Like any growth spurt, Age contains the obligatory awkward phases, like the reggae-inflected Afterparty. But the Hidden Cameras have always taken risks, and this time the payoffs are much bigger.

A few verses drag out too long, but Drew’s storytelling remains firmly in the foreground.

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.

The production sometimes eclipses the songwriting.

Despite their brevity, the songs are repetitive, wanky and almost impossible to differentiate. They make you yearn for the days before genre cross-pollination.

Wilco drummer Glenn Kotche and Jim O’Rourke bassist Darin Gray needed three years to create, during breaks in their schedules, the unhurried dream-like expedition that is their fourth full-length album.

Taylor isn't pushing the limits of pop so much as flattening and stretching them out until they evaporate into nothingness. He creates a dreamy mood, but you may not be awake by the end.

She catchily sends up herself, her Britishness and the unlikelihood of her (likely) stardom.

There's something genuinely refreshing about smiley-faced singer/songwriter Rosie Thomas's straightforwardness.

Side A is mostly introspective threats, neurotic boasting and paranoia about enemies. Side B is the same but with a focus on women and his love life. As with most of his releases, it works perfectly--but for 25 tracks to work is undeniably impressive.

She manages to cut through generic themes to inject darker predilections with hard-sung vocals that sound downright masochistic at times.

KRS-One's wordplay remains clever and topical, especially on the anti-Auto-Tune anthem Robot, while his sanctimoniousness has been toned down to more tolerable levels. Black Moon’s Buckshot is a comfortable pairing and, although his street-savvy sound may not have aged as well as some of his Duck Down Records brethren’s, he still finds a familiar dynamic when rapping alongside old cohorts.

The tunes remain pleasantly unhurried, lush and laid-back but fail to stimulate. His small, fragile voice now seems slightly whiny and affected.

A song like AM/FM is downright uplifting, catchy and groove-heavy which, along with bucking our expectations, is always what lifted this eight-member band above the fray.

Too bad clunky lyrics hold things back at times.

It comes off like a neutered reprise of the band's decades-old spirit.

Unfortunately, singer Gary Lightbody can't resist playing it safe. He slides comfortably back into the stadium-size ballads and mushy MOR formulas that scored on their million-seller, Final Straw.

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.

The Ween/Animal Collective/early-Beck thing works on Don’t Go Phantom and You Cried Me, but you have to stomach Jookabox’s tendency to chipmunkify their voices. Still, both tracks are enjoyably balanced.

The experimentation pays off.

Fans of the Mary Chain's Suicide-meets-Shangri-Las hijinks will have an immediate connection to Sister Vanilla's sweetly sinister sound, particularly when Jim or William steps up to the microphone to add his droning vocals.

Melt doesn't sound fractured because of a glut of geographical references but because of its pieced-together nature.

The band's maturing on Kintsugi, which, if you remember the haircut and attitude of your 16-year-old self, is always a good thing.

The more conventionally New Age tracks that dominate the first half are the weakest. Things start to get interesting on Tethered In Dark, when the acoustic guitar arpeggios and synths lock together into hypnotic loops.

The central dichotomous tension is blandly predictable (loud-quiet-loud-quiet), the songwriting occasionally sharp, but its political themes--like its vocalist--are lost in the fury.

Goldsworthy’s highly layered mix of sounds maintains a pleasant balance between harder edges and winsome feel-good vibes.

While R&B artists clamour for synth-heavy, layered production by The-Dream, Danja and Jim Jonsin, Keys proves a hit album can still be made using conventional means.

The middle lags a bit, but that’s forgotten when ninth song Cold brings the breakup album home with simple piano and Brooks’s wounded singing.

The murky production sucks out some of the dynamics, but a few extra-spirited tracks push above the rest.

Through it all they maintain a charmingly chiming and cheery vibe that's probably the closest humans can get to making elf music.

Mix this lovable simplicity with brilliant guest turns by Cam’ron, Lil Wayne and Rick Ross, amazing production by the Runners and Bangladesh, and Gucci’s exhilarating turns of phrase, blunt humour and excess charisma and you’ve got rap’s album of the year.

