The album shows he’s progressed since bursting onto the scene four years ago, but it’s definitely not going to change the minds of those who think he’s ruining dance music.

The album has some great moments but a few too many fumbles to hold up as a complete package.

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.

The result isn’t quite on a par with their best work, but it’s nothing to scoff at either.

Ditch the padding and Interstellar could be a flawless EP.

Weaker songs near the end dull Day & Age’s initial shine.

The remix supposedly reflects how the band always wanted the album to sound, but it’s hard to tell what O’Brien did. It’s definitely cleaner, louder and more polished, but not dramatically different.

With 22 tracks over 80 minutes (including a few skits you’ll skip after the first listen), it’s way too long. It’s themed around Chance’s wedding to his longtime partner, Kristen Corley – a rite of passage that mirrors the “big day” of his debut album release. And like a wedding in which the priest’s sermon is getting in the way of the dinner buffet, you can really feel it drag.

13 gets tiresomely monolithic and ponderous.

They can still rage, summoning plenty of singalong anger on Donny Of The Decks and Things To Say To Friendly Policemen. But their targets feel more academic.

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

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

Baby 81's not nearly as original or as interesting as their past releases – including Howl.

It sounds very much like the disjointed collection of rickety epics about fucking and frustration you'd expect from a BSS disc.

The wrong turns don’t sink the album but steer it into an awkward middle place unbefitting the talented group behind the wheel.

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.

It didn't take long to turn the novel clank and grind of Kinshasa junkyard techno assault unit Konono No. 1 into an easy-to-use formula with enormous money-making potential.

Naturally, the interpretations go beyond mere homage as Marshall uses her mysterious Cat Power skills to channel the spirits of the singers who inspired her, with mixed results.

Frontman Bobby Gillespie’s lyrics still don’t sound as effortlessly cool as his breathy delivery (see Culturecide), but it feels like the band is back on the pulse of something.

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.

Nichols's gravelly vocals are more immediate and heartfelt than ever, especially on the dark, ruefuI I Woke Up In New Orleans, about self-destructive alcoholism. Lighter subject matter works less well (the pleasant ditty I'm In Love With A Girl, the lacklustre Throwback No. 2) but has enough southern soul to keep things interesting.

The super-synthetic ethos of the album starts to rub against your skin; the band's retro dance-music collage feels less like innovative referencing and more like flat pastiche, and the simplistic little-girl lyrics add nothing.

The new textures suit singer Mark Sasso's gravelly voice and Days Into Years' historical themes, inspired in part by a visit to a World War I cemetery in France.

Where the Monkeys come up short is in their compositions, which are beginning to sound formulaic.

Beyond The Neighbourhood isn't Athlete's triumph, but with far more rock moments, spacey sounds and well-placed hooks, as on the driving anthem Hurricane and the dreamy Airport Disco, they've redeemed themselves a little.

Whether you take to Pratt's reedy, quavering vocals (think Vashti Bunyan or Joanna Newsom) is purely subjective, but the way she changes up her register to suit a song's vibe helps bring colour to a fairly flat palette (which only includes the odd dab of organ and clavinet).

Surprisingly, the least punk moments are the most adventurous.

All their hallmarks (choral crescendos, swooping melodies and stately horns) and a few curveballs (The xx-esque 4/4 beat on Yfirbor∂) are present, but the songs reach their emotional climax quickly.

Add it all up and you get a typical Ryan Adams release.

Days is a step in the right direction, but we're hoping they can challenge themselves to do something greater on album three.

The more introspective moments show songwriting potential that's worth getting excited about, but at times the disc coasts along too comfortably to be truly remarkable.

The album is rich in texture but light on memorable melodies.

Instrumentally, Primrose Green is an engaging listen, but Walker the singer only comes through a few times.

Emotionally raw, [Dirty Laundry is] far more intimate than her sexier songs, proving that her best recipe for success is baring her soul rather than her bedroom secrets.

