With this balanced collection of solid rockers, more airy, toned-down tracks and far less self-indulgent noodling, Oasis prove they can learn from their mistakes.

The Nashville band’s ninth studio album is definitely sleepy and nuanced, only Wagner’s halted singing is disintegrating further into the background as the overall sound inches closer to adult contemporary.

Ultimately rewarding for indie enthusiasts up for a challenge, Offend might leave more pedestrian listeners scratching their heads.

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

City Of Refuge’s 15 tracks are uneven in both length and musical depth--one track, 'High Plain 3,' is just a minute and 31 seconds of quiet, droning ambient static--yet the record plays out like the cohesive score to a postmodern, post-apocalyptic western.

There’s a reason why this Toronto band is capturing the imagination of critics and fans all over the world: they’ve reinvigorated the form and stretched its limits in genuinely novel ways, and for the most part their experiments actually hit their mark.

Ultimately, LOT’s songs will dictate their trajectory, and principal songwriter Liz Powell sounds mostly up to the task.

This EP, a teaser of what to expect from the full-length album scheduled for January, sees the vocalist reining in some of his more histrionic tendencies while expanding his palette of influences and sounds.

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

They’ve set their laser harp on “snooze” and come up with a yawn-inspiring set of digital whoosh over which to chant some nonsense that at best resembles the Chemical Brothers at their worst.

It’s a totally mellow set where flute often takes precedence over guitar. Thankfully, Ejstes’s tight arrangements leave little room for wankery, and none of the songs deal with flying dragons.

His major-label debut after years on Def Jux feels status quo for the most part, and new labelmates will.i.am and Snoop only dilute his product with lazy cameos. But there’s still much to admire about Mur’s campaign to turn on some heads.

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.

You won’t find many dance-floor fillers here, and on that level this album comes closer to Junior Boys’ wistful electro ballads than to Metro Area’s laid-back club magic.

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.

For the most part the record is a sluggish mess of sweeping guitars and stoner-rock sounds, not unlike what you might hear at a high school talent show.

The most engaging film characters have likeable qualities that conflict with something that’s inherently hard to stomach. Brooklyn’s TV on the Radio masterfully employ this tension in Dear Science,--apparently their major breakthrough album.

As it turns out, Scherzinger’s not interesting enough on her own, so she’s padding out her shtick with four glorified backup singers in tow.

They’ve topped up every track with so many hooks and contemporary indie rock clichés that their new songs sometimes go right past catchy into corny.

The Hungry Saw may make Leonard Cohen’s stuff sound positively giddy, but it’s a positive turn for the Tindersticks.

Gift proves that Lindsey Buckingham’s knack for writing catchy pop-rock chord changes is alive and well.

This is instant vintage.

It’s sure not a knockout, but it’s his hardest-hitting album yet. Just don’t call it a comeback.

Angelakos’s Hot Chip-meets-MGMT sound also works on I’ve Got Your Number. His distinctive vocals backfire only on the too-cutesy Cuddle Fuddle.

Their latest successfully revisits elements of their thrash-metal prime, eschewing bloated self-indulgence for straight-up head-banging aggression, with decent riffs to match, thanks in no small part to producer Rick Rubin.

Butler might consider himself lucky he got out when he did, as Tricky’s ideas are scattered all over the place and Knowle West Boy is mostly a mess.

Nothing terribly new or unexpected to report, just a more direct way of expressing not so adventurous ideas.

Despite a few uncomfortable moments, the Brighton trio turn in another solid effort.

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.

This is just silly fun and quite heartwarming in a goofy way – well, as long as you’re not horrified by the idea of your little miracle joyfully singing along to songs about farts.

Once again Steve Albini-produced, their third effort doesn’t stray wildly from Matt’s laid-back vocals and the intertwining melodic guitar parts they’re now known for, but there is at least one effort to evolve.

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.