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.

You'll find great boy-girl vocals, muted guitars and quiet but hooky pop.

The album starts strong with classic Kylie banger Into The Blue, but it suddenly succumbs to faddishness on nondescript disco tune Sexy Love and the weirdly dated dubstep track Sexercize.

The songs are all totally enjoyable, even the schmaltzier ones like Loving You, inspiring toe-tapping and appreciation for Jackson’s phenomenal vocals.

For fans of mid-tempo 90s R&B hungry from something new, Keyshia Cole is about as close as it gets to Real Love.

For every indulgent art-rock breakdown, there’s a simple pop ditty to balance it.

For an album that otherwise condemns the materialism and narcissism of the modern world, Everything Now works best when it practises what it preaches: block out the superfluous noise for direct appeals to the heart.

A perfectly enjoyable and to-the-point album that leans heavily on influences like the Cure and My Bloody Valentine.

On indie pop cut One True Love and the rollicking I Need An Angel, Wisenbaker’s gritty voice scuffs up Goodman’s buoyant one – a good thing, since she can sound static at times. That said, she’s sorely missed on the jangling track Nineties, in which Wisenbaker takes sole vocal duties but lacks the charisma to pull it off.

Production, shared by J, Young Chop and Mike WiLL Made-It among others, at times subtly nods to the menacing beats of early Three 6 Mafia but is otherwise bland.

The eclectic approach was often messy but also fresh, which can't be said for their middling sixth LP.

SZA’s lyrics are impressionistic, and her melodies arrive in fits and spurts.

While the rhythms may seem like invitations to dance--or at least sway--the lyrics are almost uniformly bleak, making Pale Fire a late contender for saddest album of the year.

If you let go of your preconceptions, what you’ll hear is a strong soul album by a mature singer who’s successfully channelling a lot of real pain in her music.

His strength has always been his versatility: he combines old-school rap with a solid singing voice and an ability to play guitar and drums. Separating these elements is a curious strategy, though his verbal and instrumental talents still show up on both sides.

The songs here are saturated with detail: ornate swirls of neoclassical lyrics, melodies that slither, then loop in on themselves, layers of sonic textures and feral noises. And too often, tunes with good bones cave in under that weight.

He’s still expanding his vocal range, but this hour of soulful, sugary funk will accompany your summer parties quite well.

The novelty disco elements are balanced by enough rock-solid grooves that the cheesier moments don’t stink up the whole thing.

The most surprising letdown, though, is vocalist Luke Top's decision to sing mainly in English, which only serves to highlight his shortcomings as a lyricist and emphasize an unfortunate nasal quality that didn't seem nearly as annoying in Hebrew.

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.

Without any clever arrangements or production gimmicks to rely on, Keys tries to compensate for the obvious shortcomings by oversinging each syllable in a way that would make Patti LaBelle cringe.

Not amazing, but steady and fun all the same.

The results are surprisingly engrossing.

Reg has matured a lot, and Jet Black is easily the most dynamic and upbeat record of his career.

Unfortunately Summers’s voice and persona just don’t suit this material.

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.

Born Ruffians’ sophomore album is a cohesive, occasionally repetitious helping of choppy indie pop, almost brutalist in its minimalist instrumentation and dry-as-a-bone production.

While sometimes dreamy and ethereal, South are able to bridge quieter moments with danceable, gloomy pop – simply speaking, a great achievement.

Jackrabbit is smart, charming and ambitious. But it would have been a lot more concise without the filler tracks in the middle.

The album wouldn't be satisfying if it was just another version of Freudian. But Caesar calls the album an experiment, and that's often what it feels like. He's still figuring it all out.

He [bandleader Anthony Gonzalez] masterfully weaves myriad sounds and structures--mainly late 70s- and early 80s-influenced--into a remarkably strong, cohesive unit.

An album that's high on good intentions but low on spark.

Three albums and 700 guitar solos later, they sound like a band becoming a bit too comfortable in their niche.

