For all its unexpected sounds and catchy choruses, Emotion falters in its lyrical blandness.

The occasional “segues” throughout the record recall Fantastic Planet and although they help give it some variety and atmosphere, they also feel like too much of a throwback rather than helping The Heart Is A Monster stands on its own.

It’s the band’s plainest meta-record yet: a recording that calls deliberate attention to its own materiality as a recording.

With Love Is Free, Robyn once again shows she can bring together discerning dance snobs and accessible-pop fans.

Compton is easily his most introspective album.

It has some of the year’s best country songs, plus a groove-heavy take on the Bee Gees’ classic To Love Somebody.

The Richmond, Virginia, metal five-piece churn out their most extreme record in a long time.

There’s a constant push and pull between the sometimes ridiculous aspects of classic hard rock and his more serious artistic and political concerns, and while it’s often unclear when he’s joking, that tension is exactly what makes it all work.

The vocals, which in the past did a lot with a little and felt incantatory, androgynous and liminal, now sound uncannily like Linkin Park’s Chester Bennington, a pseudo-teenaged smirk behind the frown.

Y Dydd Olaf’s beautifully layered sounds and rhythms convey a tightly conceived sonic world full of endless ideas, even if you can’t understand the lyrics.

It’s a challenging album, one you might not put on often.

Georgia evokes a skittering, glazed-over slice of up-all-night club life on her moody, uneven debut.

Like many of Romano's meticulous creations, it possesses all the hallmarks of a classic: a compelling, twisting narrative that bends the music to its shape.

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.

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.

Dark Bird Is Home sounds carefully constructed, and Matsson keeps things simple rather than making easy moves toward a grandeur that could bury his songcraft.

Emotional, stunning and one of the strongest debuts of the year so far.

Blood struggles to shift out of platitude territory with lyrics fixated on horizons, stars and sunsets, and it soon becomes apparent that La Havas is content not to go much deeper than vague universalism requires.

There's not much that's accessible about The Most Lamentable Tragedy, but that's a good thing.

Universes builds on that vibe [of a late-night P.A. set] with exuberant bangers full of snappy, discofied drums, repetitive phrases and dusty funk that could fit nicely into a DJ set of classic Philly soul re-edits or slickly produced tracks from the current UK garage revival.

The crisp production makes this more accessible to newbies, but it’s definitely still a Souleyman album, successfully capturing the raw, unbridled energy that’s fuelled his jump from the wedding party circuit to indie rock festivals.

Songs are summery and bright, a more apt soundtrack to a road trip across Prince Edward County than to a night at an underground club.

In lieu of artistry or any semblance of lyrical spark, DST offers monotonous production and relentless chanting.

It’s also the best Wilco album in a minute, and that’s largely due to its leanness (the run time is just over 30 minutes) and masterfully arranged pop tunes.

What it lacks is an interesting emotional--and thus truly cinematic--dimension.

A perfect balancing act.

The 15 songs are relatively short by ambient standards, which makes the album feel like a collection of sketches.

The whole thing has a beautiful and unexpected tenderness to it.

A couple of songs, like How To Forget, are well written but not quite interesting enough musically. Still, this album proves that Isbell is still one of the best songwriters in his genre.

The band makes focused noise with pop undertones, and their new record is undeniably grand.

Diversifying is a good plan, seeing as this kind of thrashy, mid-fi guitar pop can all melt together. Thankfully, the sugary keyboards and furious, to-the-point guitar solos (and guitarmonies!) cause most of the songs to shred in their own special way.

Whether Hill's singing or rapping, the fearlessness and tempestuous drama in her voice are palpable--and matched by equally raw accompaniment that makes many of the other cuts sound a little too clean by comparison.

There's much at play here--personalities, loud/soft dynamics, noise vs melody--and Williams and Baldi strike just the right balance.

The revelatory stuff is contextual.... One of the greatest rock records ever.

Gordon and Post haven't missed a beat. In fact, they might be better than ever.

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.

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

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.

Always good for a spirited rock song, he infuses Patty Don't You Put Me Down with narrative wit and charge that recalls contemporary Bob Dylan. We're all lucky that Thompson is on fire these days.

They've reused almost every song from their EP. But that's forgivable when the band manages a knockout with almost every punch.

Like so much of his work, Staples lures us in with stylized storytelling and production (here, primarily overseen by No I.D.) but then hits hard with a jarring line like "They found another dead body in the alley."

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

The aggressive push into overblown choruses drowns the warmth and personality of his production work.

All the emphasis on getting the realness down doesn't distract from Bridges's butter-smooth vocals and inventive phrasing. Instead, the understated arrangements allow us to really hear his voice, unadorned by excessive studio shaping.

For an undisguised, heavy-handed topical Neil Young record, The Monsanto Years is actually engaging and mostly effective.

His third--and best--album moves farther away from beat-oriented R&B toward music that's heavy guitars, sex and hazy Cali vibes.

She sounds older and smarter, but a bit unsure of which way to take that experience.

Instrumentally, Primrose Green is an engaging listen, but Walker the singer only comes through a few times.

The problem is that Birchard spreads himself so thin in his rush to tick off all the stylistic boxes, some songs sputter into half-realized cliché.

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

It suffers from a lack of focus--some songs are classic indie pop, while others are experimental musings rife with strange samples--but it's a fine collection that displays Thorburn's versatility and commitment to writing a catchy synth line.

[The album] chugs and punches in a suitably heavy way without ever feeling essential.

Monds-Watson is startlingly accomplished for her age, showing a deft hand at songcraft.

