He clutches that control so tightly that the album has turned out insular and ill-conceived.

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

What it lacks is an interesting emotional--and thus truly cinematic--dimension.

The disparate guest list means the record lacks some cohesion, but Big Boi--ambitious, effusive and still a remarkably lithe rapper--holds it all together.

Petty’s classic pop knack, breezy melodies and laid-back drawl take a back seat to Campbell’s meandering, jammy solos and the album’s overwhelmingly old-guy-blues sound.

Initially off-putting due to the pitch-corrector’s close association with the grossest of gross pop, Woods slowly enchants with mesmerizing vocal layers that pay no mind to verse/chorus/verse conventions.

Songs are focused, multi-layered and crafted, sometimes even bringing Wilco’s more experimental moments to mind.

After the long wait it’s not a disappointing effort, but it’s all over the place.

Whether effervescent (the poppy Promise Not To Think About Love zips along on handclaps and a jaunty bass line) or solemn (elegiac closing track From Now On), her modern take on folk music often delves into the darkness, but always looks toward the light.

Unfortunately, Coppola hasn’t got Winehouse’s writing or vocal chops and Pallin clearly lacks Ronson’s knowledge of hit song construction.

Now and then, as on Say, the bigness of the music prevents you from really hearing and feeling the lyrics through the trumpet blasts and huge solos. But then I've Been Loved comes along, sounding a bit like the Eagles and touched with seriously melancholy cello, and you sense the gravitas beneath the dizzying crescendos.

Without a fluke hit single or prime placement in a big-budget Hollywood film, the Heavy’s disc, which easily outclasses The Odd Couple fiasco, may fall between the cracks, but that Swaby character has serious potential.

By sticking mostly to introspective songwriting, the quintet ignores the strongest tool in its arsenal. It's no surprise that the most memorable tunes are the few where they let their fingers fly.

Ferg has enough lyrical promise and personality to make him a legit trap player, if not, quite yet, a lord.

The sick is far outweighed by the sloppy as the selection shifts from slo-mo chronic puffers to wobbly boozer bumps bracketed by two thugged-out rips by Guilty Simpson.

Long-time fans might be a bit weirded out by the shift, but a few seconds hearing Ditto channel Peggy Lee on the smoky torch burner Coal To Diamonds should assuage their fears.

It's like Koster has a wellspring of positive vibes that he channels into songs without engaging in schmaltz or clichés.

When they slip up, it’s due to stupid lyrics or mainstream tendencies (like the beginning of the first single, 'Burial'). But they do create winning synth moments on 'Song For No One' and 'In Search Of.'

The album adheres to a less-is-best philosophy, and the songs sound effortless. It’s simple, straightforward and immediate, just like the first Strokes album.

Thankfully, this is more about Otis, Marvin and Stevie, which Lidell does amazingly well for a British experimental techno brat.

These are love songs with sharp edges that keep the sweetness mysterious.

Yours To Keep is kinda like an entire disc of that Lust For Life riff. Fun but a bit flat.

When you listen to these gloomy trip-hop jams after their best work of the 90s, the results are underwhelming.

It kind of sounds like classic AM radio interpreted by a very strange garage rock band.

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.

This is a sparse, minimal and unassuming record that's unlikely to hit anyone over the head with its innovation, but Gonzalez accomplishes much while sounding like he's doing very little.

Pants wraps everything effectively in a dreamy fizziness that softens some of the stranger dark edges, but he doesn't hide his increasing interest in pop song construction.

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.

This is background music for a mundane clerical job at Medieval Times or cash duties at a fantasy sword store. But why not just pick up an old Jethro Tull record?

The result often sounds claustrophobic, though it's also much fuller than Soft Moon's earlier work.

If the English art-school psychedelic trio had been able to keep up that momentum, their third album would be a solid one. Instead, they stumble and disappoint.

Sure, it's bloated and loaded with overreaching, pretentious lyrics, but it wouldn't be the Pumpkins otherwise.

There's still some banjo-pickin' and fiddle-playing, but The Long Way's clean, soft-rockin' vibe is striking in contrast to the traditional bluegrassy leanings of 2002's Home.

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

It’s a masterpiece of uneasy listening but would be a lot more digestible had it been trimmed to a manageable length.

Their well-honed flamboyance has finally given way to full-blown pretension, the lyrics that used to be an afterthought hidden behind a painfully contrived yet musically unimpressive ragtimey veneer of muted trumpets, shoo-bop, shoo-wahs and happily jingling vaudeville pianas.

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.

A fairly satisfying collection of disposable pop R&B.

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.

The album is executed slickly enough that this lack of cohesion isn't a huge problem. The goofy lyrics, though, owe too much to the hippy-dippy era.

The results are exactly what fans of either act would hope for and a pleasant surprise for those who'd given up on both of them.

At her best, Sumie evokes the poeticism of Joni paired with the headiness of Mazzy Star. But given the songs’ lack of variation in tone and tempo, an EP might have offered a more focused introduction.

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.

Working again with pop Svengali Richard Gottehrer and the Raveonettes’ Sune Rose Wagner, DDG find a nice middle ground between their signature detachment and a classic pop sensibility.

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.

Accompanying his gruff voice with a bleary-eyed strum, he's probably more potent and alive on Serenade than many would expect.

Jungle’s core members, childhood best friends Josh and Tom, make well-balanced dance tunes--lush, but with plenty of breathing space between slow builds and feverish climaxes.

EX is a proper album of all-new material--composed specifically for that iconic space--and features some of the best work of his career.

While the Marshall Mathers LP sputtered toward the end, the sequel gets better past the halfway mark.

