Although the new direction isn't revolutionary, it's natural enough and distracts from some of the filler.

At its best, Untitled sounds like a compilation of his previous work--a smooth-voiced crooner reading a sex thesaurus over R&B beats.

Diversifying is a good plan, seeing as this kind of thrashy, mid-fi guitar pop can all melt together. Thankfully, the sugary keyboards and furious, to-the-point guitar solos (and guitarmonies!) cause most of the songs to shred in their own special way.

When they're flowing about anything but shooting people over the expensive-sounding synth-goo production, the record could pull a school bus with its teeth. But aimless, boring gunshot-laden tracks like 9mm and Gun Blast find Bone unable to let go of their dated murda-isms.

If you can deal with the nostalgia factor, it’s a pleasant but unremarkable disc.

Her domestic bliss songs are predictably the most boring, the exception being L8 CMMR, the dancehall-esque, Auto-Tuned track in which she sings of her husband’s virility.

Definitely a turn-it-up album to add to your summertime playlist.

The result is akin to bottling one of their energetic live shows, and it makes for a thrilling, if not altogether bump-free ride.

This reinvigorated 40-year-old (!) Queens loudmouth makes a somewhat fleshy final Def Jam album, but it’s well-chiselled compared to his last ugly, irrelevant albums.

Too much of the record lacks that song's percussive drive; all the pretty singing and unhurried tempos start to blend into a tepid listen, and the experimental near-spoken-word turn on Strange is just, well, strange.

It’s satisfying enough to nod off to, even if it confirms suspicions that the band peaked at Pentastar.

Whether you'll like the newest Keane offering depends largely on your appetite for melodrama.

Tarantino's habit of including interludes of dialogue is especially distracting here, and it's hard to get around the discomfort of white actors casually throwing around the n-word. Morricone and Tarantino super-fans will enjoy it, but it's an uneven listen for the rest of us.

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.

On Immortal, he tackles paranoia and police brutality in ways that are both heartbreaking and bluntly nihilistic, while Foldin Clothes is a blissful and unapologetic diversion into domesticity ("I never thought I'd see the day I'm drinking almond milk"). Elsewhere, his earnestness comes off as unwieldy in moments that precariously sit on the cusp of sleepy sentimentality.

Many of Morby's tunes sacrifice his twangy, down-home warmth. Luckily, both still write simple, timeless hooks.

Musically, Ne-Yo spends most of his time here worshipping the throne of Michael Jackson ballads, which suits his falsetto crooning quite well. However, it's the handful of upbeat techno-influenced speaker-thumpers that stand out most, revealing his potential to be a much more versatile artist.

Not that a few half-baked progressions spell disaster for Hawk, a record that methodically moves from dreamy, lush, introspective numbers to tension and ultimately catharsis in the way Mogwai is close to perfecting.

Those who go to genuine underground parties every weekend will find it a bit lame, but considering the work of his fellow chart-topping populists, you could do a lot worse.

It's the near-painful purity she conveys in the high notes that surprises most, especially on the mellower tunes.

Lyrics, when employed, are simple and to the point, thoughtful but sparse enough to let the classical musicianship shine.

Sweet and Hoffs’s pedigree separates this covers comp from the chaff, which is why people like Lindsey Buckingham guest on their inspired version of Fleetwood Mac’s 'Second Hand News' and George Harrison’s kid, Dhani, on their take on 'Beware Of Darkness.'

Sound The Alarm shows that while they're still very much an acquired taste, these guys are much more capable than many would have liked to think.

The production is much bigger, and his songwriting more assertive and hook-heavy. Unfortunately, the awkward charm and intimacy of his early efforts are missed.

Where the album falters is in his overly ambitious and affected vocals, which fall on the waifish end of 80s new wave.

An anxious mood comes through clearly but doesn’t quite go anywhere, kind of like a protagonist who seems the same at the end of a book as at the beginning.

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.

dvsn’s deeply satisfying and sputtering beats are accentuated with wandering and jazzy piano riffs, melodic guitar and classic soul/R&B nods that maintain warmth and red-bloodedness but also overemphasize the Morning After’s sentimentality.

