The lyrics are bizarre ("I'm DJ Khaled / I'm a daikon radish") and confrontational ("RapGenius.com is white devil sophistry / Urban Dictionary is for demons with college degrees") but also cohesive and purposeful.

The lo-fi/hi-fi production values keep slickness at bay, resulting in something as warm, intimate and super-casual as an East Coast kitchen party.

Hit Reset, the Julie Ruin’s second album, is super-spunky.

This brutally honest record is in many ways more powerful than anything from his agitprop days.

The singalong choruses are brilliant, but some of the sillier material might be best experienced live.

The new textures suit singer Mark Sasso's gravelly voice and Days Into Years' historical themes, inspired in part by a visit to a World War I cemetery in France.

Burial and the late DJ Rashad’s contributions are predictably strong, and Jessy Lanza’s two appearances stand out for successfully combining traditional songcraft with forward-thinking sonic exploration.

Despite Rae Sremmurd's rep for hyped-up celebration songs, the album's best moment comes when Lee and Jimmy eschew cranking up for something closer to cutesy romance.

What's on the surface is arresting, but there's far more to discover deep inside.

With Retox they deliver an intensity and focus few bands could maintain for a 12-song album, let alone a three-album career.

When Chenaux alights on something more typically songlike, he sparks both anticipation and memory: an interesting marriage of nostalgia and novelty.

Nothing about For Evelyn feels resolved. A restless quality drives each track, resulting in a thoughtful, solitary album that you listen, cry and even dance to alone. Yet after it's over, you're left feeling less alone, because through its intimate explorations, Georgas makes the personal universal.

Drake is increasingly astute at reframing hip-hop braggadocio about wealth and competition as a kind of existential crisis through telling--but now familiar--details about his life (“I got two mortgages $30 million in total”) and subtle uses of melody and atmosphere.

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.

The songs are still there, though, even more so than on 2011’s Diaper Island.

M.I.A. is good at circumventing dance music clichés, often through sheer polyrhythmic excess; it’s hard to stay still during effusive bangers like Y.A.L.A., Matangi and tribal-trap anthem Warriors. On the flip side, Matangi’s forays into left-field pop (Come Walk With Me, Lights) are blandly saccharine compared with // / Y /’s pure pop moments.

It's Toussaint's soulful songs and naturally funky grooves that make this unlikely pairing work almost in spite of Costello's overbearing presence.

Latham's plaintive voice sounds like it's emanating from some romantically ruinous daydream. The effect suits the mood but makes his lyrics difficult to decipher, which is frustrating given his pointed message.

It's a solid album, but too conservative to make many converts.

The fuller orchestration might translate better onstage and help the band gain a wider audience, but this water-themed record mostly leaves you with the wrong kind of sinking feeling.

The artful and relatable way Dawson writes about real life makes each song like a little individually wrapped gift.

Oberst's political criticism is most effective when he's humble and straightforward, yet his overwrought poetics seem laughable, childish and blinkered when applied to world affairs.

The album's not quite as heavy as its predecessor, but there are enough down-tuned riffs and effects-laden solos to satisfy old fans.

It's a bold move to pick up the scraps from the floor, finish them up and declare them worth hearing, even if they don't fit tidily on any previous (or future) albums. Song by song you could be forgiven for asking "Is this the same band?"

Not terrible, just half-assed.

She's bewildering.

If this isn’t the band’s best yet, it’s still damn good.

Mood-wise, there’s less of the unhinged joy of their last outing, "Love Is Simple." However, those moments of ecstasy have more power in smaller doses, and making that choice has allowed them to expand their palette while retaining their identity.

She creates layers of dark, self-indulgent, eye-popping music that holds up against her previous hits and is, in some cases, even more satisfying.

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

It’s a bummer that Slayer’s November 13 Air Canada Centre show, and their entire tour, has been postponed due to lead singer/bassist Tom Araya’s back problems, but we can console ourselves with their excellent new album, which finds the dark-minded, serial-killer-obsessed California thrashers keeping all things in balance.

