Under 30 minutes long, Badlands is a short burst of concentrated energy that gradually slides into less compelling instrumental murk.

The transitions throughout that first track aren't as seamless as you'd expect from Hebden, but they're also what keeps the music from slipping into the background.

The five tracks amble and pulsate and plod along in a way that feels consistent with the band and the genre.

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

Overall, as safe as Highway might be, there's no way long-time fans won't buy it.

There are some really gorgeous moments here, as on sleepy waltz 'Don’t Watch Me Dancing' and beautiful lazy closer 'Evaporar,' but overall the album comes off as an incomplete and thrown-together hobby project.

Rae's languid enunciation gets lost on faster tracks, and on Caramel and Night her vocal style shifts to a heavy-handed singer/songwriter coffee house/lullaby mode. Most captivating are the moments when she returns to exploring the thrill of vulnerability on Hey, I Won't Break Your Heart; emotional standoffs on Been To The Moon; and anxiety-inducing ruminations on Do You Ever Think of Me?

The album would feel more complete if they’d included at least one nod to the warped pop music that made them famous.

Despite the production side's strengths, Two Eleven's themes and lyrics are ho-hum.

Sadly, co-executive producer Erick Sermon is behind many tracks, and his are the most conventional and weakest of the bunch.

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.

Tensnake mostly favours brisk tempos, though the sultry ballad 58bpm makes you wish he slowed the pace more often.

It isn’t until album closer Spring Fever that you get a sense of how much further the band could’ve pushed the experimentalism.

They certainly keep up appearances on their 15th album, their troubles not for a second interfering with these 11 songs, the longest of which lasts three minutes and 41 seconds.

Not amazing, but steady and fun all the same.

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.

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.

Caracal is consistently good but also feels manicured and safe.

The album as a whole drags a little. But the softness of Kline’s vocals and the instrumentation anchoring her lyrics and stories make up for it.

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.

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

Despite a few tripped-out pop gems, the album is largely what you'd expect to hear after gazing into Moss's glassy eyes: a classic sound but not a classic record.

The patient, thoughtful strokes here are sometimes interesting but rarely exciting.

Too bad the most inspired songs are all stacked together on the first half; the record loses steam halfway through.

[The album] is not in the same league as his magnificent 2004 debut, Get Lifted. But Love In The Future, boasting production and writing credits by Kanye West, still has plenty of beautiful moments.

It's not what anyone is hoping for from Harry, but the highlights are decent enough to keep hardcore Blondie fans satiated until she finds some collaborators worthy of her talent.

Though not nearly as stunning as its predecessor, Infestissumam still has excellent moments, many courtesy of the rhythm section.

The lyrics are vivid and occasionally rote in their romanticism, but the formlessness of Endless is deceptive.

It's nice to hear De La Soul stretching themselves creatively, and even the less successful detours are interesting additions to an already eclectic catalogue.

The eerie voice blend still sends the occasional chill up the spine, and their songwriting continues to capture the painful earnestness of youth, but it all feels a bit staged.

Turns out they’re adept at sad, moody ambience. Wish they tried it a little more often.

His latest, Love in Beats, is his most seamless collision yet. That harmony is thanks to the unified vision that comes with having two producers on the project: Omar and his brother Scratch Professor.

Subtlety isn't the band's forte, but they sure know how to make an ostensibly stripped-down rock song enormous.

It's a disappointing underachievement.

10,000 Days sounds messy and poorly paced.

It's obvious Morrison was going for an early-50s throwback vibe, complete with oohing chorus singers and a forthright pedal steel twang, but it comes off more like a western-exotica caricature than the genuine article.

Blake's songs are built around a single typically melancholic lyric and melody that he works over, kind of like an R&B singer, while gradually switching stylistic gears.

There's no grand resolution on Tired Of Tomorrow, but you can't help but hope Palermo finds some peace in all the noise. That's what making noise is for.

There are a few jangly throwbacks for nostalgia’s sake interspersed throughout Accelerate, but they’re overshadowed by blustery guitar blather that shouts “anachronism” at every turn.

While the dancehall-inflected 'Dirty Disco Dub' suffers from cheesy vocal samples, the second half of the record settles down into better but still well-trod territory reminiscent of better Aphex Twin and Brian Eno.

The album's production work is predictable, and its high-concept narratives (Hold Me Back, Diced Pineapples) are painfully over thought.

Unfortunately, his songwriting isn’t much better, which is surprising given the catchy, melodic bass lines he’s consistently laid down at his day job.

Too bad the missteps and poorly executed collaborations stink badly enough to make the borderline stupid/genius party rockers get tainted by proximity.

Unlikely to win over any feminists, or win any literary prizes, Here We Stand’s main problem is being overlong and under-chorused.

The 25-year-old Earle may have the false front teeth to show for his hard livin’, but he hasn’t yet figured out how to translate it into unique, memorable songs.

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

What he winds up with is an unfocused yet sonically balanced mess.

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

The end result is a safe, predictable record that could very well be Metallica-lite (like the new Metallica), in addition to being pretty close to silly.

Drake's hooks are flimsy and irritating. His long-winded emo choruses gnaw at your brain. He complains about fame way too much. He mentions Kelsey Grammer for no reason. He's completely humourless. Worst of all, he sounds like a frog – not like Kermit in Rainbow Connection, but actual croaking.