With summer so far away, this record’s only downside is that it lacks a hit song to help it last until July.

Dreams In The Rat House isn’t as diverse or ambitious as its predecessor, Sleep Talk, but it shows an increasing ability to balance winsome harmonies, raucous drumming and jangly guitar riffs while maintaining the unvarnished punk quality that makes them irresistible.

When she's not challenging herself in that way [trying to emulate the established RiRi formula], she can sound a little bored, but you could argue that's part of her ice-queen R&B appeal.

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

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.

Though minimalist, it's not all austere.

While half the fun is spotting the differences between the original and the remake, Where Have You Been All My Life? is also an excellent intro to Villagers, a summary of five years in one album.

It’s refined, poised, sweater-and-scarf music to settle down with in advance of winter’s messy hysteria.

It’s odd that he doesn’t mind how much he’s starting to sound like the Black Crowes. Still, overall quality remains high, making this a more solid listen than some White Stripes albums.

It's the mini-opera that moves spryly compared to the proper rock album half.

On first listen, Matricidal sounds like an hour of Friedberger playing with all the buttons on his keyboards, taking no care to connect sounds or smooth the edits. Yet taken as a whole and with time, it evokes something melancholy, strange and nostalgic--equally beautiful and eerie.

It’s high-quality pop, but also highly disposable.

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

The straightforwardness of their songs recalls great indie pop bands of yesteryear like Beat Happening, but also causes some of their songs to blur together.

This disc might not change your life, but it's an undeniably solid hard rock album that proves how much credit Slash deserves for the success of his former band.

Like all Hip records, this is a snapshot of a band constantly moving away from their past and toward a strange musical unknown.

Their distinctive differences as songwriters (Emily Saliers is soft and spiritual, Amy Ray punk rock and raw) are often complementary, but sometimes the songs cry out for more input from the other.

The amoebic versions of Nirvana songs sound only unfinished and strange. If the goal was to render Cobain an artsy oddball more than a rock god with a Midas touch, then mission accomplished.

His more abstract, mellow songs don’t work as well, too often sounding like buildups to a big drop that never comes rather than completed tracks. But Greene has filled out Feel Infinite with just enough bangers to keep the momentum from lagging too much.

Unless you’re a desperate DCFC fan in need of satiation, The Open Door isn’t worth the purchase.

Fans won’t be let down by this latest collection of accomplished and almost too-smart songwriting that borrows from the classic sensibilities of piano-based jazz.

A few tunes are forgettable (Baby Rocking Medley, Hobo's Lullaby), but for the most part the album is full of gorgeous harmonies and refreshingly sparse instrumentation.

Unfortunately, few songs truly stand out. Peven Everett’s effusive turn on Strobelite is the biggest pop moment, while De La Soul fronting the pounding Momentz gives the album some early momentum.

Most of the album is kinda ho-hum and overly mild in tone, as is Pitts's voice.

A likeable, though inconsistent, record.

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

Despite Skinner’s undeniable verbal and production talents, and his online hand-wringing about embracing positivity without getting cheesy, there is something undeniably sappy about this record that won’t sit well with people expecting to hear more mockney slander about drunken gits.

Plenty of bits tug on the heartstrings, but only in the moment. Once that swelling piano ceases or Watson stops singing, the goosebumps disappear.

While angular, skittering tracks like Stutter and album opener Haircuts/Uniforms add post-punk energy and experimental variety to the album, they also kill the mood.

Fans of his ambient hip-hop and blissed-out impressionist R&B will be more pleased with Guilt Trips than those who prefer his clubby side.

Plant's voice is noticeably lower than his salad-days falsetto, and Jimmy Page's guitar sounds slicker than before, but for the most part this is the Zeppelin of yore.

There's enough decent material on Sawdust to exempt Brandon Flowers and his Vegas boys from cynical gap-filler accusations.

Excellent lyrics can’t save the record from the unnecessary length of some songs; Flesh sacrifices some of its immediacy and impact in tracks that can drift away from the point.

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

The sophistication suits the songs, which have a tragic seriousness without becoming a gloomy slog.

