Emotionally, this album doesn’t live up to the principals’ own recent projects, but it’s an energetic, feel-good summer listen--in traditional New Pornographer’s style.

The Magic is not their best album, but it's an excellent Deerhoof album, and they are the greatest of all time at what they do.

Sonically, Nothing's Real is in line with the gliding, easy-listening 80s pop that's back en vogue thanks to Blood Orange, Haim and La Roux.

Biophilia is one of Bjork's best and most challenging records; it's in a galaxy all its own, one that's not for the faint of heart.

Gesundheit's tunes have an intimate lullaby quality, like a more playful Julie Doiron, and her airy voice sends them into flight. She has amazing range, inventive melodies and vivid lyrics held steady by her plucking guitar.

Her strong voice (think Kim Deal or Liz Phair) remains the focal point, though wild guitars and thunderous drumming give it the foundation it needs to soar.

Alsina’s narrative-driven niche is criminally underrepresented on the pop charts right now. Judging by the way he effectively turns his wounded past into the catalyst for a bright future--he has potential to dominate the lane.

As always, these include gorgeous guitar playing and pristinely arranged harmonies, and the gospel-inflected moments are especially effective.

Master Volume is a delightful, precise record. The band are at the top of their game on it, but it still feels like a no-stakes basement jam session between three friends. Maybe that’s why they’re so contagious: the Nil aren’t for the culture, they’re for the kids.

Harvey sings with unshakeable poise, and her melodies are as sticky as ever--to the point where you can imagine some songs working as barroom singalongs.

His latest disc could be his best yet.

There's relative lack of confrontational left turns and endurance-testing meltdowns, which might divide long-time fans over whether this is Wolf Eyes' most boring album or their most "mature."

With fewer experimental throwaways, the album puts the band's best foot forward: toe-tapping, harmony-laden kernels of pop.

It’s a nice record, just not a great one, though it seems like the kind of thing that’ll age gracefully.

They’ve become better musicians, better songwriters and better at expressing life’s frustrations without jeopardizing too much of what made them so cherished in the beginning.

The 17 tracks emphasize the latter half of his career, but he’s toned down his more avant-garde tendencies somewhat and injected a bit of R&B swing and jazz vibes.

Its low frequencies, irregular rhythms and slow-burning dance beats creep into the songs and draw us in deeper.

A well-considered 10-track song cycle of mostly shorter and tighter compositions that combine the catchy, guitar-oriented pop aspects of Ta Det Lugnt ... with the darker freak-folk stylings of 2002's Stadsvandringar.

It’s a totally mellow set where flute often takes precedence over guitar. Thankfully, Ejstes’s tight arrangements leave little room for wankery, and none of the songs deal with flying dragons.

Girls' have traded their early work's immediacy for something that requires more patience but goes much deeper if you've got the time.

He seems caught in a place between wizened wild child and something kookier, but he’s apparently too content to go whole hog in either direction.

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.

There’s a casual feel to this recording that generally works in its favour. Nothing sounds too laboured, and you get the feeling that they banged out the tunes quickly in an attempt to capture some live urgency. On the downside, the unpretentious approach often borders on unambitious.

A few flashes of brilliance, but no sustained heat.

Impressively, the album was recorded in a day, and it swells with atmosphere.

Schmilco is also sly and great, but superficially it feels like complex, mid-life personal stocktaking.

While the Jesus and Mary Chain might have been limited by their musical ability and knowledge, Merritt and company understand the pop principles they’re working with.

They're all talented musicians, so it's actually a pleasure to hear them go off on the occasional jazz fusion tangent, which they approach with the raw enthusiasm of a garage-punk band (except that they sound closer to King Crimson).

Sure, stripped-down, acoustic versions of the songs could’ve worked, but with help from producer Richard Swift, they’re fleshed out into psychedelic dreams dappled with field recordings, Latin guitar and Jurado’s serene vocals, raising existential questions that don’t quite get answered.

While it doesn't mine new territory, Restarter is the sound of Torche getting comfortable and digging in their heels.

His vulnerable warble is still intact, his lyrics remain tenderly existential (aside from, uh, Shave My Pussy), and the noisy bits just make the softer tunes all the more gutting.