Though you might have pangs for United's enjoyable weirdness, It's Never Been Like That is serious fun.

Wrist is yet another excellent record from mainstream hard rock's only real hope.

Produced by VanGaalen, this record explores a whole host of interesting sonic ideas, which keeps things nicely unpredictable.

New wave, soul and house beats make this his most genre-bending album yet.

The Swedes have stepped it up in the songwriting department.

Shards of digital distortion and self-indulgent instrumentals are pretty much gone. What remains is a novel reworking of the California surf punk formula.

The grand aesthetic that makes Arcade Fire such a force is on full display. But compared to last year's plodding AF album, Reflektor, Butler gets to the point so much quicker.

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.

Let's face it, outside of the obvious singles, it's filler town.

The increased repetition of blurted nonsense phrases and the further dumbing down of their very basic progressions should serve to rid them of numerous long-time fans who hoped the Hives could save rock 'n' roll.

Hopefully, Canadian audiences won’t be fooled by the British hype, because Bell X1 don’t have what it takes to win over the Great White North.

There’s an urgency to the songs--aided by crisp production--as if Smith resolved to get all his feelings out.

The record will prove inaccessible for those seeking a retread of the members’ more famous projects but works when approached on its own terms.

Continually developing and evolving, the Ex sound as vibrant as ever, and Catch My Shoe has an enviably timeless feel.

These are understated, heartfelt tunes carried by lovely acoustic guitar work.

Bub's knack for whimsical, 8-bit bleep-bloop electronic is apparent, and in addition to a few purrs or meows here and there, her magic shines in the arrangements.

Williams does sound inspired, and there’s an energetic current running through Little Honey that was missing on previous records.

It's an interesting listen but doesn't leave a strong impression.

It's almost as if, released from the role of playing less weird anchor to Spencer Krug's art rock savant, Boeckner's figured out how to maximize and expand what he does best.

Blood struggles to shift out of platitude territory with lyrics fixated on horizons, stars and sunsets, and it soon becomes apparent that La Havas is content not to go much deeper than vague universalism requires.

Judging by Devonté Hynes’s ambitiously grand follow-up to Falling Off The Lavender Bridge, with its piano intermissions, ubiquitous orchestra and choral chants, there’s been some Freddy Mercury blaring through his player.

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

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

13 gets tiresomely monolithic and ponderous.

It's quite an impressive feat to combine goth rock with trance pop and still keep all your cool points, but that's exactly what Toronto's Trust have managed to pull off with their debut full-length.

After four albums of American girls, dirt roads and fingers in dust with the radio on, it's tough to overlook the clichés.

Anyone familiar with the Flat Duo Jets will tell you that Dexter Romweber is a helluva guitarist (Jack White is a proud fan club member), yet our boy Dex has always been lacking in the vocal department. So his delivery on Ruins Of Berlin sometimes sounds more like a Buster Poindexter impression of Conway Twitty.

In between standout tracks like Public Enemy No. 1, Never Dead and Fast Lane is less remarkable filler, and Mustaine's socially conscious lyrics are sometimes cringe-worthy. But his snarling vocals and guitar work never get old, and the production has a warmer, more vintage feel than steely recent albums.

The whole album is rich with memorable hooks, as opposed to just the singles.

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

Ultimately, you sense Powell pushing, giving and breaking through.

Originality isn’t always the most important criterion in music like this. Familiar, nostalgic sounds can please just as much, as they do here.

Parochial pop somewhere between Supergrass and the Arctic Monkeys.

It's Cut Copy's most textured and rhythmically complex record, and also irresistible in its emotional simplicity.

This album is their least messy and most consistent, but it hasn't left singer/songwriter Mike Donovan's slacker charm behind.

Taking a tip from William Cooper’s conspiracy theory tracts, Nas deftly delivers attention-grabbing rhymes with a sickly slick flow yet offers little backup for his inflammatory insinuations in the way of persuasive substance.

Somehow, Ta-Dah feels like the Sisters covering themselves, and the glitter and gloss have worn off.

They’ve crafted an album that stands on familiar rock ground but isn’t at all stock.

Despite the flashy production values and singer Thomas Mars’s wispy croon, it ultimately feels as superficial as its subject matter.

It's frequently ridiculous and makes you a bit embarrassed for the folly and bravado of youth, but the guy has an uncanny knack for that perfectly evocative couplet and addictive hook, which is why his supporters are so vocal.

Smith Westerns have proven themselves adept chameleons and excel in their new style. It’s just tough not to miss the old one.

His singing, an acquired taste, could have been used more sparingly. Nevertheless, his odd chants keep the weirdness levels appropriately high, and we wouldn't want it any other way.

FitzGerald's only musical foils are guest vocalists, so the contrast between fragile sentiment and driving rhythms feels obsessively and perfectly realized. It's pretty standard stuff, but it works because the album is full of subtly affecting moments that viscerally lock in to a magic-hour state.

Collapse is a genuine return to form for the band, blowing away anything else they've done for more than a decade.

GBV fans should definitely check this one out – there's a lot to like.

This newest electronic funk vision feels like the album we’ve been waiting for.

Burton deserves some of the blame for the album's shortcomings as well, even if his creative engineering is the high point. He gives us some gorgeously layered textures and swirling atmospherics, but then backs those up with tepid and forgettable beats.

Like a lot of shoegaze, a uniform production and lots of layers mean the tracks have a tendency to lack distinction from one another. But this happens surprisingly rarely.

Tentacles’ more focused psych punk feels formulaic, underdeveloped and disappointing.