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.

Gucci's head-down focus on honing his signature sound is admirable, but the monosyllabic stuntin' gets old fast, and flashes of lyrical or melodic invention are scant. Disappointing coming from a man with an ice cream cone face tattoo.

It appears Patti Smith could've benefited from an outside observer when choosing songs.

The album is laden with a nostalgic longing that’s never as compelling as the cinematic leanings.

Without a doubt, this is his poppiest album--but he still holds on to his penchant for a good vocal-less groove.

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

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

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.

It's wrapped in a confused concept--future lovers (the album title's characters) under siege by some kind of dystopian oppression--but several tunes will surely ignite stadium masses.

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.

Pagans In Vegas may not be the strongest entry in the Metric canon, but the juxtaposition of Emily Haines's robot-girl vocals and pointed lyrics with dark yet hooky melodies remains a winning combination.

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.

Much of his old work still sounds more vital.

There’s something romantic and relatable in the simplicity, showcased best on the lively, poppy folk song in his native Spanish, Escucho Mucho.

It's a beautiful record, but perhaps not the evolution expected after a four-year break.

It sounds like the producers are all competing to drum up the best variation on Ciara's patented Crunk N' B theme.

Redundant, needlessly long, Those The Brokes rarely matches the 60s California-dreamin' good-vibes pop of its successful self-titled predecessor.

Some of the hunger and electricity he displayed in his pre-prison era seems to have diminished. This is something to tide people over until his next record, not an artistic statement by any means.

Grainger and Keeler are now more than six years into their reunion, but it’s still hard to listen to these songs without making knee-jerk comparisons to their early work (which, let’s face it, offered more thrills). That being said, Outrage! Is Now shows that they’ve shifted into a new phase of their career – one in which they’ve honed their craft and matured into seasoned pros.

Unbearably bland.

A pretty lightweight disc.

Woomble... shows an innate inability to keep pace, vocally and emotionally, with the thrusting guitars, driving drums and push toward intensity the band bids for.

This album is back-to-basics rock and soul; you won’t find any further ploys to appease contemporary audiences, and therein lies its charm.

Ward's writing--though universal and singalongable--sometimes suffers from vagueness and clichéd rhymes. He should have a bit more faith in his audience, because Hope is most interesting when it strays a little from this formula.

Frances McKee and Eugene Kelly had randy sides to them back in the 80s, and that hasn't abated.

The tunes mostly stick to a low-tempo, shuffling formula, though Bridges gets a chance to stretch a bit in a few scattershot moments of idiosyncrasy.

While a couple of catchy turns of phrase compensate for some elementary rhymes, there aren't enough hooks to make the songs memorable.

More for the dedicated convert than the curious.

All the tracks on her eighth studio album, Our Bright Future, are as clear as her voice, and the lyrics are simple and honest.

Kasher has zero ability to or interest in dialing down his drama and giving Cursive’s highbrow emo rock room to breathe.

The sparse songs are free of drums, bass, riffs and obvious choruses, and are often pushed along by just two, sometimes three, chords.

Sadly, this landfill isn't biodegradable.

Her 11th album is full of potential hits (and not too many boring mid-tempo plodders). Unfortunately, there's nothing quite as catchy here as 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head,' although a few tracks come close.

Different Gear, Still Speeding is rife with the catchy, strum-intensive songs and nasal John Lennon impression the band was first known for.

It’s refreshing to hear O sing so delicately--a contrast to the over-the-top persona of her slick main gig--we wish she’d let the heartbreak linger a few moments longer.

The pitch-correction software is alive and well even on this record.... This glaring inconsistency is the least of BP3’s missteps.

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

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

Not every song succeeds, and the best moments tend to be the danciest.

Kiss Land is proof for the unconvinced: the Weeknd is a star whether he wants to be or not.

Overall, Hard Candy sounds a bit too much like Madonna’s trying to catch up with the American R&B princesses. Having said that, she holds her own for the most part, and when her own voice shines through, she reminds us why she’s outlasted so many.

Their clear evolution in terms of talent and ability is more than evident on songs like Firebreather and The Whaler. Between that and some pretty sweet packaging and liner notes, this is likely their best to date.

The Kooks seem unable to get beyond the Brit-rock blueprint.

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.

The most listenable song is the Chavril duet Let Me Go, which has zero of either musician’s “edge” and a whole lot of adult contemporary schmaltz.

They've made a sophisticated, thinking listener's indie-pop record.

Molko still manages to carry songs with his affected, nasal delivery as the band provides a steady backbone.

Love 2, their sixth studio album, continues on this path, though its empty lyrics and overall cheesiness do grate.

In the end, Horses is another addition to a catalogue short on standouts.

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

Each song is full of sonic acrobatics--sometimes glimmering, other times glitchy, but it's Weaver's voice that provides the heart and soul.

The result is tunes that are pleasant more often than arresting, tailor-made for playing quietly in the kitchen.

The concept's fine, but the results are more self-indulgent and boring than challenging. For Sonic Youth obsessives only.

