You find yourself wishing for even one bonus track reuniting some of J Dilla's alumni artists over an unreleased beat.

Like most eccentric geniuses, Of Montreal's Kevin Barnes is as frustrating as he is brilliant.

Overall, the impression is of an assembly-line product manufactured on a Monday morning or Friday afternoon.

By finding the beauty in isolation, Efterklang have made their most triumphant record yet.

Lush, focused and well wrought in a way that channels the Pretty Things' S.F. Sorrow as much as Stereolab's Emperor Tomato Ketchup without seeming too reverent about its predecessors or anachronistic in its execution.

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

Brilliantly catchy.

It's a slow, über-democratic process that, on the band's fourth album, results in sputtering post-rock à la early Flaming Lips that varies wildly from song to song.

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.

A few tracks ease into each other too easily and are forgettable, but there’s still an overall sense of growth and fruition.

Powers's vocals, which still possess his signature nasal tone, are more upfront and unflinching this time. Yet for all this newfound confidence and prowess, that special emotional punch of a Youth Lagoon song is missing.

Recorded in Los Angeles during the summer of 2015, the 10-song release is noisy, messy stuff. What sets it apart from Segall's other numerous bands is Shaw's contribution: he brings a punky, tough sing-shout to the lo-fi, overdriven tunes, while Moothart and Segall (on drums here) go in for a thrashy vibe.

Akron/Family do joy justice. You could focus on the psychedelic country folk experimentation and the odd song structures, but what you really take away from this album is pure childlike joy, even during the darker minor-key moments.

Ultimately, LOT’s songs will dictate their trajectory, and principal songwriter Liz Powell sounds mostly up to the task.

It features top-shelf exclusive original and cover tracks by softer-side-of-indie acts currently riding a wave of relevance.

There's no whistling, but there are plenty of stick-in-your-head moments. At the end of the day, that's what we want from them.

Absent Fathers doesn't offer much in the way of answers--it's more a snapshot of a process.

While each song is its own curious, maximalist wonder, it adds up to something fairly cacophonous. So much is happening in each trebly, dizzying track that there are few new heights to reach after the first three or four.

And Agnes, the gloomy, anticlimactic closer, ejects the listener out of the edgy world that much of the album finds strength in by relying too heavily on a mainstream radio sound that feels too safe. Nonetheless, as a whole, HTBAHB is thrilling enough to achieve replay status.

dvsn’s deeply satisfying and sputtering beats are accentuated with wandering and jazzy piano riffs, melodic guitar and classic soul/R&B nods that maintain warmth and red-bloodedness but also overemphasize the Morning After’s sentimentality.

A highly polished 50s-girl-group sound prevails, bringing out production values that verge on cheesy but also string and vocal arrangements that are impressively, bombastically Bacharach.

Caracal is consistently good but also feels manicured and safe.

This isn't the best Oh Sees album, but at least they probably won't wait too long to try again.

The weakest tracks--the hackneyed anthem Love Is Blind, the dreary Hurt Me--are the most radio-friendly and interrupt the album's flow. But that's not a major drawback. In fact, for many new artists, either track would be a high-water mark.

Unbelievably, the beats on Doctor's Advocate out-bang those on The Documentary, and the Game breathes compelling detail into the severe persona he established on his debut.

Sadly, the vocals thwart this otherwise innovative, frantic danceathon. Those who grind their teeth in the presence of excessive vocoder will have to book a session with their dentist. The record's also too short.

Aside from a couple of visceral rockers like the title track and Better Than You, Cause is dominated by mid-tempo blues jams.

Not every song is as outstanding as the next, but at points, Anti is incredibly satisfying and sufficiently distinct from her other efforts--very much worth the wait and the bizarre roll out.

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

Provisions is a haunting, alt-countryish record that’s not unlike the Silver Jews’ latest work.

MusicLive Music ListingsDisc ReviewsThe SceneDJ SpotlightClub SpotlightSite MapSearchHome www.nowtoronto.com/personals/ mydickonce again, just ask dont be a virgin... Browse... Women seeking Men Women seeking Women Men seeking Women Men seeking Men www.nowtoronto.com/personals/ Story Tools Email Print/Save Facebook Twitter Buzz This Share NOW Rating N N N N N Reader's Rating Disc Review She & Him Volume Two (Merge)By Paul Terefenko Welcome to Volume 2, the second release by cute-as-a-button Zooey Deschanel and quirky romance-soundtrack-meister M. Ward, aka She & Him. It’s largely a continuation of Volume One, so if Deschanel’s occasionally off-putting intonation isn’t too much for you, this sweet romp through a warm, largely carefree universe should nestle naturally into your listening rotation.

There's still a welcome sense of spontaneity in the way the songs unfold; it just occurs at a Sunday-morning pace, which should make Meek Warrior the perfect soundtrack for watering houseplants.

