Goodbye's overall prettiness is both its weakness and its strength; the album is pleasant but blends into the background a bit too easily.

If David Browne's Sonic Youth bio was to be believed, Swans, who emerged from the same noise-filled no wave scene in New York's early 80s as Thurston Moore, had a rotating cast of nasty-tempered psychotic rockers, with multi-instrumentalist Michael Gira at its centre. Listening to Swans' new album, the first in 14 years, you get the sense that some of that malevolence remains.

The 27-year-old can write killer tunes, and his voice is sweet-guy inviting. There’s a masterpiece disc in him yet, but this still isn’t it.

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

At times, the material here comes dangerously close to sounding like 14 versions of one song, but he manages to mix up the moods and textures just enough to avoid that pitfall.

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.

Despite coming in at 19 tracks, the album lacks a searing song like Politically Correct, which Jeezy released free during his involvement in the recent Million Man March. He's come a long way, but we may have to wait until the next term to see his full political potential.

Flowers plays it too safe. For a record about Las Vegas, he sure doesn't gamble much.

The album’s clean production (courtesy of producer Youth) and comfortable mood (nicely summed up by the song Mood Rider) is somewhat surprising and a tad disappointing. However, they don’t sound aloof, either. The mirror JAMC are holding up to the mainstream nowadays is less distorted, but still fully engaged in sharp and timeless songcraft.

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

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.

Requiem is a double album but only 13 songs long, which means you’re in store for plenty of extended instrumental jams. Those chugging epics help establish the hazy mood and create plenty of atmosphere, but the best moments come when Goat attempt more conventional song structures.

Pond still appreciate the glue of a hummable pop hook and the intoxicating pyschedelia of headphone tricks, but the most satisfying way to hear Hobo Rocket is turning it up as loud as it’ll go.

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.

Jamie Stewart, as usual, sounds like a man on the edge of checking into a white-walled care facility, but that shouldn’t be seen as a negative against Women As Lovers.

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.

Anyone who’s followed Wu-Tang throughout this millennium knows that the Clan’s DJ Mathematics is the proper heir to RZA’s Wu production throne, and his new compilation only reinforces this....One issue: at least half of the album is recycled.

While World Waits isn't lacklustre in any way, fans of Frog Queen may be disappointed.

Ronson approaches pop almost like a hip-hop producer. He's assembled a cavalcade of guest collaborators too numerous to name, but for the most part his focus keeps Record Collection from feeling overcooked.

The pros outweigh the cons on Fantasy Ride, but the overall experience might fall a little short for seasoned fans.

It's an unnerving listen that demands a certain amount of masochism, but you've definitely never heard another band like Nissenenmondai.

The capital-P pop star backs up her I-just-don’t-give-a persona with killer singing and decent songwriting, but keeps us waiting for a banger that never comes.

The acerbic kiss-off Love Yourself feels like an honest stab at subverting the standard breakup ballad, but elsewhere his lyrics are overly concerned with righteousness and keeping things PG-rated.

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.

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

The otherwise likeably raunchy and bratty Pink is now officially walking a fine line, leaning dangerously close to the humdrum.

Despite a few hiccups, Loney, Dear is one of Sweden’s best exports.

On his latest release, his driving, hook-laden punk rock is as precise as always.

Working with a forward-looking crew of producers, musicians and writers, including Madlib, the Roots, Sa-Ra Creative Partners and Karriem Riggins, was a wise move; they do a decent job on the funky New Amerykah, a throwback to the black power sound and consciousness-raising themes of the 70s.

While it may not stand up to the rest of Hatebreed’s canon, it does a great job of promoting some smaller acts that the average fan may not be aware of, and is a must-have for those antsy for new material.

Whether Hill's singing or rapping, the fearlessness and tempestuous drama in her voice are palpable--and matched by equally raw accompaniment that makes many of the other cuts sound a little too clean by comparison.

It's quickly evident on We Are The Night that the Chemical Brothers are making a serious go at being contemporary.... They pull it off relatively well for the most part.

Syd the Kyd mostly drifts through the music, and is more compelling when getting into trouble--as on Cocaine and Fastlane--rather than lamenting love lost.

While the album could’ve benefited from the trim of a song or two, it successfully avoids the dreaded career stagnation.

Sputtering, glitchy electronics and polyrhythmic drum patterns by Taylor Smith and Austin Tufts provide layers of ambience that seem a bit too soft and tepid in the face of her melancholy but intense musings, though they complement her high, airy, melodic vocals.

On Strange Pleasures, Still Corners ditch their 60s psychedelia shtick for sounds two decades younger, and it works.

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.

Everything from the production to the songwriting seems aimed to evoke the 60s, and the album would probably sound killer on a good turntable.

The real triumphs come when beats make unexpected appearances, bringing to mind the left-field electronic music that his new label, Warp, was once revered for. Makes you wonder what Eno would come up with if he ventured into techno.

His vocals do the job, even as his lyrics will probably keep the majority of ears fixed on the instrumentation.

Wisely, he doesn’t sing this time around, leaving that to Kenna and Phonte of Little Brother. But the tracks with guest vocals never really take off either, reinforcing the producer’s weakness as a songwriter.

Each woman's distinct singing and songwriting style is front and centre, but their voices blend beautifully.

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

The burst of primal aggression is welcome (especially in today's political climate), but this EP is too meandering and amorphous to hit as hard as the band’s best stuff.

Consistent, yes, but not the king yet.

While the songwriting is more varied here than on previous LPs (Shapiro sometimes causes rather than experiences heartbreak), the pop hooks don’t always ascend to the maximal sound they aim for.