Led by Patton’s smarmy vocals and the band’s intricately heavy instrumentation, Oddfellows cuts a swath between infectious bangers (Stone Letter, South Paw) and quirky atmospherics.

Occasionally Half Free can sound dense to the point of being vexing, but its vivid imagery and striking melodies keep Remy’s more self-indulgent tendencies grounded in a classic pop sensibility.

A stellar offering.

The more steeped Hozier gets in Southern influence the better: slow, hymnal Work Song disguises a love ballad as a spiritual to blissful effect, a perfect showcase for his rich, resonant alto.

This is instant vintage.

They're the kinds of songs that make you want to run into the street and scream to the universe that life is beautiful and magical, which is a pretty nice feeling as long as you can stop worrying about whether people think you're crazy.

Quirky melodies and unpredictable, anti-country structures make it interesting over repeat listens. A mid-career triumph.

From the church-bell-ringing, banjo-plucking funereal title track opener to the into-the-sunset Hawaiian ballad Aloha Oe that closes the album in perfect cinematic form, Cash sounds completely at ease, and wholly preoccupied, with the approach of his own death.

The main attraction is still Baird's and Weeks's haunting voices, which turn a risky experiment into a genre-defining classic.

Williams is more observational than personal throughout Blessed, looking upon her downtrodden characters with sympathy and compassion.

Psychedelic Pill is exactly the kind of noisy, joyfully loose and oddly hypnotizing guitar album we love Crazy Horse for.

Although the first half relies on straight-up classic house beats and lyric imperatives to be stronger, work harder and get higher, they upend the formula with an oddball-pop sensibility, beautifully crafted melodies and general silliness.

A diasporic pop beacon for those of us from neither here nor there.

Hero Brother is a beautiful collection of experimental instrumental songs.

His more abstract, mellow songs don’t work as well, too often sounding like buildups to a big drop that never comes rather than completed tracks. But Greene has filled out Feel Infinite with just enough bangers to keep the momentum from lagging too much.

Things pick up toward the end with the slightly more upbeat run of Lost In Yesterday, Is It True and It Might Be Time. For the most part, though, Parker is a better producer than he is a songwriter.

13 exuberant folk-pop songs delivered with clarity, colour and conviction.

This isn’t Drake at his most exposed.... Production-wise, however, it’s his most mature, and frankly, most beautiful.

Boucher's production prowess, beautifully complex and ambitious songwriting, is self-evident on Miss Anthropocene.

The Audience's Listening is kinda like a Fatboy Slim B-sides collection circa 1998 without the catchy bits.

It's time to move some units, so quirky's out and tunefulness is in.

You'd be hard pressed to find an album as varied as Elvis Costello's National Ransom (his 26th, give or take).

Though there’s some absolutely gorgeous production that recalls the lush sound and synthscapes of 80s rock, the songwriting is weighed down by clichés.

Gone are the days when this band gave us four albums in three years, but their enchanting harmonies and eloquent songwriting are as formidable as ever. And that's what matters most when it comes to a new Teenage Fanclub album.

From the nimbly finger-picked Troubles Will Be Gone to the emphatically strummed King Of Spain, he provides instrumental variety that never overshadows his poetic lyrics.

He's used what could have been a tragic turn of events as fuel for a vibrant, engaging and often playful record.

The rest of Autumn Of The Seraphs sounds a bit more meticulous, though it's self-assured in its footing.

There are worse artists to jack than David Byrne and company, but after all the breathless hype, you'd expect something a little more innovative.

Feist is now that rare artist in complete control of her talent.

There's a rich sense of open space and movement that feels close to dub reggae at times, which leaves plenty of room for LaVette in the foreground.

The uniformity of song structure, tone and tempo, though initially captivating, soon becomes monotonous.

Even though the production is immaculate, featuring amazing work by Lex Luger, and the guest list is impressive, the album falls flat. The problem: Ross takes himself too seriously.

A Church feels a little long, and getting through it requires a certain amount of emotional energy, but it's well worth the effort.

Many moments are reminiscent of big-room progressive tunes of the early 00s, which sound dated at times. Nevertheless, there are also plenty of undeniably pretty melodies, thick tones and pleasingly warm textures, not to mention impressive flashes of innovation and creativity.