A Folk Set Apart isn't where you'd go to contextualize McCombs, but it exhibits his dynamism.

A sample-heavy hodgepodge of indie rock, hip-hop, garage rock and mature instrumentals fills out the rest of this joyous album whose almost wistful title track near the end brings everything together in the most satisfying way.

It's too bad hackneyed spider-woman metaphors and non-specific allusions to 'regret' don't match BHP's level of sonic sophistication.

Stuff might not be a true follow-up to 2013's Fade, but it's an excellent follow-up to Fakebook 15 years later.

While moments on Vapor City might have sounded completely at home at a 1996 rave, the mood and sound overall are more wistfully nostalgic than retro.

On the stylistically diverse Good Bad Not Evil, they confront many of the problems facing America today, taking short, sharp stabs at the Katrina disaster, neurotoxins destroying the upper middle class, juvenile delinquency, false prophets and an apocalyptic holy war.

There might not be any outright smash hits ready for radio and curated streaming playlists, but it’s a well-paced album with strong replay value. Cole doesn’t sacrifice any inch of rhythm or melody while detailing his cautionary tales.

The album’s creeping ambience and modest pace make it great background music at work, but its many sub-themes and intricacies also make it a rewarding sit-down listen if you can spare an hour and 40 minutes.

Frusciante's guitar work... almost single-handedly saves the project, but not quite.

Sometimes Barzin’s singing is soft and serious, others times dreamy and wistful. Immaculately arranged, it’s an album you settle into, then relax into.

The trio have also grown more comfortable singing the blues and incorporating meatier harmonica and guitar arrangements, and lurching tracks like Out Of The Wilderness and A Little Blues make up for weaker soft rock ballads that leave little impression.

Setting a song called 'Livin' In The Future' to the tune of 'Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out' indicates that Springsteen's sense of humour may be returning, but the fact that Miami Steve didn't tell him 'Girls In Their Summer Clothes' sounds a little too much like 'The Kids Are Alright' suggests it's not quite back to the good old days yet.

In a way, this could be Glasper's Black Radio Volume 3: The Davis Edition. However, positioning the album as a tribute runs counter to his forward-looking use of the material.

Although the flagrantly throwback Motown numbers are a bit warmed over, the album shines when Kelly blends his old-school approach with his modern club killa persona.

If only Steele could keep a lineup together for more than a few months and follow through with his original plan of working with producer Dave Fridmann, Personality might've risen above the level of ho-hum patchwork pastiche.

Linkous's vocals make only a few brief appearances, but so much of his personality is in the songs that it feels almost like a tribute album he had a hand in recording. A proper coda to a storied, tragic career.

It’s a sad irony that just as Earle has hit his stylistic stride--beautiful, pedal-steel-soaked country and poppier soul--he’s writing fewer tracks that’ll floor you.

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.

It's the near-painful purity she conveys in the high notes that surprises most, especially on the mellower tunes.

Musically, Ne-Yo spends most of his time here worshipping the throne of Michael Jackson ballads, which suits his falsetto crooning quite well. However, it's the handful of upbeat techno-influenced speaker-thumpers that stand out most, revealing his potential to be a much more versatile artist.

With Love Is Free, Robyn once again shows she can bring together discerning dance snobs and accessible-pop fans.

Surrounded by blunt-force catharsis and brandishing some clever, caustic wordplay (like rhyming Lil Boosie with Susan Lucci), Blanco manages to be a pure delight as a rapper, even if he isn't calling himself one.

This disc comes off like an early home demo for a mediocre New Pornographers recording before all the bright colours and drama get added.

The disc has plenty of amped-up, distortion-filled moments (Ride, The Easy Way), but the band throws in more than few twangy, laid-back tracks (She Loves The Sunset, The Beautiful Thing). Infectious tunes and, most important, variety, make this another great disc in the band’s solid career.

Building on the critical goodwill he received from 06s stripped-down This Old Road, the 73-year-old Kristofferson offers another sparsely produced batch of reflective acoustic tunes that he sings with sage simplicity.

Art Of Doubt shows that you can still find comfort in the sounds of your past, especially if the bands who shaped you have adapted and evolved along with you.

While all the West Coast blue-skying might seem naive, the laid-back vibe makes you want to focus on the positive, at least for the album's duration.

Despite the production and star power, no one element outstrips the others, except perhaps for Mystikal, who continues his reinvention as James Brown's heir apparent on the raunchy Feel Right.

Turns out the relentless ferocity, while a riot live, ends up making the Dirty Nil more enjoyable in small doses on record.

The album would feel more complete if they’d included at least one nod to the warped pop music that made them famous.

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

It’s much more in line with Shabason and Adams’s work on Destroyer’s soft rock epic Kaputt, with its smooth sax, jazzy rhythms and 80s synth pop, but Elle’s breathy voice meshes remarkably well.

