Live From The Underground is a generous, humble statement record that should ensure K.R.I.T. won't end up another label-scooped lost boy.

He delivers a tour de force on each track, solidifying his rep as one of the most dynamic performers in pop.

A new urgency and immediacy provide welcome counterpoint to the reserved Canadian introspection that still characterizes their songs.

Tell Me How You Really Feel is her most inward-looking album but also one that pulls back to engage with bigger political and cultural conversations more directly than we’re used to from her.

Once you get past the placid bit at the beginning, it's straight into the relentlessly pummelling assault we've come to love and expect from the mighty Japanese trio, and Pink's wallop-per-second rate puts it in a class with Heavy Rocks at the top of the Boris heap.

Yes, the angsty lyrics are occasionally comprehensible and the songs, which sometimes push past the three-minute mark, have slightly more breathing room, but the chilly, irritated scrape is just as potent.

Lyrically, Daniel is more vulnerable than on previous efforts--transference being a part of psychoanalysis--but not enough that he takes many new creative turns.

The production is unpolished, warm and organic. It had to be. When you hear the pained fury in his rendition of Black Sabbath's Changes, it's clear it would be an affront to modernize Bradley's unvarnished howls.

Musically, it’s quiet and reserved, making for a subtle but satisfying listen.

While there's definitely some anger here, Pujol seems to make equal use of pure adolescent joy, and you soon realize that his nerdier tendencies are what holds all of this together.

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.

Levi pulls off his flamboyant persona because he has the meticulously structured songs to carry it.

Despite the flaws, you can't deny that Segall's got real talent, which would be wasted if he just stuck to the psych/garage throwback formula.

Practically every bar the 21-year-old spits is full of fiery indignation, aimed not just at exposing (and undermining) entrenched social hierarchies, but at the insecurities that might also hold her back.

As if the synthesized strings and electronic dabbling weren't sad enough, [Spektor's] ascerbic voice has been all but lost in squishy couplets about making things better and needing to "know you."

Some songs feel just short of full-blown biting, like No Question, which is awfully reminiscent of the classic Breeders single Saints. Still, it feels hard to write them off as some kind of revivalist project. If anything, the band’s unshakeable determination to stay in their own lane seems like an ideological gesture. You can’t be cool if you’re worried about being cool.

This time around, the lo-fi quality is less abrasive but still dirty and intimate enough to stop anyone from yelling Sell out!

It’s not a perfect record, but nothing this ambitious was ever going to be.

Don’t count on hearing any lively back-and-forth exchanges, though, they’re clearly too respectful of each other to risk stepping on any toes in public.

The less experimental C'mon is confident and warm, suggesting that the band let the reverberant setting dictate the tone.

The way Ought confront modern bleakness is understandably disaffected but ultimately moving and celebratory, in the idealistic tradition of punk.

The writing here is sharp and stunning, but the real difference between this and other Cat Power discs is that The Greatest has room to breathe.

Ultimately, Candylion is more annoying than entertaining.

That the songs retain their vibrancy and ambition with this new energy – more focused, less stridently theatrical – is a testament to her songwriting and enduring appeal.

The painful White Chalk is either a studio experiment gone horribly wrong or a crafty bit of career self-sabotage by a sensitive artist who'd rather make sculptures in the desert than play pop star.

Dedicated to friend and colleague Vic Chesnutt, Lambchop's 11th album is as refined and dignified as the top-hat-wearing gentleman depicted on the cover.

Only about half of the songs captivate; the others could be used as sleep aids. This is frustrating, because the strong songs are fantastic. The lesser ones suffer from too much washed-out dreaminess.

Beach Slang are doing this as much for us as for themselves, and if you're down with them, it's hard not to feel awesome listening to this album.

Auerbach delivers the goods with spooky, sleazy and soulful style.

Mood is the driving force, making it function best as background music, if occasionally forgettable.

A few, like Lion In Winter Pt. 1 and 12-minute closer In The Beginning Is The End, test your patience, while others, like Nova Anthem and Lamb, become so surprisingly transcendent that they vanquish any and all tedium.

YG may just want to party, but the layered storytelling displayed here proves he could be the next transcendent, endlessly original West Coast superstar.

As each conflicting quality is reconciled, it’s never compromised or downplayed. They sound both aware of and immersed in the culture surrounding them while fully settled into their own reality as billionaires. In essence, they are Black, rich and famous, in that order.

Listening is like slowly sinking into a warm bath, then gradually adding rose petals, bubbles, arsenic. But Majical Cloudz never let you drown.

