with the raw enthusiasm of a garage-punk band (except that they sound closer to King Crimson).

On 4, she's still missing a real sense of vulnerability but steps out from behind the club jams with beautifully nuanced mid-tempo production.

The unending lights and sounds of Bangkok, Manila and Beijing inspired the duo's most electronic and propulsive album to date.

Despite the flaws, you can't deny that Segall's got real talent, which would be wasted if he just stuck to the psych/garage throwback formula.

The subversive elements often feel like unnecessary posturing, but the production wisely hides them behind more obvious assets like sunny pop hooks, singalong choruses and Madeline Follin's childlike voice.

Battles have a fascinating, distinct sound of their own; they don't need Gary Numan crooning overtop.

His songs are structured around one big, hummable hook and not much else. The L.A. band has a knack for that, but we can't help wondering if they have anything more sophisticated in store. We'd rather have the next MGMT than the next Maroon 5.

The result is dreamy to a fault, with song fragments submerged in extended instrumental intros and outros.

Like the best dance music, The Drawing Board has one foot firmly planted in the early origins of house, while still sounding completely modern and forward-thinking.

White-reggae lovers haven't got a lot to latch onto here, since from the first strums of opener Mountain Top, Soundclash appear to be taking a welcome leap into a Vampire Weekend-type indie vibe.

The melodies are a bit more major key, but if you listen closely, the lyrics are as gloomy as ever (in a good way).

Rhys has weightier material in his body of work, but for sheer pop pleasure this album can't be beat.

The ukulele, while a beautiful, serene instrument, is arguably limited, especially as the centrepiece of an album this long. Vedder's distinct baritone complements it, but his chords eventually become repetitive.

There are some great garage rock tunes, but too much filler to make for a great album. Maybe they should have trimmed a few of the 16 songs for a shorter but stronger work.

Fucked Up's grand ambition may one day be their downfall, but right now it has produced an intricate, rewarding beast of an album, their magnum opus.

Lindsey Buckingham appears on the quiet Soldier's Angel, and he and Nicks interlock in a unique way that tells us these two, at least musically, are bound together for life.