In a voice so fragile a strong breeze might overpower it, he offers sober ruminations on loneliness, life, love, longing, and artfully infuses each song with just the right amount of banjo, light drumming, acoustic guitar and vocal harmonies (often courtesy of the stellar Julie Fader).

Her signature hollowed-out minimalism nicely suits the subject matter, sometimes rising in urgency before falling into a deceptive calm.

The 80s funk references are more submerged under the washes of synthetic drones, and the songs even more pastoral than before. Still, there’s nothing here quite as immediately satisfying as Feel It All Around off his 2010 Life Of Leisure EP.

It’s weighty, sure, but give yourself over to this album, see it through, and you’ll be rewarded generously.

While this album might not be their most mind-bending, its hooks and idiosyncrasies prove that after more than two decades, TMBG still know how to have fun.

Bulat has the rare ability to simultaneously sing from all sides: hurt and sweet and wise.

Still on offer are his immaculately crafted lyrics and preoccupation with place.

Sonically, Demons has a lot in common with Renmin Park, although this disc feels a bit more produced. It's a touching tribute, to be sure, but we wish they'd left a few more of the rough edges in this time.

While the songs are hella catchy and pleasant, a little more grit and sorrow would have bridged the emotional disconnect.

In the end, Car Alarm is likeable enough if you’re already a fan. Just don’t expect to die of excitement.

Without the bizarre lyrical invention and fuck-shit-up whimsy of his earlier work, Beck's attempts at party jams come off woefully overwrought and flat, making the darker bits interspersed throughout seem intriguing by default.

You don't always know what cosmic tunnel Memory Tapes will drag you through, but you can always expect a metamorphosis.

In typical Rush fashion the compositions tend to feel coldly scientific or laboriously calculated.... Nevertheless, it's a solid record.

It’s less cohesive than the high watermark he set with Malibu, but hitching a ride back to Oxnard is a freewheeling and occasionally exhilarating quest into Paak’s sonic curiosity.

Despite two-thirds of the album taking risks by adding everything from saxophone to opera, the final handful of songs feel like filler. Still, Evermore: The Art Of Duality largely delivers.

Mike McCready’s guitar solos mostly take a backseat to the band’s meaty rhythm section, and, sure, some of the 12 tracks are victims of awkward construction. But Lightning Bolt resonates, especially the band’s jarring (if kind of clichéd) conclusions.

Williams leads the five-piece throughout this charged-up record that rarely comes up for air.

It’s a nice, low-key respite from NIN’s angry catharsis, but 65 mid-tempo minutes with little variation (the sparse acoustics of How Long? aside) make it a slog.

It's all about throwback synth melodies, programmed beats and melodramatic bellowing about non-specific relationship trauma, sorta like Human League, Spandau Ballet or maybe the Associates.

Add an ability to string lyrical and musical narratives together to create a complete whole and Bluefinger should serve as yet another highlight in an already stellar body of work.

Acrobats drags a bit near the end, but there's no denying that it's a huge leap forward.

All in all, a bewitchingly beautiful debut.

The band tries out big, fuzzy, folksy blues riffs on tracks like 'The Wanting Comes In Waves/Repaid and The Queen's Rebuke/The Crossing,' but the proggy result is unmemorable and middling.

A few tunes are forgettable (Baby Rocking Medley, Hobo's Lullaby), but for the most part the album is full of gorgeous harmonies and refreshingly sparse instrumentation.

Kweli's curse- 'n' cliché-free rhyme-ripping proves he needs no help on the microphone. He outshines his celebrated guests, including labelmate Grae, KRS-One, Norah Jones (!), Sonia Sanchez, UGK's Pimp C and Bun B, Musiq Soulchild and Raheem DeVaughn.

Deeper Than Rap triumphs over this authenticity deficit and is among the best rap albums so far this year.

Grown-up, seductive and a little bit explicit (when it needs to be), it’s a small triumph for guys trying to get in touch with their emotions through the medium of R&B.

Bad Brains can still blast with ferocity, but the jarring changes in tone and tempo could prove more of a problem than the lo-fi production for many listeners.

A mood-altering drug for pop fiends.

On first listen, it seems like they picked some pretty obvious anthems, but the standards are bookended by enough discoveries to make the overall package strong.

While the exceptional company he keeps (see appearance by Earl Sweatshirt and the elusive Jay Electronica) sometimes highlights his shortcomings as an emcee, Miller’s guests also push him to be better.

There’s still a tendency toward icy detachment, but considering their affection for almost overwrought instrumental embellishments, the restraint serves them well.

The boring beats and throwback rhyme flow (circa 92)--which is weak even by Edmontonian standards--put Afterparty Babies somewhere beneath Don Cash’s home demos and the outtakes from Organized Rhyme’s Huh? Stiffenin’ Against The Wall.

Some might lament the increased accessibility and decreased experimentation, but it doesn't take long to realize that these tracks do as much in four minutes as the 18-minute epics in Black Mountain's past.