Assume Form doesn’t have the instant gratification of his 2013 album, Overgrown--arguably his best--but it gradually pulls you in like a soothing balm. ... It’s still a James Blake record, but with brighter synths and more natural instruments. Any moments of darkness are balanced with light.

Short of pumping dry ice through your speakers, The Eldritch Dark captures the throbbing, gloomy energy that has long made Blood Ceremony one of the city’s finest live acts.

Better than anything they've done to date.

The diversity leaves it without a consistent mood or conceptual through-line, however, and while Hogan's singing voice is, like the album, pleasant enough, it's not especially distinct or memorable.

The production does justice to the 80s-underground-evoking mix of surf, punk, industrial and shoegaze.

Whether howling eerily over a low, rhythmic pulse or riding a huge riff, Calvi's sensuous presence brings much-needed sexual heat to today's tepid rock 'n' roll landscape.

Nichols's gravelly vocals are more immediate and heartfelt than ever, especially on the dark, ruefuI I Woke Up In New Orleans, about self-destructive alcoholism. Lighter subject matter works less well (the pleasant ditty I'm In Love With A Girl, the lacklustre Throwback No. 2) but has enough southern soul to keep things interesting.

The album is missing an emotional, drawn-out, heartbreaking ballad, but inspirational anthems like Retreat! find her sassing as loud and proud as ever.

Kid Koala might be known for his light-hearted approach, but nothing here feels inappropriately kooky.

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

Galactic’s Ya-Ka-May works as a concept album, but its execution ranges from grating to tolerable.

This much material is exhausting to make your way through, the stretches between moments of genius way too long.

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

You'll want to let the whole record play, but Refill, Land Ahoy! and Mekons' anthemic Beaten And Broken (sung by Fulks) are highlights.

Individually, the songs are absorbing, but when listened back to back, they begin to lose their magic.

On Hot Dreams he’s wisely pulled back from that horror film soundtrack vibe to let the songs breathe.

Despite ups and downs, Suede have remained an impressively robust-sounding live act, and that energy comes across in Night Thoughts.

Mangan's emotive voice is as assured as ever, and his socially conscious lyrics penetrate. Add in a stark, disillusioned tone and sluggish tempos and it makes for an overly serious listen.

Unfortunately, all the intricately picked little guitar figures don't make his raspy yelping sound any less like a wet cat stuck under a couch.

Give A Glimpse Of What Yer Not is 45 new minutes of Mascis's solid-gold shredding, but there has never been less to hang it on. The hooks that bracket the bouts of soloing are almost instantly unmemorable and the chord structures uninspired.

Lyrically Ditto is in top form, striking a sage tone to dish out relationship advice (I Wrote The Book), console a friend (Do You Need Someone) and reprimand an ex-lover (Open Heart Surgery).

Occasionally a lick of whimsical Irish poetry sneaks in (Earthly Pleasures), but lyrically O’Brien’s going for something more vague and profound.

This is an album about feeling good, and the freewheeling abandon .Paak brings to his delivery is matched by Knxwledge, who keeps up with him by absorbing as many sounds, voices, eras and influences as he can.

It’s more polished than most S-K albums, but it’s still a flurry of frenetic chords, caustic drum beats and yelps and hisses from Carrie Brownstein and Tucker. Clark gave The Center Won’t Hold a very modern filter and sheen, but Sleater-Kinney still set the tone.

A couple of lifeless slower numbers bring the album to a crawl midway through, but they ultimately add balance to all the smart, uptempo rockers.

If this were purely an experimental electronic album, we'd overlook the lack of hooks, but even as such it's not particularly impressive.

The album contains some of her best lyrics.

There are some great garage rock tunes, but too much filler to make for a great album. Maybe they should have trimmed a few of the 16 songs for a shorter but stronger work.

Tim McGraw's country-radio-friendly production weighs down the disc.... McKenna sounds best stripped down and rough around the edges. Both her voice and writing deserve more modest frames.

The album is as focused as its predecessor (both are 45 minutes), but it is emotionally more expansive.

The quietness is also the project’s greatest weakness. At times, it leaves the album feeling incomplete or intrusive, as if we’re peeking in mid-thought.

El-P's progressive beats here are full of driving, distorted drum sounds and rough samples; futuristic b-boy shit that walks a fine line between funky and grating.

Ortega is more convincing when she leaves the music biz out.

It’s odd that he doesn’t mind how much he’s starting to sound like the Black Crowes. Still, overall quality remains high, making this a more solid listen than some White Stripes albums.