Except for the dissonant pep of Heaven, Rose’s careful vocals float among bittersweet synths for 37 minutes of dreamy Cure- and Bangles-evoking pop.

The quieter moments that give his voice less to compete with are more interesting.

[Disc two] makes clear the fact that R.E.M. never could get back to the top of the mountain for most of their career

Tim McGraw's country-radio-friendly production weighs down the disc.... McKenna sounds best stripped down and rough around the edges. Both her voice and writing deserve more modest frames.

This isn’t exactly Johnny Cash doing Nine Inch Nails, but it’s a helluva lot better than you might expect.

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

It's the lyrical shift that propels the album in a new direction that will be hard to appreciate amongst throngs of festival-goers. That's what the sugary hooks are for.

Mixed so its songs blend together, Tao is such a cohesive record that when the second track, Pure Radio Cosplay, is reprised midway through, it seems like the end of an intense musical detour rather than a simple replaying of the song.

Luckily, they keep things relatively concise. If this album were any longer, it would be exhausting.

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.

The biggest glitch is the production - the myriad elements sound cramped for space.... Too bad, cuz Butler's lyrics, which replace coming-of-age angst with poetic explorations of global anxiety, politics and an excoriation of celebrity culture, put Funeral to shame.

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

As on Employment, some songs spark with energy and others die in the first verse. Is a complete album asking too much?

9th Wonder can now give the BDI Emcee his top-batch beats since being disowned by Little Brother, so a multitude of satisfying soul-inflected thumpers grace The Formula.

Gift proves that Lindsey Buckingham’s knack for writing catchy pop-rock chord changes is alive and well.

Diamond's song selection will hardly shake anyone's world – two each by the Beatles and Randy Newman – but he has the vocal power to make many cuts his own.

It isn’t his most groundbreaking work, but he’s earned the right to relax, and there are far worse albums you could spend a lazy Sunday afternoon with.

It’s a meandering, angsty and deceptively gritty chronicle of the wonder years, but on repeat listens his guttural, conversational drawl and textured production seem to camouflage some seriously sentimental feelings.

Generally solid with more hits than misses, but my usual advice to DiFranco still applies: don't record everything you write – wait a few months and give us the best ones.

Goldsworthy’s highly layered mix of sounds maintains a pleasant balance between harder edges and winsome feel-good vibes.

Though the overall groove ("Don't funk with it," they advise on QueenS) is freewheeling enough to avoid being preachy, awE naturalE is implicitly political.

The distance between men and women--emotional and physical--is at the core of many of these songs, yet the album manages to be the most playful PARTYNEXTDOOR record to date.

When Drake swoops in to pick up the thread, his clear, articulated voice is so much more animated than Future’s that the impact is jarring.... Occasionally the two conjure interesting spaces between underground murk and pop-star sheen (Live From The Gutter, Scholarships), and the tension, as they adapt to each other, is compelling.

Irglová’s sophomore release, Muna (Icelandic for “to remember”), still has a delicate, emotive touch, though the overly sombre approach to her cinematic folk tunes makes for a somewhat unvaried listen over 51 minutes.

Last Night is a cool idea and a mission almost impossible.

The tracks are long, grinding and relentlessly angry about the state of the world.

Even though he’s become a much more expressive musician, the updated Berlin is no more powerful or gripping than the original commercial flop. It is, however, much more consumer-friendly.

The album feels less ponderous and more balls-out than its predecessor, but the band hasn’t stitched up its maniacal tendencies into commercial pop either.

Nine Black Alps are definitely louder and more aggressive than many of their Britrock counterparts, but that's really nothing to boast about.

His best songs tap into the wistful-pop-anthem tradition by simultaneously exposing and celebrating the artifice of club culture.

Why Bother sounds like it would be fun to see live in a dive bar, but at home it's a little grating to listen to from start to finish.

Overall, the record is solid: lots of fuzzy psychedelic riffs and infectious melodies. But inevitably, a few of the toned-down tracks miss the mark.

