At first, the complete lack of restraint and overflowing musical ideas make Busting Visions feel a bit like an unfocused mess, but once you get familiar with it, it seems absurd to complain that they've crammed a dozen golden hooks into every single song.

She hits rock bottom on the repetitive, bland Daydreaming. It really does feel like a daydream, this whole idea of crowning a new female rap queen.

Ab-Soul is still the third man up in the stacked TDE crew (behind Kendrick Lamar and Schoolboy Q), but this album establishes him as the group’s most reliable Swiss Army knife: deft in a wide variety of sonic and thematic situations.

Songs are summery and bright, a more apt soundtrack to a road trip across Prince Edward County than to a night at an underground club.

There’s plenty of the intelligent, expansive instrumentation that’s earned TMSR their band-geek badges, but despite a strong finish, Universe lacks a life-changing single.

A smooth and beautiful listen.

Wells delivers interesting textures and arrangements but also keeps things so spare that climaxes rarely happen

For the most part, this album would sound completely at home on classic rock radio.

He seems stuck between self-consciously chasing mainstream pop crossover and some underground ideal, and pulls off neither.

His latest album is full of sexy slow jams, hip-hop samples and an overall tone better suited to a club than a lazy house party.

The other brilliant move was producer Martin Terefe’s idea of going to Havana to dub on a Cuban brass section trying to fake Memphis Horns-style head riffs. They never get it quite right, but what they come up with works perfectly as a brightening counterbalance for Sexsmith’s darker inclinations.

The lack of instruments coupled with Sandoval’s unvarying singing style lead to mind-wandering and reminiscing about her past work, like the killer hook she added to the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Sometimes Always.

Unfortunately, what starts out as emotionally drenched bop-along pop eventually gets tiresome.

The songs are still full of lush guitars and dense, clattering percussion, but offer the added bonus of being more grandiose and emotional.

The professionalism behind these country-lite treatments keeps the band from sounding as relaxed and spontaneous as they apparently do live.

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

While not perfect, her fourth is full of upbeat (and pretty damn good) guitar-driven pop like 'I Do Not Hook Up' and the title track, as well as a few requisite (and equally decent) ballads that make use of her impressive range.

Mechanical Bull is adequate arena rock, a collection of songs fit to play on Guitar Hero.

The married couple bash out organ-pumping pop blasts that exuberantly pick apart their youthful experiences.

Like 2005’s pleasantly surprising "Playing The Angel," Sounds Of The Universe, their 12th album, is a triumph, though more cunning in its method.

Dedicated serves not only as an introduction to a criminally overlooked, pioneering pre-R&R group but also as a reminder of why Cropper remains so well respected.

The unfamiliarity between Finn and his backing group is palpable.

It’s difficult to hear this as anything but self-parody.

The more conventional pop/rock tracks detract from his eccentric impulses and feel like compromises.

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

Some of the innuendo ('Take You Down') is kind of hurting but the song 'Nice,' gangsta-fied by a Game appearance, is solid.

Despite Keys's proficiency (she co-wrote Where's The Fun In Forever, one of the best songs on Miguel's new album), she's always seemed a little boring. On that front, she delivers.

If there is a difference between albums one and two, its the slightly twangier vibes and a structural emphasis on keyboard and guitar breakdowns that could be extendable live. It’s not hard to imagine Something To Tell You translating well to Haim’s amped-up stage show.

Ditto’s lyrics are still a blend of sex and politics, always delivered with enough passion to fill the dance floor and keep it sweaty.

It's not that The Captain & The Kid is a bad album; it just sounds terribly dated.

There's nothing on 3121 that Prince hasn't done better before.

The five-piece’s attempts at New Order-style electronica (after previously aping Dylan, Stones, Britpop, then reggae on 2006’s Simpatico) add a new dimension but can’t mask the lukewarm songwriting here.

The rewards are there--it just takes some work.

MU.ZZ.LE finds the idiosyncratic artist more focused than ever.

The 10-year-old band should be able to get a dance floor moving more than ever with these songs.

At his best he reminds you of everything that makes Miike Snow's self-titled debut such an addictive listen, but at his worst he comes across like an electronic music dilettante.