Skrillex-produced banger Go Off, Blaqstarr-assisted Bird Song and Visa are solid electro-rap party jams that also reference some of her past hits, while low-key dancehall track Foreign Friend and clubby Fly Pirate are among the handful of cuts that get stuck in filler territory.

It's good enough to impress fans of David Gray and Coldplay.

A floundering mess that bores you to tears.

Some nice instrumentation, with mandolin and other strings makes for an odd juxtaposition with the stunningly inane lyrics.

For all the wank and bluster throughout the album’s 14 tracks, the bottom line is that the shit simply doesn’t rock.

Here I Am concerns itself with the kind of bland, radio-friendly R&B pop that equates sex appeal with self-confidence.

A chameleon with an endless stream of alter egos and the vocal chops to pull them all off.

The trio lose their equilibrium on Maniacs: a flashy keyboard solo hijacks the song and takes it to a cheesy place. But even when songs swing too deep in that direction, Lobsinger’s steady, breathy vocals keep things grounded.

TBS's main problem is that they write precisely two kinds of songs: energetic pop rock with whiny vocals, and midtempo power rock, again with whiny vocals.

It's never a bad thing to be concise in your songcraft, but this album reveals that Plants And Animals are best when not over-thinking things.

Most of the album is moronic Mike Love nostalgia that makes Kokomo sound good in retrospect.

Some songs start out peppy and intriguing, but his moaning over top sucks all the life out of the groove.

Taking cues from disco and synth-pop, TOPS are better suited to drifting and daydreaming than dancing.

Too often these songs sound like Death Cab B-sides, like the 'I Will Follow You Into The Dark'-mining 'A Bird Is A Song.'

Hungry Bird is tired, unvaried and dull, possibly because the band’s dissolved and reformed many times since 1991, with singer/songwriter/guitarist Eef Barzelay the only constant.

There's nothing musically redeemable about My God Is Blue.

You get what sounds like Karl Hyde doing freestyle slam poetry overtop of dull beats on 'Ring Road.' 'Crocodile' starts off promising but then gives up and becomes a backdrop for a one-syllable nightclub with white sofas.

No No No's a pleasantly nostalgic experience, but ultimately it feels insubstantial.

This is unabashedly a pop album, full of big melodies and simple metaphors, that adds just a bit of analog fuzz to her usually pristine sound.

There is some insubstantial filler here, but more often than not, E = MC2 hits the mark.

Goodbye's overall prettiness is both its weakness and its strength; the album is pleasant but blends into the background a bit too easily.

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

The Followill boys were experimenting and started leading us somewhere. The fact that Come Around Sundown falls short, then, is all the more disappointing.

Spears is immersed in an often trite, intensely narcissistic look at her existence, crafted almost entirely by songwriters other than herself. That’s not to say that some of the songs aren’t catchy or danceable, but they’re wasted on a singer who brings no real personality along for the ride.

A few breakdowns and builds fly off the rails on the clubbier numbers, but the better songs balance shiny, modern production with exuberant melodies and timeless songwriting.

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.

Artists who put out album sequels are often criticized for trying to capitalize on a classic work. No one will accuse G-Unit lieutenant Lloyd Banks of that with the second instalment of his uneven debut.

There's tons of potential here, even if the disc feels like a work in progress.

A record that finely straddles his gruff past and glitzier present. DJ Toomp buoys T.I. on Trap Back Jumpin. An incandescent collaboration with André 3000 balances out an unfortunate Pink cameo.

So instead of rehashing Cosmic Thing for an ill-fated comeback banking on nostalgia, guitarist Keith Strickland learned Pro Tools, bought some electro records and voila: the B-52’s have a contemporary dance-rock record. Startlingly, this works.

¡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.

People who like him, rejoice. Those who don't may continue to live without his music.

The whole album lacks focus. Williams jumps around from big band to Pet Shop Boys electro to piano ballads to easy rocking. The one common thread is overproduction.

The bigger problem is an overall lack of energy; there are only so many mid-tempo middle-of-the-road psych-pop songs you can listen to before starting to watch the clock.

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

If you haven't encountered Jenkinson's strange world of jazz-fusion-hardcore before, this is a decent starting point, and if you're more into the jazz funk than the digital hardcore, this is one of his less abrasive outings.

As the title suggests, the band is evolving gradually rather than in dramatic swells.

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.

Isis is an actual MC with real hip-hop history and skills, who, in between throwaway odes to ass-shaking, manages to tell some stories and flesh out some characters. That, coupled with Grahm Zilla’s versatile approach to beat production, puts them far ahead of the pack.

Despite a more eclectic stylistic palette, his sophomore Puscifer album is just as moody and dramatic as those other projects.

Miller's compositions are typically well crafted and slightly artier than what you'd hear on, say, a Josh Groban disc, but this isn't too far off that sort of pouty boy bellowing.

It’s an album of spare and precise beauty, and when it was over I really wanted to see the film.

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.

Sam's Town works well as a cohesive album, despite its delusions of grandeur.