With help from bandmates Eric Fisher and Jenna Conrad, his eighth full-length could be the album to finally propel the little known guitarist to Arcade Fire-like heights.

Ultimately, your appreciation of the quaintly crafted pop ditties on Soft Airplane will depend on your tolerance for listening to an adult male trying to sound like a naive little boy.

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.

It appears that Wilson came up with a couple of tunes about his own troubled life but realized it might be too much of a bummer, so he tacked on a few happy-sappy Beach Boys throwbacks to make for a sunny little song cycle about a magical place filled with sun, sand and surfer girls.

Surprisingly, it’s a light and catchy bunch of convincing hip-hop- and R&B-influenced Timberlake-esque club pop.

Provisions is a haunting, alt-countryish record that’s not unlike the Silver Jews’ latest work.

His clever quips, wonky wordplay, raunchy voice and oddball timing combine into something beyond reproduction by anybody, not that any other MC is daring enough to try doing this type of grimy, soulful crunk-hop

Instead of moving forward with a bold new sound, they seem lost and confused, eventually reverting to the sprawling space rock jams of their early years, which may be their comfort zone.

You’d think this might get messy, but the arrangements are so thoughtful that the result is sweeping and astonishing.

At 19 tracks, LAX is bloated and uneven, more often than not marked by weak beats and uninspired appearances. The Game’s skill and wit alone save this from being a complete disaster.

More importantly, though, the songs still totally fucking rock.

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

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.

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.

This album feels firmly in the gutter, and that’s a positive for slurring Dylan-phile Hamilton Leithauser, who moans and wails throughout, ruminating about lost friends and lovers while the guitars pour reverb-drenched notes over his sepia moments.

If the lyrics were cleverer, they might work as a critique of vacant rock culture, but instead they come across as the embodiment of what they profess to be sneering at.

The hooks and charm of their epic debut, "Logic Will Break Your Heart," were decidedly missing from their 2006 sophomore effort, "Without Feathers," but Oceans Will Rise marks a partial return to form for the Montreal quartet.

This isn’t exactly Johnny Cash doing Nine Inch Nails, but it’s a helluva lot better than you might expect.

When you consider that the first song is only a minute shy of half an hour long, this collection of epic ambient disco revisionism definitely counts as a full-fledged artistic statement.

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

Death Vessel have come up with a uniformly bland set of delicate ditties for Nothing Is Precious Enough For Us that are lightly strummed in a way that’s so frightfully fey, it could make José González want to rip Thibodeau’s guitar from his hands and smash it against the wall John Belushi-style.

The record has a strong holiday flavour, so if you’re the type who gets nauseated by reindeer talk in March, maybe wait till December to play this.

It’s just the sort of gently strummed, sweetly harmonized and vaguely familiar-sounding pop music replete with quirky lyrical turns that is designed to make indie-rock-obsessed music hacks swoon. And they will.

Alphabets picks up where Animal Planet left off and the devastating Labels began in 1995, but it suffers from the law of diminishing returns.

Overall, the gangsta bravado and rabble-rousing sound uninspired and too familiar.

It even sounds like producer Ted Hutt tried to mimic Jon Landau’s production, since singer Brian Fallon sounds like he’s singing through vintage mics. It works incredibly well, though, as Gaslight earnestly blast through 12 tracks of melodic punk.

Simply Grand is the perfect showcase for Thomas’s impressive range and understated power.

The results are mixed--a few brilliantly sleazy moments but too few to make this album as good as we’d hoped.

There’s a sense of playfulness on I Don’t Wanna Die (In The Hospital) and NYC – Gone, Gone that’s missing from Cassadaga, and enough catchiness to keep radio stations happy (even if said track happens to be an ominous ode to a dying boy), but it’s on the achingly simplest of songs where Oberst’s familiar splenetic growl returns at last.

For everybody else, an album of atmospheric repetitions and meandering jams likely won’t be overly exciting.