They've succeeded at making a good big-dumb-rock record, but you get the sense they didn't mean for it to be quite this dumb.

Most of the tracks could be singles, successfully marrying a pop sensibility to country twang without sacrificing the best aspects of either approach.

The super-synthetic ethos of the album starts to rub against your skin; the band's retro dance-music collage feels less like innovative referencing and more like flat pastiche, and the simplistic little-girl lyrics add nothing.

All Day is a more complicated mix than Girl Talk's previous albums, with more to notice on repeat listens. And just like everything else he's done, it's an exhausting experience.

Shapeshifting may sound very contemporary, but it's not in the least derivative.

Unfortunately, the bass lines (all played by Mars Volta’s Juan Alderete) never quite capture the rubbery wobble of the era he’s trying to reference.

Their method is simple and their personnel limited, yet they still throw in plenty of headphone-friendly psychedelia and jittery vocals.

His mumbling drawl is introverted, whether it’s whispering or shouting, but never feels forced. It works well alongside his guitar.

The five-piece Montreal/Toronto noise-pop band keep things compositionally complex throughout, and each song rolls seamlessly into the next.

Sure, the production on Soldier Of Love sounds a bit tougher and chunkier than the band’s early work, but the classic Sade vibe we love is still front and centre.

The lyrics are the album's strong suit, and for the first time ever Darnielle will be releasing them with the album, allowing for easy dissection.

Only their radical overhaul of Nine Inch Nails' Hand That Feeds shows any sign of creativity.

Too often, Jenkins's use of melody fails to create sticky songs in a pop sense, but it does offset his gruff baritone and stern messaging. ... Jenkins is at his best when taking everyday scenarios and cutting to their emotional core.

The slower grooves still swing hard while allowing Jones to show off more of her impressive vocal range, although it's difficult to say whether her deep funk crowd will be able to handle the shift from the typical shuffle beat barrage they've come to expect.

The band’s put together one of their more accessible albums, full of immediate thrills instead of drawn-out weirdness.

The really exciting news is that [Sexsmith] actually takes some vocal risks – and sounds like he's having fun doing it.

It’s a beautifully crafted album that heralds the arrival of what’s sure to be one of the most subtly affecting voices in pop.

It’s a taut, punchy album full of winning charm, and blessedly free of cynicism and ego.

Ritter draws liberally from the well of himself, others and the Bible, and it's a fun ride.

The Hungry Saw may make Leonard Cohen’s stuff sound positively giddy, but it’s a positive turn for the Tindersticks.

Moments of softness and even warmth make Ghersi’s debut album a more varied, mature and easier listen than last year’s unforgiving &&&&& mixtape.

Some may argue that there’s nothing here the Ramones or Jesus and Mary Chain didn’t do decades ago, and there are obvious similarities, to be sure. However, the decidedly female energy the Dum Dum Girls bring to the table puts them in their own category, inserting some welcome softness and subtlety into the genre.

The tracks are long, grinding and relentlessly angry about the state of the world.

The real shift is in their attitude, which allows them to embrace earnestness and write some straightforward love songs. It’s a strategy that could have backfired, but instead it has inspired their strongest and most consistent album so far.

Not everything works... but even the flawed experiments make for an enjoyable listen.

It’s softer, but it’s nice to see a band unafraid of mellowing.

Devoid of filler and pop vocalist appearances, Red Gone Wild's a solid surprise for fans who thought the Funk Doc's career had gone up in smoke.

Battles have a fascinating, distinct sound of their own; they don't need Gary Numan crooning overtop.

This time his band has gelled into an effective stadium-rocking outfit, and his dark humour actually seems connected to some real emotion rather than a strategy designed to create some ironic distance.

Preoccupations don't fully hit their stride until album closer Fever, which sounds a bit like Heroes-era Bowie without coming across as derivative.

Like her prior work, the songs are thematically dark and diffuse, but the dancey impulses on Vessel and Seekir signal headier paths ahead.

West delivers another failsafe collection of sharp, soulful songs, exposing his new affinity for synths and electronic drums while adding new lyrical ground to that campus-sized ego.

While it took a little while for the magic to finally get laid down to tape, the results are worth the wait.