While Visions is unmistakably 2012 sonically in its references to R&B and hip-hop, it also fits remarkably gracefully into 4AD's impressive back catalogue of dream pop.

Ascent is still recognizably Six Organs of Admittance, but it's often hazier, heavier and trippier.

On their fourth album, the goal continues to be to outdo themselves in terms of heavier-than-thou riffs, thundering drums and ominous aggression.

Every element is given space to shine--a nice break from the overproduced bedroom-recording sound that's become standard in indie rock.

Happy New Year is unpretentiously unique, challenging and eclectic.

[Drummer Mimi Parker's] songs, like the uncharacteristically jaunty, slowly swelling Just Make It Stop, are the highlights.

Unfortunately, it often veers dangerously close to a corny dystopian sci-fi movie soundtrack, which becomes a little less cute with each listen.

While their performance is expansive and parts are definitely stretched out and rocked out, like on I Will Sing You Songs and Mahgeetah, this is just solid performing, not lame jam band shit.

This time, the Mos Def/Common/Talib triumvirate contribution is expectedly solid. Saigon proves his debut's delay is criminal. Malik B shows how much he needs to be the permanent Prince Po to Thought's Pharoahe Monch. And Kamal, Hubbard and ?uestlove flesh out a series of sonically stunning numbers midway through.

Each song has bite, but every sound on Soul Power is kept fairly mellow.

They’ve topped up every track with so many hooks and contemporary indie rock clichés that their new songs sometimes go right past catchy into corny.

The dizzying array of styles and themes always entertain, and D.R.A.M.’s confidence as both a singer and rapper allows him to pull these threads together.

Recorded mostly live off the floor, including some of the vocals, Paul’s Tomb has a power that the band’s previous albums lacked.

It's a remarkably controlled album that reveals layers of texture with every listen.

LaVette has little rapport with Hood, and her uneasiness interpreting his lyrics and the strange cover choices (Elton John's 'Talking Old Soldiers,' Willie Nelson's 'Somebody Pick Up My Pieces') comes through in every vocal performance.

Listen to House Of Balloons, Thursday and Echoes Of Silence in one go and you'll find that the music remains impressive. If there's one quibble, it's that as Trilogy enters its second hour, Tesfaye's lyrical ambivalence begins to sound a bit one-note.

It is a strikingly unique take on soul music in a year when there's a lot of competition from other R&B artists pushing the genre's boundaries.

Vapours dutifully recognizes the playful history of the group and, with the re-addition of drummer Jamie Thompson, is sure to appease followers and win over new listeners.

Lends itself to numerous repeat listens and laughs.

What a joyously juddering load of comical clatter it is.

Sequels rarely outdo the original, and despite The Game naming Kendrick Lamar his successor years ago, The Documentary 2 and 2.5 prove he's far from over.

He allows the various sounds, guest features and flavours of the production, which he and his crew adopted from all over the world, to steal the show.

Swanlights is curiously one-note, occasionally self-indulgent and fails to leave a strong impression. Or perhaps Hegarty's simply raised the bar impossibly high for himself.

Whether you take to Pratt's reedy, quavering vocals (think Vashti Bunyan or Joanna Newsom) is purely subjective, but the way she changes up her register to suit a song's vibe helps bring colour to a fairly flat palette (which only includes the odd dab of organ and clavinet).

Isis’s four previous full-lengths have clear story arcs, but Wavering Radiant’s themes are open to interpretation, giving it added appeal. Close to perfect.

His focus on high-quality, vintage synth sounds gives the songs a unique flavour and energy that are hard to resist.

The Dears' biggest coup with Gang Of Losers, though, is Lightburn's newfound ability to express his own sturm und drang through varied delivery rather than just a bloodcurdling caterwaul.

Tarantino's habit of including interludes of dialogue is especially distracting here, and it's hard to get around the discomfort of white actors casually throwing around the n-word. Morricone and Tarantino super-fans will enjoy it, but it's an uneven listen for the rest of us.

That the music of Beyond rocks so righteously in a way that sounds like a conscious progression from where they left off with Bug, rather than a misguided attempt to recreate the past, makes this unlikely recording comeback all the more incredible.

As its cover and length (the usual eight songs) suggest, Near To The Wild Heart Of Life is unquestionably a Japandroids album. Some may yearn for more of Celebration Rock’s high voltage, but by changing gears they’ve added more depth and variation to those shout-along choruses we love so much.