Grainger and Keeler are now more than six years into their reunion, but it’s still hard to listen to these songs without making knee-jerk comparisons to their early work (which, let’s face it, offered more thrills). That being said, Outrage! Is Now shows that they’ve shifted into a new phase of their career – one in which they’ve honed their craft and matured into seasoned pros.

On their seventh disc, the music successfully carries the message, thanks in no small part to Bowie/Morrissey/T. Rex producer extraordinaire Tony Visconti, who pumps even more life into these loud, rousing singalong choruses and driving power chords without sacrificing dynamics or naked emotion.

If you already hate him, nothing on this disc will change your mind. But some surprisingly creative moments throughout the album will likely inspire hundreds of clones over the next year.

Wrecking Ball could've been great but was derailed by unnecessary gimmicks.

None of them are as immediately catchy or memorable, and perhaps that’s to be expected. But Petty and Co. are at ease and doing what they please.

If you're only into the band for the music, then this will be a solid purchase – it's far more polished and focused than Songs About Jane. Lyrically, though, this album gets tired fast.

Kanye West has always been a troll but there was once an empowering, heroic quality to his narcissism. As he struggles to find his footing in a strange new world, there is still merit in a work like Ye if you can somehow look past the self-destructive celebrity behind it.

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.

For all of Lady Gaga’s talking points, the fusion of art and pop has resulted in a lot of familiar dance-pop--more artful for its campiness than its musical innovation.

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

Not Tarantino's most essential soundtrack, but maybe his most original.

It lacks the lyrical wisdom and emotional insight we might expect from a band that's been around so long, but you have to admire their fearlessness about tackling such an out-of-character genre and their ability to keep penning such joyous melodies.

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.

Georgia evokes a skittering, glazed-over slice of up-all-night club life on her moody, uneven debut.

It’s a totally mellow set where flute often takes precedence over guitar. Thankfully, Ejstes’s tight arrangements leave little room for wankery, and none of the songs deal with flying dragons.

A few verses drag out too long, but Drew’s storytelling remains firmly in the foreground.

When she strays into pop territory, her lyrics and vocals remind us of electroclash’s cheesiest moments. When she keeps it raw and downtempo, real talent shines through.

The problem is that Earl’s stream of consciousness style does not lend itself to easy listening. Off-kilter drum loops and piano chords bury the lyrics on Red Water and Peanut, creating an unfriendly sonic experience reminiscent of listening to a song with cheap earphones in a noisy room. Listeners will only be able to appreciate Earl’s poetry once they devote every ounce of their focus to hearing it.

It's enjoyable enough, but the potency of Merritt's wit is gradually sapped by one wheezy, sluggish melody too many.

It's never a bad thing to be concise in your songcraft, but this album reveals that Plants And Animals are best when not over-thinking things.

Her new disc is a sweet, infectious collection of alt-country that tackles broken hearts (Palmyra) and Jack Kerouac (Mexico City).

It’s a challenging album, one you might not put on often.

This isn’t a summer jam. The Reykjavík natives’ seventh studio album is moody and minimal, with slow-building beats.

Mainly, it's good for some frivolous fun.

It’s a limited palette to be sure, but they do it well. However, cutting out a few songs would have made a stronger statement if they’re going to follow such a tight formula and narrow range of influences.

The lyrics are dense with vivid imagery that could be autobiographical but may just attest to the duo's ability to create intimate moments for their listeners to enjoy.

His strengths as a songwriter occasionally break through this morass, but the album is overwhelmingly concerned with anger and confusion.

They have the formula down, but 10 tracks of this gets a little tedious.

Move Like This doesn't so much rebuild the Cars' old engine as take the classic model for a cruise in the country.

Had The Pinkprint included 12 songs rather than the extended version's 22, it could have been a classic.

The Roots aren't averse to a good cover song, so it's not surprising to see them team up with R&B crooner John Legend for a set of throwback soul tunes.

This isn’t Mandell’s best album ("Thrill" holds that distinction), but it’s as strong as nearly anything else she’s done.