Understandably, he’s lost a little youthful edge: there’s no defiant Mr. Cab Driver, for example. But the songs hold up.

Despite two-thirds of the album taking risks by adding everything from saxophone to opera, the final handful of songs feel like filler. Still, Evermore: The Art Of Duality largely delivers.

The production bangs, and there are many references that'll appeal to readers of liberal non-fiction (Fast Food Nation, Chomsky, Al Gore), but some of the good Mr.'s thoughts on this future we live in are unconvincing.

This disc won't change your life but makes for a pleasant 40-minute listen.

Perry’s ballads are so unadventurous and heavy-handed (chiming U2 guitars and slow-building, reverbed drums), they start to feel like caricature anyway. Her approach works better on the feel-good half of the album made up of top-notch roller-disco anthems.

Most of the tracks sound pretty familiar, though, with just enough new tricks to avoid feeling like a complete rerun.

The musical motifs get a bit redundant, but its stylish minimalism brims with drama.

The choruses aren't quite as contagiously catchy, and they occasionally try too hard to be clever with their songwriting.

At its best, The Elected offers moments of quirky intrigue – a brassy horn here, a hidden banjo there – reminiscent of the Long Winters' chamber-pop, but in general it's a bit too safe.

Yet for a singer/songwriter who has one of the most emotive voices on the charts and mesmerizes live, the album lacks a certain swagger, thanks to super-slick pop production.

It's not the best album of Spoon's career, but it's far from a misstep.

The best songs are the few featuring Keenan's lovely voice, like Teresa, Lark Of Ascension, which serves as a sad reminder of the talent we lost.

Eraser Stargazer is full of ideas, a lot of them half-baked. But for the band, it's a courageous, wholehearted lunge into a more danceable form of convulsive mayhem, and into more elliptical and impressionistic narratives.

Devin’s single-mindedness makes for a highly unified style, and the album’s relaxed, hazy production is the aural equivalent of comfort food. But the repetition is kinda tedious for an hour of straight listening.

Calvi’s obviously got great pipes, but the EP would’ve been better if she’d made every cover unrecognizable.

Although it’s not as immediately catchy as their debut (but, hey, we’re almost saturated when it comes to revivalist bands), Glow & Behold proves they’ve got chops for a lengthy career.

The new industrial influences and heavily distorted textures work amazingly well at times, but after a few songs you find yourself longing for something resembling a melody.

The Bronx’s third self-titled album sounds a little too comfortable.

The great joints (like the anthemic Just Blaze retouch of The Champ) are outnumbered by the mediocre, and a couple of new tracks are thrown in for added buying incentive.

The production has a pristine, streamlined quality, with Grant’s vocals high in the mix, so the album’s blend of orchestral and squelchy electronic arrangements mirrors the clarity and grace with which he delivers his crude, self-lacerating ballads.

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.

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

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.

The Past We Leave Behind is lovingly crafted but too vague to live up to its title.

Oberst's political criticism is most effective when he's humble and straightforward, yet his overwrought poetics seem laughable, childish and blinkered when applied to world affairs.

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.

Someday World is an fully realized blend of electronic and acoustic sounds that elevates the mundane, austere details in the lyrics into a state of ecstasy.

This is a top 40 pop record after all, and thus errs toward deafeningly loud vocals that occasionally obliterate some of the year’s smartest pop songwriting.

Recorded in various New York studios, it has a live, intimate feel despite its overdubs.

It's easy to get lost in the pleasant, euphoric drone, but at 47 minutes the album is more of a marathon than a sprint.

There's still a welcome sense of spontaneity in the way the songs unfold; it just occurs at a Sunday-morning pace, which should make Meek Warrior the perfect soundtrack for watering houseplants.

Though he stays within his comfort zone, frontman Travis McCoy is a gifted MC who usually upstages the rest of the band members, who sound like hired hands. And Daryl Hall sings on a track. That's gotta be worth something.

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.

There's plenty to enjoy here, but very little to get worked up about.

Its darker, brooding electro, like the mesmerizing distortion-filled Round The Hairpin, represents a newer, grown-up force for the Sheffielders that’s even more seductive than lip gloss and vintage heels.