It’s a fairly light album and doesn’t do anything new musically, but it’s solid; you don’t feel like it needs to be anything else.

The melodies' stoicism seems to reflect much of the empty, brutal beauty of modern life.

When the punk, doo-wop, early R&B and psych influences come together, the high points are strong enough that you can easily forgive the lack of focus.

The Richmond, Virginia, metal five-piece churn out their most extreme record in a long time.

The album's dominant sound is dreary even by Wu standards: grey, bass-heavy beats for the eight living members' equally drab rhymes.

A solid debut, but only a hint of what's to come.

Their bleakest set of songs ever.

The Catastrophist is another shining example of the band’s ability to forge multitudes of different sounds into something new--something singular, that can really only be described as, well, sounding like Tortoise.

Hopefully, the band will release new material soon, but No, Virginia is a good snack before the next meal.

Less immediately rewarding than their debut, but worth taking the time to get to know.

The record revels in the band’s enjoyable madness.

Cold Specks’s anticipated follow-up to her excellent gospel-indebted folk-soul debut, I Predict A Graceful Expulsion, is a much louder, much more rock ’n’ roll, much more experimental experience; fuzz and feedback and unexpected elements (like synths on Let Loose The Dogs) constantly make things more interesting.

If you can stomach the contrived slow jams and the sensitive soul-baring, there are a couple of decent joints produced by West.

It’s art school punk that you can dance to, which automatically makes Mi Ami more fun than most of their peers.

Rearrange Beds, the duo’s debut full-length, features the five EP tunes plus another five that aren’t as strong. While not bad in small doses, the disc has a cumulative grating effect if you listen from start to finish.

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.

The vocals, which in the past did a lot with a little and felt incantatory, androgynous and liminal, now sound uncannily like Linkin Park’s Chester Bennington, a pseudo-teenaged smirk behind the frown.

It’s a formula to be sure, but Feast’s main delights are its textures and songwriting.

The result is a collection of upbeat indie rock songs that brings out the very best in both players.

Like many pop acts' full-lengths, this is an album of singles.

We keep hearing about the death of rock ’n’ roll supplanted by some fleeting, trendy sub-genre; but with more confidence than ever, these dudes remind us just how powerful the pure stuff can be.

Emphasizing rhythm more than melody, the songs throb along on funky bass lines, repetitive drumbeats, spacey sci-fi synths and hushed, whispered vocals.

A Different Kind Of Truth sounds familiar in the best way.

There's no grand resolution on Tired Of Tomorrow, but you can't help but hope Palermo finds some peace in all the noise. That's what making noise is for.

if her music, which sounds like it was created using a supercomputer analyzing months of market-research-driven algorithms determined by the texting and internet search habits of suburban females aged 12 to 18, sets out to be catchy, slick, radio junk food--mission accompli$hed.

Much of Keep Your Eyes Ahead, like the softly plucked 'Shed Your Love' or the Dylanesque 'Broken Afternoon,' could easily backdrop drippy TV dramas, but that isn’t necessarily a knock. Both are beautiful tunes.

Pala is a party record aiming directly at the pleasure centres – not at all a shallow pursuit.

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.

Not the rock assault Gibbard thinks it is, but certainly more hard-hitting than ever.

If you love car culture, traffic, suburbs or Stevens’s lyrics, this might be where you turn off.

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.

Both are on point throughout, making Velocifero a solid album, maybe too solid. I wish they’d crack the mould a little.

Phèdre, combines the best of both projects [Doldrums and Hooded Fang], with impressive results.

At 14 tracks (19 on the deluxe), Body Music feels overlong for a debut, but she’s melodic enough to captivate even when Reid’s hissing minimalism and spastic beats start to feel warmed over.

Nas isn't as passionate or well-informed about Africa's issues as he is about his own, a problem on an album that's supposed to be all about... Africa....Meanwhile, Marley dutifully toasts over the record's limp, rootsy production but really only wakes up for the harder beats, which are few and far between.