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

Just cold, robotic electro beats with Wiley's aggressive cockney flows on the usual subjects.

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

While the concept is inspired and resoundingly current, the jangly blues-bar rock seems an afterthought.

This disc is dullsville.

There’s a built-in redundancy to a Linkin Park remix album. Their music already sounds like hard rock that’s been tweaked by a knowledgable 15-year-old on his first laptop.

Andorra feels downhearted, often recalling Elliott Smith; even on 'She's The One,' a collabo with Junior Boys's Jeremy Greenspan, it sounds like she's a real drag.

While the production displays a genuine level of talent, including excellent drummer Atom Willard, just about every song teases with potential before going absolutely nowhere.

Sadly, Talk About Body has the flat, dated electro-pop sound of Le Tigre, who are still a few years away from needing a rebirth.

Much of the record is stuck in a good but not great sound from 10 years back.

Henry, fresh from co-producing the Knocked Up soundtrack, doesn't have an exceptional voice. It's croaky, with little range, and the piano- and acoustic-based music on Civilians (out Sept 11) is kept unobtrusive, serving his writerly lyrics well.

Quicken The Heart, however, goes nowhere new and hardly bests its predecessor.

He seems bent on making a career out of his adolescent emotional turmoil, resulting in a thematically stagnant, myopic and ultimately immature record.

Whatever the case, Ratitude is both a clunker and a fitting end to a decade in which Weezer continuously spiralled downward.

¡Tré! offers a few ballads, swelling string-laden anthems and even a six-minute medley à la American Idiot--styles that once represented a new aesthetic for the band but now sound forced and exhausted.

She’s become her own worst nightmare – boring.

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

It's all a bit of a muddle.

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.

Best are her vocals – as strong, clear and distinct as ever – and the energy she infuses into the songs. If she's grown tired of her shtick, you'd never guess it.

The lyrics are brutal.

A sense of mood or inner life is glimpsed. But by that point [the final third of the album], it just seems like an echo of past glories.

A pretty lightweight disc.

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

[The] fourth LP is lazy through and through despite throwing up waves of explosive sex-and-death rock and roll.

Love, Hate And Then There’s You isn’t entirely devoid of entertainment value--Stollsteimer’s misguided attempts to replicate the successful sound of the Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand, the Strokes and other alt-rock radio staples at the time these songs were conceived turns out to be quite funny, however unintentional the humour.

Most of Shock Value confirms that Timbaland is most valuable when he's in the background.

The gusto with which Springsteen delivers the many verses of Froggie Went A-Courtin' leaves me wondering if the millionaire everyman is simply unaware that his country is at war.

Ambitious, high-concept albums are one thing, but Posse's just a boring mess.

Garbage still have a knack for placing sticky hooks behind walls of guitar sheen, but when they slow down on Beloved Freak and the title track ballad, the results get a bit cringy.

This time Karl Hyde and Rick Smith team up with a revolving cast of dance producers (Appleblim, Al Tourettes, High Contrast), hoping one of the many approaches to rock-meets-techno will again produce a bankable hit. Surprise! That doesn't happen.

Sure, your tweenage little sister will probably love this album, but I’m sorry, if she was even partially aware of hiphop and R&B music for the last decade or so, she’d know how much pilfered production and recycled rap is crafted here.

To make listeners' hearts melt, there's a lullaby for Joel's daughter, Harlow, a bit of a cynical move when most of the album is about sleeping with other radio stars, getting wasted like it's your birthday and getting wasted, sleeping with someone, blacking out and thinking it was the best night of your life.

Lyrics are heavy-handed (especially on the Papa Don't Preach rip-off Keeping My Baby), melodies are forgettable, and her voice has little charm or personality. Disappointing.

The music still branches off into proggy places, especially in the latter half, but nothing hits hard or is remotely memorable.

It seems like they decided to go whole hog with the Duran Duran template. Not the best strategy, considering it isn't even working for Le Bon and company any more.

His usually formidable voice could have saved it, but he often sounds like he's struggling to hit the notes.

Like the Double Down monstrosity, the first bite is an odd mix of tasty and disgusting, but by the end of it you just feel ill and ashamed.

Overall, the impression is of an assembly-line product manufactured on a Monday morning or Friday afternoon.

Too often it feels as if they’re all going through the motions, opting to play it safe, while Oberst himself seems bored and uninterested.

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.

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

Occasionally beautiful, often irritating.

While the minimal production and closely miked vocals on her debut emphasized the pop hooks and her fragile voice, Li and producer Bjorn Yttling (Peter, Bjorn & John) give listeners a more all-encompassing, if familiar, sound on Wounded Rhymes, nestling her vocals amidst girl-group harmonies, psych organ and shambolic percussion.

There is an unexciting emphasis on precision and minimalism that saps the emotional heat from an otherwise interesting fusion of styles and sounds.

An album that vacillates between raucous and refined without losing sight of the dance floor.

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.

Unfortunately, the grand concept appears to have been a bit too ambitious for the 24-year-old Newsom and her associates to pull off, since what she plucks and sings in her little-girl-lost warble never seems entirely integrated with the hovering orchestral parts that sound like bleed-over from a symphony rehearsal in the room next door.