Aside from the ridiculous song names (New Juices From The Hot Tub Freaks, Sweatmother), it's unwaveringly cohesive and frequently hits the mark, but may lack enough variety for some.

They're clearly aiming for epic but more often accomplish exhausting. It's admirable to see a band unselfconscious enough to present such unapologetically maudlin balladry (in a good way), but there's only so much of it you can take in one sitting.

Yes, many of the chainsaw bass lines on this comp will be derided by some as knuckleheaded "brostep," but those bangers are balanced by enough forward-thinking productions that anyone new to the genre can get a fairly accurate snapshot of the style at this point in time.

Top-loaded with impenetrable stabs at noise-rock-infused rap, Cherry Bomb is a frustrating exhibition of musicality mired in Tyler, the Creator's contrary sensibility.

Strong melodies make the tunes better than middle-of-the-road, but aside from a bit more distortion, the New York trio show little desire to venture outside their breezy alt-pop comfort zone.

The rock 'n' role playing of Going Way Out isn't really as satisfying on disc as it may have seemed in the planning stages.

No matter which of their sonic dimensions the band happens to be bolstering, the resulting blast is always creative, energetic and memorable. In short, they make you want to fight and dance at the same time.

Most impressive is how the band synthesizes diverse instruments and rhythms without appropriating or grasping for novelty.

Infinite Arms further fluctuates between the vigorous (NW Apt.), the understatedly pretty (Evening Kitchen) and the yawn-inducing (title tune).

If Country Agenda had a chorale of voices on each tune, the contrast would allow Bleeker's to stand out more.

Unfortunately, they mostly come across as predictable and chuckle-worthy for the wrong reasons.

The Brixton duo’s music fails to connect with any of the collaborating vocalists, to the point where you wonder if those involved were even in the same room together.

Dark, cathartic and hardcore, Del stays true to himself.

There is some filler here and there, but the record is fun and catchy.

Birds isn't a commercial risk, nor will Oasis fans find it a challenge, but that doesn't take away from its smart craftsmanship.

Bands in need of a catchy pop sound with a light edge should visit Chris Walla in Portland. The Death Cab for Cutie guitarist and producer can seemingly get this result from any artist he works with, including Michael Benjamin Lerner, aka Telekinesis.

Admirable attempts are made to emulate tourmates Lymbyc Systym on Blank Pages, but they fall short of that band’s visceral energy and edge.

Wrapped up in a tidy 10 songs is an album full of kinetic exuberance, rawness and sweat that retains just enough of a pop sensibility to keep things both memorable and erratic.

Emotional, stunning and one of the strongest debuts of the year so far.

Sometimes the best music happens when experimentalists indulge their inner pop music fan.

The songs are old, and the album sounds really old.

Anyone who's spent time digging through crates of dusty vinyl would be thrilled to find 12 previously unheard boogie songs that stand up this well.

Topping off this overproduced, underwhelming effort are Roberts's over-enunciated lyrics. Even at his best, he comes off like a guy crashing an Of Montreal album.

A combination of insipid songs and uniformly soulless performances, it deserves high placement among the other legendary Macca misfires Pipes Of Peace, Press To Play, Off The Ground, Tug Of War and Red Rose Speedway.

A Place to Bury Strangers are adept at capturing a certain kind of aggressive energy, but too often they bottle it in middling pop songs.

Little Broken Hearts is held back by a lack of intimacy and the unemotional stiffness we associate with Jones. Still, it's almost a great album.

Production by El-P, Aesop Rock and F. Sean Martin gives this album that trademark Def Jux feel, but the rock-driven direction of a few tracks may be a deal-breaker for fans of Cage’s earlier sound.

Now the songwriting is more ambitious, cerebral and not always out to attack, and third vocalist Wade MacNeil is increasingly putting his stamp on the sound. It doesn’t always come together.

Too Young To Be In Love leans less heavily on pervy wisecracks, with fantastic results.

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.

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.

4:13 Dream is slightly better than the misguided hype suggests.

Arrangements are unfussy--at least by today’s standards--and Cash’s rich, familiar baritone is in fine shape.