The biggest problem beyond the recycled rhymes is the production. There are lots of beatsmiths on hand here, but none even come close to doing what the Neptunes did for them on their proper albums.

By rights, this should feel cloyingly sentimental, but Vandervelde’s musical virtuosity means it’s beguilingly exotic, particularly album opener 'I Will Be Fine'--an insomniac’s echoey hymn to the pre-dawn hours.

Well sharp.

While they could tone down the synth on their next effort, this disc definitely lives up to the hype.

No sophomore slumping here.

Great sleepy Sunday-afternoon music, but it could have been more than that.

These three suites get under your skin in a good way, none more so than the final track, a haunting gothic tale of sororicide sung by fellow Vermonter Sam Amidon.

Gillespie will definitely need it [a new Mamma Mia-loving audience] once long-time-Primals fans hear all the twee synth-tweaked frivolity and snappy handclaps where the sleazy, distorted rock ’n’ roll jams should’ve been.

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.

Those who’ve come to associate him with theme songs to bad car commercials should check his reawakening on this late-career turnaround.

Everything moves in linear fashion backwards, with only Danger Mouse’s bold battering saving Beck from a horrifying relapse into dreary Sea Change melancholia.

Don’t count on hearing any lively back-and-forth exchanges, though, they’re clearly too respectful of each other to risk stepping on any toes in public.

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.

It’s slightly less menacing, yet without a discernible drop in power, which should go down well in the burbs without alienating their hipster metal following.

The insightful tunes are cleverly composed, with a sharp sense of wit and a comprehensive knowledge of the game.

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

Sure, the beats bang like crazy, but the songs are emotionally hollow, thematically one-dimen­sional and conceptually lifeless.

'Buzzards And Crows' is a natural opener with its whirly fairground sounds, and 'The North' is a pleasant enough ballad, but when Barat croons, “Yeah, I get the fear, but I couldn’t be bothered” (just one of the many incomprehensibly suburban lyrics in this forgettable collection), the sheer laziness says it all.

A track like 'Weed, Blow, Pills' shamelessly promotes narcotics and, even worse, goes Mike Jones on us to get its redundant point across, ultimately cementing the main problem with this album: nauseating repetition.

While there are still plenty of swooshing sounds and heady instrumentation, it’s refreshing to see that Sigur Rós can do more than create aural landscapes.

I have seen Esco­vedo’s future, and its sound is rock ’n’ roll.

Without shattering any paradigms, they’ve assembled a very listenable collection of songs that’d be a welcome addition to a Starbucks summer playlist.

For Mötley Crüe, every new record is a Faustian deal: their former glory as 80s hair-metal badasses in exchange for sustained economic success in a diminished, lame-ified state.

The surprising question about the new recording by the RZA as alter ego Bobby Digital is not whether the outlandish masked get-ups, goofy comic strip scenarios and uninspired rhymes will undermine his credibility as the Wu Tang overlord, but whether he’s lost his production touch.

G. Love sounds at home pouring his heart out about his grandmother and making bong-smoker anthems, but a few numbers sound clichéd.

If this isn’t the band’s best yet, it’s still damn good.

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.

Thankfully, At Mount Zoomer is a formidable collection of catchy indie art-rock that won’t disappoint fans of their acclaimed debut.

The bulk of Boys is sufficiently well put together; the generally witty pop walks that tricky line between edginess and accessibility.

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

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

She’s often at her best alone with an acoustic guitar instead of ornamented with retro R&B references. It’s easy to want to dislike something that the UK press, Perez Hilton and Kanye West are telling you to like, but Adele shows some real talent.

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 adulterously titled I Know You’re Married But I’ve Got Feelings Too, which certainly has its issues, comes across as more grounded, learned and confident.

Scattered and uneven, but not without its charms.

While Morissette’s weaknesses are the same--her lyrics are still overwrought, as though torn from some broken-hearted schoolgirl’s diary-–this disc is an easier pill to swallow than her last couple.