The album can’t help but feel like an appetizer. So, yes, it is too short, but that’s the point. We can be hungry for more, yet still satisfied here. That this is Vol. 1 means there will be a Vol. 2.

Subtlety isn't the band's forte, but they sure know how to make an ostensibly stripped-down rock song enormous.

A sense of mood or inner life is glimpsed. But by that point [the final third of the album], it just seems like an echo of past glories.

His third album is likely to disappoint fans and critics listening for those big, emotional climaxes, but Matsson's career has been defined by his ability to find new ways to paint with a limited palette.

Uniformly mediocre.... It leads one to assume he's either lost the ability to discern the padding from the profound or he just didn't give a shit.

Singer Davey Havok continues to impress with his range and ability to quickly turn from a throat-searing scream to a bare-boned croon, as does the entire band's consistently exciting approach to songwriting and their music aesthetic.

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.

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.

Kidsticks's risk-taking, while not always on point, proves Orton capable of reinvention. She's still a voice worth listening to.

It's certainly not revelatory, but it makes no such claims.

Classic unrequited love song, and Karshøj sells it so well with her sultry authenticity, you’ll swear you’re in the throes of heartbreak, too.

Another Fine Day sounds less like a party platter made by boozing buddies than a desperate attempt by yesterday's alt-country stars to slap together tunes that wouldn't sound out of place between Journey and Fleetwood Mac on classic rock radio.

The T-Bone Burnett-produced album admirably employs a nuanced approach and a consistent tone rather than using the opportunity to cash in on the film's young core audience.

For the most part the newfound earnestness is balanced by quirky arrangements and Chris Connelly's unpolished yelp reminiscent of Destroyer's Dan Bejar.

The Polish-born, Brooklyn-based DJ, born Jakub Alexander, makes music that's as likely to induce sleep as a mild panic attack.

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.

Instead of imitating the manipulated loops of funk drummers that defined earlier rap, they make references to the more robotic feel of contemporary drum machine beats, which, combined with their nods to indie rock, puts them in a category all their own.

Vibes! is a disco-dappled, funk-fuelled electro-pop record. Each successive track brings a new and increasingly surprising 80s or 90s influence.

When they let their experimental impulses coexist with their pop instincts, the results are strong enough to overshadow the occasional misstep.

Only brief, melancholy melodies give relief from the oppressive darkness.

The first three songs are so energetic and impassioned as to be rivetingly unhinged.

They might be unreliable performers, but their studio work is forward-thinking and beautiful in an oddly satisfying, downtrodden way.

The title track, Show Me, Drive The Night and Face 2 Face are ostensibly about a failing romantic relationship but crafted to read as if the daggers are also aimed inward, which adds an interesting duality to the album's titular theme.

Even as the songs delve deeper into the funhouse, there’s almost always an earworm leading you out of the fog.

Her voice, while gorgeous, is not big in range--its beauty lies in its candidness and presence. She sings like she’s personally sharing intimate tales with each listener.

While the five-piece continue to write virtually the same song over and over again (hell, practically in the same key), there are new proggier and acoustic bits (Ghost Walking) on display.

The arrangements, though, are far more expansive, all gorgeously produced and delivered with subtlety.

It's clear that Skinner has worked on his flow a lot. He sounds less loosely conversational and more bound to the rhythm.

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

Banjo, flugelhorn, tuba, cajón, accordion and tablas all prop up Stephin Merritt’s distinctive bass and dry-humoured lyrics, which, fans will be glad to know, remain in top form.

The outlandish baroque-cubed excess here, from the warbling chorales to the bleating woodwinds, weighs down track after track after track after track.

It suffers from a lack of focus--some songs are classic indie pop, while others are experimental musings rife with strange samples--but it's a fine collection that displays Thorburn's versatility and commitment to writing a catchy synth line.

Even with quick, dense and precisely rhythmic flows, his rapping is like verbal dancing. Its joyous and romantic moments make the album feel more like a thematic refinement than a musical one.