At times, those love ballads veer into over-the-top Leona Lewis territory (Emeli Sandé’s More Than Anything) that only the Brits, it seems, can get away with.

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.

This festive album of mostly original songs has something for everyone.

As usual, this record will leave many scratching their heads, but for fans who like their music a little more complicated, this is easily one of the more interesting records out there.

The album is plagued by similarly banal lyrics about sex and drugs that make his playboy image feel all the more superficial.... More positively, the poppier musical strategy perfectly suits his boyish vocals, and he sounds more open and less pretentious than ever before.

It's often a little too wacky and silly for its own good, but overall Personal Computer is a fun collection of weirdo funk pop.

It’s nice to see Aiko atypically solo (Common provides the only rap feature), but more variety would be welcome.

Mostly, though, the barely 30-minute album is a non-stop rager.

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

Barter 6 eschews obvious hits for what feels like an attempt at crafting a cohesive work.

Bloom is consistent in quality, and there isn't a single bad song. It just feels like they spent too much time worrying about production and not enough time songwriting.

Things gets off to a pleasant, somewhat meek start, but bongo-touched Clearer soon stands out for its forceful, head-turning melodies.

For all the psychedelic brilliance, though, there is just as much noisy, self-impressed jamming that could have used editing.

Palmer seems intent on cramming as many ideas and textures into every song as she can, which is exciting at first but exhausting by the halfway point of an excessively long album.

The experimentation pays off.

Convinced he's some kind of rock revivalist, he's more Bob Seger, Skynyrd and Hank Jr. than anything else here. That works in his favour for most of the album, aside from a few misses like the generically foot-stompin' 'So Hot' and the gospel-infused singalong 'Don't Tell Me U Love Me.'

Scattered and uneven, but not without its charms.

It's garish and gross but undeniably fun, an audacious train wreck of an album that's hard not to enjoy.

There's tons of potential here, even if the disc feels like a work in progress.

It’s ambitious for a debut, and for the most part Miranda is able to keep up.

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.

Here True Widow dispel some of the pot-smoky fog, putting across a crisper, tighter, discernibly quicker sound.

With some exceptions, the songs truly take flight when Kindness cedes the mic to others, like Robyn or Kelela, whose voices add depth and suggestiveness--with an ease that eludes Bainbridge himself--elevating the album’s bland lovelorn sentiment.

There are a few too many “Get off my lawn, kids” moments, and the interludes are entirely unnecessary (hi, the Lonely Island), but as far as comebacks go, this album is anything but a non-event.

El-P's progressive beats here are full of driving, distorted drum sounds and rough samples; futuristic b-boy shit that walks a fine line between funky and grating.

Sometimes his experimental tendencies and pop impulses mesh perfectly, but the sudden shifts between abrasive noise and New Age mood music are heavy-handed and clunky.

The brief tunes are sparse yet cinematic, tentative yet boldly inventive.

The songs grow overly long at the end (the title track is a bit of a bore), though the album is consistently beautiful, if not always ear-catching.

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.

Slick production (including Pharrell, will.i.am and Timbaland) and guest spots from Kendrick Lamar and T.I. distract from all that Lothario shtick enough to make the album a poppy, easy summer listen that grows on you with each play.

Fact is, the Enemy are better than that, and their debut full-length is also certainly better than some kind of classic Britpop rehash.

Their high and pretty voices tie the songs together in a way their previous releases lack, though they would do well to let up on the layered effect from time to time.

Whereas her last album had a gently psychedelic and live-off-the-floor feel, Honeymoon plays it safer with “cinematic” arrangements occasionally pumped up (but not excessively so) with modern drum sounds.

The quality of the compositions is consistent and the album has an overall stylistic coherence that makes the Minus Five sound very much like a real band. Now, if he could only figure out how to make it rock, he'd be onto something.

Songs like 'Little Bombs' and the title track are evocative of his "So Impossible" EP while also showing a definite maturity without relying on the disappointing FM-friendly electric rock that's marred the band's work in last few years.

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.

He stays true to his reputation for unconstrained madness.

On his third album, experimental electro sounds that initially seem grating and disparate weave together to form bona fide pop melodies.

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

Some take a little while to hit their sweet spot, like the middling That’s Life, Tho (Almost Hate To Say). But when Vile hits those hazy, beautiful peaks, he reminds us that the untamed wilderness of modern Americana is still his backyard.

Bizarre lyrics, wooze-inducing dissonance and overly elaborate embellishments maintain Friedberger's genius-of-pretension title.

At times his vocals sound too distant in the mix and overpowered by guitars (No Device), but singing any more forcefully would undermine the peculiar comfort that most of the record maintains.

Even though not every twisted move they make on Third pays dividends, considering the stakes, consciously fucking with their formula is a bold gamble for which they should be saluted.

The tunes are peppy and driving, the performances and production polished to a fault, and the lyrics simultaneously celebratory and wistful.

The album’s emphasis on repetition occasionally sounds too self-conscious, but it’s a rare excess in an otherwise restrained--if not necessarily subtle--collection of ballads.

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.

This is fairly arm's-length music--more about beat and texture than emotional confessionals.

It may not be the best introduction to the band, but it's a must-have for hardcore fans of Conor Oberst's vocal discordance and stripped-down musical tantrums.

It's lacking the melancholic darkness that added substance to Strange Geometry.

Sounding closer to their more earnest Smash days, the songs are snappy to-the-point SoCal punk, albeit with a more polished sheen.

The diversity leaves it without a consistent mood or conceptual through-line, however, and while Hogan's singing voice is, like the album, pleasant enough, it's not especially distinct or memorable.

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