It's a better album than their last, and diehard fans should be satisfied, but it's not going to get the rest of us very excited.

LeBlanc's garbled vocal delivery only serves to obscure weak lyrics.

Haze is positioning herself as a top 40 infiltrator, which is fine, but she’s also diluted her uniqueness.

This lengthy offering comes complete with a detailed manifesto about its inspiration. Too bad it reads like your kid brother’s first ’shroom trip.

Awkward and embarrassing, the mixtape as a whole feels like a PR move to get you to listen to Nash-free embedded song Silly by new protégé Casha.

That free-form fury is a critique of the tendency to look for precise meaning in music, thereby devaluing the visceral and the emotional. But the most menacing part is the words uttered at the beginning.

A few songs recall the off-the-cuff, askew rock 'n' roll they built their name on. Others, though, are barely listenable.

Aussie collective Architecture in Helsinki return with an awkward mess of shrieking faux island riddims and embarrassing rump-shaking elasto-funk.

One Love goes surprisingly deep, but an instrumental companion disc would’ve been a nice touch.

Charlotte Gainsbourg's Beck-produced IRM was a stellar sleeper gem of an album, but this follow-up sounds tossed together.

O’Connor’s impassioned delivery elevates the most middling melodies and predictable rhymes.

Yes, all the songs are nice and pretty, but there's something missing. It could be that in 2016 there's palpable nostalgia for mid-2000s indie rock (see Wolf Parade reunion tour). But it's the actual music from a decade ago that fans are yearning for, not necessarily the newest versions of the bands themselves.

If you're only into the band for the music, then this will be a solid purchase – it's far more polished and focused than Songs About Jane. Lyrically, though, this album gets tired fast.

It could have worked, but the dated production style bogs it down.

The lyrics are brutal.

While Briedrick produces artful, not too noisy drones through vintage analog gear, Balabanian’s vocals have a distinctly soulful quality.

The songs work best individually, though, and the tune Gang Of Rhythm is admittedly stronger when paired with visuals.

While Alone is a big ol’ mishmash of varying quality, it is, for the time being, the closest any of us will get to Cuomo’s former songwriting charm.

Selway sounds like a space-age Badly Drawn Boy, only less lovable. His melodies are simplistic, his lyrics amateurish. If he weren't in the band, it'd be easy to write him off as a Radiohead rip-off.

Singer Glen Hansard moves from quiet introspection to earnest Jeremy Enigk-like wailing and back again, all the while reminding you just how rewarding a listen The Cost is.

Overall this is a testament to Wilson's endless creativity.

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.

The few folksier, guitar-plucked numbers, however, are a touch formulaic and over-familiar.

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

With an emphasis on covers, the overall mood is frustratingly lighter than Winehouse's two studio LPs. It's missing the pointed wit, energy and hard-fought candour that marked her best material, but her considerable vocal swagger is unmistakable.

It comes off sounding like a transitional recording, but with Son Volt any change is welcome.

Diamond's song selection will hardly shake anyone's world – two each by the Beatles and Randy Newman – but he has the vocal power to make many cuts his own.

Emotionally raw, [Dirty Laundry is] far more intimate than her sexier songs, proving that her best recipe for success is baring her soul rather than her bedroom secrets.

Edmonton’s the Faunts have livened up on the punctuation-happy Feel.Love.Thinking.Of., moving away from the floating dreamscape world of their filmic M4 EP.

The disc sometimes lacks sonic oomph, and the mid-section is less unique, borrowing new wave staccato guitars and sing-yelping styles from fellow Victorians Hot Hot Heat. Things pick up again at the end with three slices of relaxed indie pop.

He’s a competent emcee, especially when speaking about the struggles of young African Americans, but he’s in need of a good producer to rein him in.

On the whole, L-Shaped Man feels like a boring exercise: a band performing post-punk idolatry (Root Of The World could pass for poppier Public Image Ltd.) instead of bothering to try anything new.

Too often Bloc Party aim for an overly expansive epic Coldplay quality that compromises the focus of their songwriting.

Depeche Mode have dropped the best album of their career.