None of the songs hit as hard as Kids or Electric Feel, but there's also no filler (which is more than we can say for OS). Instead, the band delivers a consistent if self-indulgent offering of oddball prog-pop.

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

The problems that litter No Line fall into two categories: mind-numbing blandness on the part of the band or embarrassing, face-palm-inducing vocal choices by Bono.

This entirely live album is warmer and more consistent [than 2010's Harlem River Blues], with a lot of heart.

Springsteen has trouble leaving well enough alone. No matter how small the song idea, he whips it up into a sweeping epic with lavish choral accompaniment and blustery solos all building to some grand final flourish.

Despite a few tripped-out pop gems, the album is largely what you'd expect to hear after gazing into Moss's glassy eyes: a classic sound but not a classic record.

Unfortunately, the band lacks Grizzly Bear’s songwriting chops. After that early-album peak, the tracks begin to sound like undercooked compositions coasting on bells and whistles.

There’s a constant push and pull between the sometimes ridiculous aspects of classic hard rock and his more serious artistic and political concerns, and while it’s often unclear when he’s joking, that tension is exactly what makes it all work.

Earlier generations of psych fans had the Grateful Dead and Pink Floyd to worship and pursue on tour. Now, three albums in, TOY could become this generation’s long-haired psychedelic heroes to follow around in VW campers.

The songs have cool, memorable hooks and great guitar textures, but an overarching lack of enthusiasm hurts even their strongest material.

Christ Illusion sounds like an bid to get back to the Reign In Blood era by reining in the tech prowess that weighed down God Hates Us All and Divine Intervention.

Anticipation has been high for the album's official release, and Heady Fwends doesn't disappoint.

It's not exactly adventurous, but he remains tough to pigeonhole and doesn't sound like he'll be slowing down any time soon.

It appears that the recording regime involved in focusing on a series of 7-inch singles rather than a new album has brought back some of the old creative spark.

They’ve got the formula down now, so you can’t sweat the technique, but it would make for a more engaging spin if Stereolab could mess with the equation now and again.

There’s only so much nudge-nudge, wink-wink you can take before you want to shove a sock in the dude’s mouth. On the bright side, they stand a good chance of scoring a few top-40 hits with this dreck.

Viva La Vida starts off with promise for fans who felt that "X&Y" was a far cry from "A Rush Of Blood To The Head."... Unfortunately, the rest of the record fails to build on this.

For those who never quite got John Vanderslice, he’s finally made a love-on-first-listen recording. Yes, you have to pay attention to the lyrics, but the reward is clever, well-developed storytelling.

Stellar 12-minute opus 'Time Flies' teems with Pink Floydesque arrangements and moving lyrics, while 'Octane Twisted' offers up massive guitar riffage that you can bang your head to.

It gets tiring trying to figure out what Lew is saying (mostly, her vocals are mixed a touch too low), but the themes are hinted at in her sober delivery.

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

Despite any bugaboos, he's a plain great songwriter, and Skelliconnection is firmly above average.

Depression and personal battles still make up the lyrical content. But there are also spacious, cosmic moments, swaths of texture (Tim Bruton adds keyboard lines and Matt Rogalsky synth bass) and gentler fingerpicked and/or softly sung moments.

Her pain is less harrowing – she's older now and knows how to cope -– so instead of singing only for herself, she's doing it for her listeners, a noble goal but also dull and predictable.

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.

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

The results are intimate yet expansive--a pleasing balance between post-rock sonic experimentation and traditional songcraft.

Pierce has called Brutalism his most honest work yet, but personal detail aside, it’s an incisive album about the prevailing mood of the moment: anxiety. The lyrics might be grim, but the music encourages us to stick it out.

The SOLs are skilled at crafting songs rooted in striking specificity.

An album for piano and string quartet, this follow-up to the superb Solo Piano II is another soothing listen, and fine orchestration by Hamburg's Kaiser Quartett adds greater harmonic complexity to Gonzales's songbook.