Rather than the thoughtful songcraft and inspired peformances of Banhart's pre-Roberts Young God recordings, what you hear now is the zoned-out noodling of someone who foolishly believes his own genius hype.

It’s essentially a continuation of "Ballad Of The Broken Seas," with Lanegan’s world-weary baritone bellow completely overpowering Campbell’s wispy waif-like purr and making her come off like a background singer on her own project.

White-reggae lovers haven't got a lot to latch onto here, since from the first strums of opener Mountain Top, Soundclash appear to be taking a welcome leap into a Vampire Weekend-type indie vibe.

At times there's too much going on to be comfortable, but that sonic complexity also keeps things interesting. Shlohmo deserves kudos for making an instrumental electronic album that expresses anxiety, despair and sadness so vividly.

The album revels in the clean, streamlined production elements and beautifully realized nocturnal atmosphere favoured by the OVO camp, but that sonic branding, if you will, swallows up any sort of personal flavour or perspective that might set Majid Jordan apart.

It's perfect mellow background music, with just enough going on that it's still interesting when you pay attention.

It’s a remarkably consistent dance album in a singles-based genre that usually fails when it comes to full-lengths.

They're still doing that brooding medieval ambient pop thing, but with less drama and inventiveness.

The result still falls within the confines of lilting indie pop but this time goes beyond cutesy pastiche.

The trio hit on a raw, emotional, gritty new sound, but success failed to materialize until some 40 years later.

Despite exceptionally strong hooks and her fine, assured singing, it's hard not to feel frustrated by Consentino's lack of depth and constant use of the most obvious rhymes.

Like his debut album, the sequel suffers and shines due to inconsistency. Cudi's strong creative streak leads him to follow through on every idea that crosses his mind, resulting in brilliantly unique moments and lots of stoner stumbles.

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.

Although the album revels in its sonic clutter (it’s remarkable how they can make percussive rhythms sound both primitive and absurdly futuristic), there are tracks scattered throughout to catch your breath.

It doesn't sound quite the same coming out of a pair of headphones as it does, say, from the bathroom at Sneaky Dee's, but even on record it's sure to quicken your pulse by a few beats.

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.

Steeped in country, folk and pop, Desveaux errs on the side of understatement; her rich lyrics sometimes inadvertently take a back seat to the band’s nuanced musicianship, anchored by lead guitarist Mike Feuerstack.

Ultimately, Aguilera's the only one of her peers with the vocal prowess to pull it off.

Two-thirds of the songs fail to cohere.

RUFF is Born Ruffians’ strongest album to date. With gritty atmospherics that closely resemble their magnetic live show, the album is less polished and slick than 2013’s Birthmarks.

The album is absurd, confusing (the random sequencing can be a bitch if you're trying to follow individual plots), hilarious (only Merritt could pen a libretto titled What A Fucking Lovely Day!) and bloody brilliant.

Newly installed guitarist Kiko Loureiro weaves blistering licks around Mustaine’s own, elevating the frontman’s sorta sardonic, sorta goofy politicized lyrics. Longtime bassist Dave Ellefson ramps up his low-end pyrotechnics, with Fatal Illusion boasting maybe the grooviest Megadeth bass line since Peace Sells.

Overall, Feel Good nails the delicate balance between experimentation and restraint, making the listener feel... great.

Once you get over the lack of choruses, you'll find a very solid, satisfying melodic techno album.

With cleaner, more refined production quality to boot, Growth is an interesting and fully realized progression.

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

Despite the mainstream references, the album is a much more emotionally wrenching experience than anything on the actual pop charts.

Black Ice may sound like a vintage AC/DC record in a superficial way, thanks to producer Brendan O’Brien and engineer Mike Fraser, but having Brian Johnson squeal dumb cliché phrases--three of the 15 songs have “rock ’n’ roll” in the title while a fourth has “rocking”--over a steady 4/4 thump is going to bore even their most ardent followers.

Some will be sad to find that his pulsating vocals and wacky storytelling have subsided, and that his vague lyrics have grown simpler. But anyone who’s avoided Banhart’s hippy-busker tunes now have a reason to give him a chance.