There are some glimmers of pop gold.... But those moments are overshadowed by dated cheeseball synth presets, uninspired choruses, goofy samples and clunky rhythm programming.

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.

The intimate collection of low-key art pop is gloriously weird and deeply human.

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

A raw masterstroke, A.L.L.A. is a depiction of underground millionaire culture that should have "think of the children" conservatives shitting their pants.

In beast mode, they conjure that rare mix of accessibility and contrarian, uncompromising power, helping More Faithful transcend its flatter fare.

These are slow, sad ballads brilliantly executed.

The straightforwardness of their songs recalls great indie pop bands of yesteryear like Beat Happening, but also causes some of their songs to blur together.

Together, they sound kind of Bowie glam, kind of ELO, but never dated.

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.

Stylistically, their fourth record doesn't depart much from previous ones.

It opens with the aggressive, heady breakbeats of Gosh, and segues into songs heavy on his signature steel pans and clean productions that are sometimes dull in their tidy minimalism but ultimately contribute to a wistful atmosphere that's Smith's own.

These 14 purpose-punk "anthems" (songs with loud multi-tracked vocals during the choruses) sound like Anti-Flag hastily thawed them out of mid-90s cryogenic stasis in a moment of frenzied conviction that we've never needed them more.

Not for the first time, Ciara is suffering from a case of mixed-bag syndrome, a situation that seems even direr on the 16-track deluxe version, which has two unnecessary alternate versions of I Bet.

The result is a kind of aggressively cute bubblegum trance that sounds like Aqua having a computer meltdown.

He projects a charismatic mix of youthful playfulness, cheeky confidence and naked vulnerability that would seem wasted on fun dance pop except that he does it so perfectly.

A sameness runs from track to track--brisk tempos, mid-range key, the loud/soft thing--but if you take time to work out the lyrics, you'll be rewarded with intriguing surrealism, goofy fun (no surprise considering their band name) and, on incendiary pop-punk Psykick Espionage, a welcome dose of badassery.

Mayberry may be better known as the husky voice of HSY, but it's with Anamai that she's truly getting at her roots.

Focused, domestic, deep in thought. It's as anti-complacent as pop music gets.

Lush, focused and well wrought in a way that channels the Pretty Things' S.F. Sorrow as much as Stereolab's Emperor Tomato Ketchup without seeming too reverent about its predecessors or anachronistic in its execution.

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

Despite exceptionally strong hooks and her fine, assured singing, it's hard not to feel frustrated by Consentino's lack of depth and constant use of the most obvious rhymes.

Plenty of bits tug on the heartstrings, but only in the moment. Once that swelling piano ceases or Watson stops singing, the goosebumps disappear.

Most of the album is kinda ho-hum and overly mild in tone, as is Pitts's voice.

All in all, a unique and satisfying effort.

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

It's never clear where these songs are going, but the result always satisfies.

The album is executed slickly enough that this lack of cohesion isn't a huge problem. The goofy lyrics, though, owe too much to the hippy-dippy era.

Whitehorse's sophomore effort signals that this is one musical marriage that's only getting better with time.

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

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

Their approach is no longer as unique as it once was, but unlike many reunion albums, this one stands up fine next to their seminal work.

Now and then, as on Say, the bigness of the music prevents you from really hearing and feeling the lyrics through the trumpet blasts and huge solos. But then I've Been Loved comes along, sounding a bit like the Eagles and touched with seriously melancholy cello, and you sense the gravitas beneath the dizzying crescendos.

Barter 6 eschews obvious hits for what feels like an attempt at crafting a cohesive work.

hat mix of worldly and familiar references, moods and textures ensures that The Magic Whip buzzes with urgency, even at its most serene and existential (or when Albarn rehashes his banal reservations about modern times).

FitzGerald's only musical foils are guest vocalists, so the contrast between fragile sentiment and driving rhythms feels obsessively and perfectly realized. It's pretty standard stuff, but it works because the album is full of subtly affecting moments that viscerally lock in to a magic-hour state.

Never Were The Way She Was is stunning, understated and poignant, evoking isolation and yearning for some unnamed thing. Despite some less successful detours, it's a monster of a journey that calls to mind a windswept, brutal white North fraught with life.

Sputtering, glitchy electronics and polyrhythmic drum patterns by Taylor Smith and Austin Tufts provide layers of ambience that seem a bit too soft and tepid in the face of her melancholy but intense musings, though they complement her high, airy, melodic vocals.

Their fifth album, which is all hyperactive synth melodies and shrill sing-shouting in classic Matt and Kim style, sounds like it was smothered in thick syrup, drowned in glitter and then levelled out with soul-sucking effects for good measure.

Top-loaded with impenetrable stabs at noise-rock-infused rap, Cherry Bomb is a frustrating exhibition of musicality mired in Tyler, the Creator's contrary sensibility.

It's the lyrical shift that propels the album in a new direction that will be hard to appreciate amongst throngs of festival-goers. That's what the sugary hooks are for.

The songs are fast-moving clouds, riffs with drift (let's call them "driffs" for now and leave it to someone else to come up with a better term), immediately catchy and contemporary but also tastefully inflected with gazey and psychedelic sensibilities.

The Past We Leave Behind is lovingly crafted but too vague to live up to its title.

The trio hit on a raw, emotional, gritty new sound, but success failed to materialize until some 40 years later.

It's not exactly adventurous, but he remains tough to pigeonhole and doesn't sound like he'll be slowing down any time soon.