The edge is still very much here. Prefuse can still drop it apocalyptic-style, as he proves on 'Prog Version Slowly Crushed.'

Aside from a few missteps like 'Everybody Get Dangerous,' there really isn’t anything to get all pissy about here because it’s an older Weezer willing to take a few chances and still doing what they want to do.

He composes rich, intimate electronic and acoustic soundscapes that suggest myriad emotions and intriguing songwriting possibilities. As a singer, however, he's maudlin.

Considering the expensive talent involved, this is a colossal disappointment.

Her control has never been better and Jimmy Hogarth’s production provides the perfect foundation for her deeply delicate expressions.

Their lush and vivid sounds feel like a reaction to change--and the self-reckoning required to move forward.

RJ puts aside his cinematic loops to deliver his roughest and toughest beats, over which Blueprint spits the party and bullshit blues like a man watching his most celebrated contempories fiddle with iced-out jewellery while their country burns before their eyes.

Unfortunately, their sixth studio album, Anthem, has neither the undeniably sweet earworms of their first effort nor much of the catchy soul-rock they’ve produced since.

he best songs on Rize Of The Fenix address that real-life redemption story....Still, it's hard to ignore the fact that the joke is kind of stale.

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.

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

It works best when the overpowering synth lines let up and make room for experimental noises and Iwanusa’s tender voice.

While acoustically generated and devoid of any heavy electronic processing, the results are much darker and stranger than anything on Syro, with ominous detuned metallic percussion and mangled piano noises taking the place of bright, bubbling, acid synth lines.

The songs grow overly long at the end (the title track is a bit of a bore), though the album is consistently beautiful, if not always ear-catching.

If this weren’t such a disingenuous, cynical and generally creepy record, it would be something I could really get behind.

The result is a slick, accessible rap record that's about nine songs too long.

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

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.

Scott goes for spacey sounds, stoner vibes and vocal filters, but despite the eclecticism, he's too elusive and bland for Rodeo to amount to a stylistic--let alone a subversive--statement.

The wrong turns don’t sink the album but steer it into an awkward middle place unbefitting the talented group behind the wheel.

Moving further away from sugar-coated post-Idol fare, Clarkson steps up with more rockers and a few ballads that, while not all destined to be radio hits, are all convincing and emotionally bare.

His latest mundane disc lacks edge despite sometimes aiming for U2.

With the fast-maturing Stone gaining greater control of her powerful pipes and a recent breakup adding to the underlying sexual tension while stoking the creative fire, the craftily reconstituted 70s R&B concept works exceptionally well.

There are a few clunker lyrics--Grainger’s at his strongest when he’s singing about making love, not having sex--but overall it’s a worthy record from an artist who refuses to make the same one twice.

Kanye West has always been a troll but there was once an empowering, heroic quality to his narcissism. As he struggles to find his footing in a strange new world, there is still merit in a work like Ye if you can somehow look past the self-destructive celebrity behind it.

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

Embracing a wide palette of sounds helps, but beyond the occasional crunchy guitar or unexpected synth, it’s the arrangements that make this album work.

Kiesza’s so much better when she reels back her impressively ranging vocals to buttery.

Not every track is a winner, but fans of their brash debut will still find a lot to enjoy here.

If they were a little less self-conscious about their style and more comfortable with being just a good pop band, they'd have a great album in them.

The acerbic kiss-off Love Yourself feels like an honest stab at subverting the standard breakup ballad, but elsewhere his lyrics are overly concerned with righteousness and keeping things PG-rated.

Wisely, he doesn’t sing this time around, leaving that to Kenna and Phonte of Little Brother. But the tracks with guest vocals never really take off either, reinforcing the producer’s weakness as a songwriter.

There’s more softness and vulnerability than one usually associates with the Weeknd, but also his signature numbness. ... Opener Call Out My Name’s title is typical of the EP’s uninteresting lyrical approach, but he sings with a grandness that is further amplified by sturdy production choices: a buzzing bass line and waltzing drum beat that sounds recycled from hit single Earned It.