While Orton has a tendency to mimic her own melodies, she explores jazz structures here in engaging, exciting ways, and the indigent heartland iconography of her lyrics is beautiful without being cloying.

Lyrics are reflective and well written--Watt is also a published author--but a middle-age malaise runs through these 10 tracks.

Oblique by pop standards, the album's full of raw, tightly wound energy.

Their latest successfully revisits elements of their thrash-metal prime, eschewing bloated self-indulgence for straight-up head-banging aggression, with decent riffs to match, thanks in no small part to producer Rick Rubin.

The Colour In Anything is a good album that could have been great if Blake had been a bit more willing to edit and discard his less successful sonic experiments.

Emancipated Hearts’ chilled-out songs are strong, though, built on solid, simple melodies and weary, disillusioned lyrics.

Hopefully there’s still enough room on people’s psych plates for Odd Blood, a masterful follow-up that deserves to get into your ears.

Unless you’re only listening for Bejar, Whiteout Conditions should not only satisfy but also open your mind to just how versatile the New Pornographers can be.

TID is a solid collection of his trademark epic ballads ready to be your summer patio soundtrack.

Strangely, a distinct analogue warmth still shines through. Think Enya filtered through chillwave.

Whereas her last album had a gently psychedelic and live-off-the-floor feel, Honeymoon plays it safer with “cinematic” arrangements occasionally pumped up (but not excessively so) with modern drum sounds.

The album as a whole does drag on, and the songs aren't as immediately grabby as those on their last disc, but We Were Dead is more interesting and varied than Good News.

Songs you thought you knew are put through the spin cycle--each track deftly fastens together at least two of their best--so even if you're the level of devotee who owns 'Homework' in every format, you'll still be impressed by this heavy load.

When it works, it’s as joyful as the best Tune-Yards songs. ... Given her soaring delivery elsewhere, the talk-sung ABC 123 and Now As Then fall flat in comparison, and the reliance on 808s feels a tad dated for a group lauded for their innovative production.

These three suites get under your skin in a good way, none more so than the final track, a haunting gothic tale of sororicide sung by fellow Vermonter Sam Amidon.

Bloom is consistent in quality, and there isn't a single bad song. It just feels like they spent too much time worrying about production and not enough time songwriting.

Despite the nostalgia-brightened compositions, a rawness adds a tinge of melancholy to the proceedings. Here's hoping they keep this up.

Natasha Khan's fourth Bat for Lashes album is her most mature and cohesive yet.

Brutally beautiful.

Though his unmatched guitar prowess often overshadows his other tools, Several Shades Of Why highlights his startling talent as a songwriter.

Sounds like one big, happy family get-together.

It feels way huger than the work of two people, with dense, textured songs that sound like a remarkable collision between two distinct personalities.

There's no particular deficiency, but the new approach pushes the Brooklyn-based Athens, Georgia, band closer to the middle of the road than ever before.

Despite the beautiful arrangements, it's hard to shake the notion that Still Corners, like a lot of new indie bands, haven't yet risen above the sum of their influences: movie music, Morricone, Slowdive, Broadcast, Nancy Sinatra.

There is an unexciting emphasis on precision and minimalism that saps the emotional heat from an otherwise interesting fusion of styles and sounds.

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.

Even though the chords are minor and the mood sombre, there’s something pure, clean and uncluttered about the record that prevents it from being altogether sad. It breathes.

Although the album pushes the envelope lyrically, the music doesn't always elevate the ideas as much as it could. Mount Moriah's deftly woven, loose Americana is more a vessel for McEntire's poetry than anything else.

The music still branches off into proggy places, especially in the latter half, but nothing hits hard or is remotely memorable.

Despite its relatively minimal instrumentation, virtually every song here crackles and hums with distorted, altered familiarity.