The 12 songs verge on inert, and singing is beginning to sound like a painful act for him. His lyrics, however, are inspired.

His best songs tap into the wistful-pop-anthem tradition by simultaneously exposing and celebrating the artifice of club culture.

Their fourth, Last Of Our Kind, includes some formulaic hard rock, Cheap Trick and Starship apery and flat-out misses. But it has its moments, to be sure.

Being out of control is a hallmark of Wayne’s style and what’s made him impossible to ignore for the last two years. In this crew, only Minaj’s paying attention.

The Owl City duet is a bit of a misstep, as is the Justin Bieber collaboration, but two just okay songs and 14 great ones is better than most acts can manage on their greatest hits packages, let alone their second album.

It's an accomplished record for singer Adam Levine and his faceless group, even if the whole affair sometimes sounds clinical in its approach.

On their seventh disc, the music successfully carries the message, thanks in no small part to Bowie/Morrissey/T. Rex producer extraordinaire Tony Visconti, who pumps even more life into these loud, rousing singalong choruses and driving power chords without sacrificing dynamics or naked emotion.

They may have quenched their thirst for charging rock, but it’s their mellower songs that stand out.

This could be a glimpse of a post-Interpol Banks or a hint at a musical transition within the band. It’s worth a listen either way.

The record is rife with brow-raising darts and the mindblowing beats to match, outstripping the last two Dilated records and threatening the alignment of your neck vertebrae in the process.

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.

While Tony Iommi churns out stock riffs, Devil You Know’s success largely depends on whether you can take Dio seriously--not as a vocalist (he’s one of the best in the metal game), but as a diminutive old man bellowing innocuous dungeons-and-dragons lyrics, and so unconvincingly that you have to wonder if he actually believes a single word. This record doesn’t make a strong case.

Though murky mixing obscures their incendiary songs, the overall mood of disquiet and anxiety is potent (perhaps prescient?). If only they could shape it into something with more of a jolt.

Nevertheless, I'm With You is a strong record, with Brendan's Death Song and Police Station among the highlights, especially considering the challenge of replacing Frusciante's creativity.

It may not be earth-shattering, but it’s doubtful this album will ever sound dated.

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.

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.

Those lyrics may seem slightly ridiculous, but between them and his thinly veiled metaphors for his need to perform cunnilingus (Sweet Tooth), Kelly's originality and talent for making instant club hits is un-fucking-deniable.

Two fundamental problems: he's got an incredible amount of energy, raging away in the high-pitched voice that Eminem haters can't stand, with little to say that he hasn't already said before; and the beats are often middling.

There aren't really any Beautiful People-type moments, only a collection of songs that work surprisingly well as a kind of musical diary for a performer who has finally acknowledged that he's not the threatening icon he once was.

No sophomore slumping here.

You might only remember the songs with words, but the rest of the album puts those moments in context.

Rae is prepped and, in his own focused, deliberate way, amped, but the production and arrangements are generally uninspired.

Take You High, Dance With Me and Nostalgic find her ceding the floor to a few grating drops, builds and chopped-up vocal samples as well as some trendy 80s synth rhythms. Those diversions aside, this is another Kelly Clarkson album that's all about maximizing her big steamroller of a voice.

There's nothing especially memorable on offer, and a lyrical artlessness becomes obvious as the album continues.

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.

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.

There are some pretty moments, and the production is immaculate, but it's plodding and dull for the most part.

Although Harris does her best with some tasteful harmonies to save the session from the usual Knopfler over-egging, there's only so much she can do.

Things pick up in the second half, when the lyrics become more surprising and the beats less radio-friendly. Despite some perplexing moments, there's a lot to like.

They do stick to that formula a bit too rigidly: the first half is uniform in its patterned builds, and back-to-back tracks like Hunger and Wolves Without Teeth aren't very distinguishable. But the band's near-masterful ability to weave pop sensibilities with moodiness still remains.

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

Last Night is a cool idea and a mission almost impossible.

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.

It's wildly diverse, but there's a lightness and unobtrusiveness to each song that mirrors her airy delivery while hinting at even more untapped potential.

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

Problem is, the odd hodge-podge of tracks have no apparent connection to each other and certainly don't make for a coherent statement or even a decent mixtape.

When these two dimensions come together, as on the stunningly awesome 'American Names' or 'Who Do We Care For?,' it all but erases the anguished waiting for him to finally come back around.

The album is overly long, but there's a straightforwardness to the live-and-loose party vibe that's hard to resist.

Considering it’s only 44 minutes long, MGMT’s self-titled third album feels much lengthier. This is partly due to the dense layers and constantly shifting textures, but it’s also a result of the abrasive digital distortion shrouding the psych-pop jams, making it a tiring listen even at its most melodic.

IV Play is a collection of sexy jams that falls somewhere between Usher-type bedroom music and the progressive R&B The-Dream’s great at.

Calla deal in that dark romantic narcissism guys like Nick Cave and Tom Waits are known to wallow in on record after record.

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.

Cat Power fans who aren’t familiar with the originals might be thrilled, but most everyone else will be left wondering, why bother?

A hardened, firsthand account of the preordained dire straits of the American underclass, and Waka Flocka Flame-indebted boast talk minus the charisma.

On her fifth album she mercifully avoids the monotonous dance-pop trend in favour of a timeless pop-rock sound that occasionally flirts with the dance floor.

It's more tripped-out and druggy, a looser version of the songwriting that gave Skeleton its immediate punch.

Much of her music aims to capture elusive emotions, yet she ends up spelling them out with literal refrains, banal narratives and sexed-up histrionics that leave little to the imagination.

True, there's a pop sensibility at work here that betrays their band roots, but that's exactly what makes this the kind of dance album you can actually listen to from beginning to end.

The newest disc from the once-innovative Vancouver group assaults you with 18 contrived, lazy tracks. The best is a seven-year-old re-release, 'Red Dragon,' from when Moka Only gave this outfit some class.

When the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink approach works best, Metal Moon sounds like little bits of all your favourite records glued together into one mutant disc.

It's consistently catchy, and produced with a broad enough vision so that it doesn't get repetitive.

Repeatedly tries to regenerate the neo-soul-pop formula of I Try, down to its beat pauses and rich, piano-driven arrangements.

No matter how glossy the production, it’s impossible not to notice that Simpson can’t sing well enough to carry an album, while her peppy, Avril-lite personality comes off as contrived and as obnoxious as Lavigne’s.

For all the psychedelic brilliance, though, there is just as much noisy, self-impressed jamming that could have used editing.

On their fifth album, the Get Up Kids sound like a band who resent what made them popular in the first place.

Mr. Impossible is easily Black Dice's most accessible album yet, but that's not saying much. It's still very uneasy listening.

Aside from flailing a bit at the end, the London group’s third full-length hits its mark.

You expect the worst from Police faves like Roxanne and Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic, since those tunes were tautly written, with minimal pop intricacy. But the RPCO adds an interesting melancholic layer to the former, giving it more drama, as orchestras tend to do.

His newest album, on the other hand, is all technique and no emotion.

You'd figure we'd at least get a one-off novelty track, but the flat, repetitive melodies and gimmicky rhymes even fail to do that.

He’s much better at showing off his record collection on the well-chilled "Ice Castles," which purports to be a James Pants mix disc.

Unfortunately, the "deluxe edition" is bloated with filler, and the shorter "standard edition" omits some of the more creative songs instead of dropping the duds.

Convinced he's some kind of rock revivalist, he's more Bob Seger, Skynyrd and Hank Jr. than anything else here. That works in his favour for most of the album, aside from a few misses like the generically foot-stompin' 'So Hot' and the gospel-infused singalong 'Don't Tell Me U Love Me.'