This second album for Lost Highway isn’t radically different from 2004’s return to sneering form The Delivery Man, only the rockin’ tracks sound slightly less raucous and the ballads not quite as bitter. So he’s back in Attractions mode, sans the old piss and vinegar.

The tunes are lively, soulful and diverse, each with Earle’s Texas drawl and trademark poetic storytelling in the foreground.

The album swells, twists and turns, but rather than feeling helplessly meandering--a pitfall of the genre--it has an organic pacing that naturally starts and ends with each song.

The wild, bludgeoning crest of the album’s centre gives way to the soft, yellowing bruises of its final third, revealing that the band can be just as disarmingly potent and complex even while exhibiting the utmost restraint.

It's actually startlingly dark, and understandably so – drummer Paul Hester took his own life only two years ago, and the tragedy definitely shades Neil Finn's songwriting on Time.

More than just another post-whatever crescendo generator, SMZ remain committed to nuance and subtlety while no less committed to getting louder.

All 10 are thoughtful and gentle, presented with little embellishment and zero pretense.

Crammed with 18 efficient minutes of material generated in the liminal period after 03's "Fever To Tell," Is Is comes closer to the lusty nails-scratching-down-a-lover's back energy of 'Date With The Night' or early Yeah Yeah Yeahs tracks like 'Art Star' than anything on 06's "Show Your Bones. "

This album feels firmly in the gutter, and that’s a positive for slurring Dylan-phile Hamilton Leithauser, who moans and wails throughout, ruminating about lost friends and lovers while the guitars pour reverb-drenched notes over his sepia moments.

The album, her best to date, would've worked better had she dived into the sea of sadness instead of dipping her toe in from song to song.

Parts & Labor still do plenty of rocking out, but their tight compositions save them from overindulgence.

Flourish // Perish sounds like an extension of Standell-Preston’s other musical project, Blue Hawaii. In fact, many of the songs could be interchangeable with that project, but this isn’t a fault.

The result sounds like a stack of old 70s records your nerdiest music snob friend discovered in a dusty record store.

Everything moves in linear fashion backwards, with only Danger Mouse’s bold battering saving Beck from a horrifying relapse into dreary Sea Change melancholia.

The adulterously titled I Know You’re Married But I’ve Got Feelings Too, which certainly has its issues, comes across as more grounded, learned and confident.

As the narrative grows sleepier, it feels as though she wants to see how much she can reduce her theatrical pop image into something small and seemingly impermanent.

It has hooks, but none as immediate as past Gorillaz hits Feel Good Inc. or 19-2000. This is a hefty offering clocking in at nearly an hour and featuring everyone from Lou Reed to Snoop Dogg.

It's hard to shake the notion that the songs are leftovers from the songwriters' other bands.

It’s a meandering, angsty and deceptively gritty chronicle of the wonder years, but on repeat listens his guttural, conversational drawl and textured production seem to camouflage some seriously sentimental feelings.

The first three tracks build with effortless new-wave energy, making Fantasies an album you’d want to listen to while pre-drinking.

It's a solid denouement to Elaenia's touring cycle, and perhaps helps us appreciate that album for its use of exactly the right tools for the job and appropriate scope for its ideas.

The fleeting interlude Sonora, inspired by Cochemea’s Yaqui (an Indigenous nation from Mexico) ancestors, brightens the album with a hint of tropical sax.

The Terror crafts that chaos into a careful, impeccably sequenced compositions that should buy Coyne at least a few more years of guilt-free wackiness.

The shoegaze genre usually plays better in a live context, yet Ghost Blonde is a relatively immersive record. You need to crank the volume to hear the vocals, but it's the guitars that provide the hooks anyway.

The songcraft is high, balancing repetitive groove with dynamic surprises. There's so much variety here, from icy Joy Divisionesque excursions (Silhouettes) to Guided by Voices-through-an-echo-chamber mood (Continental Shelf) to melodic hooks (Bunker Buster) to howling post-punk fury (Death). It lends huge excitement to the project.

The group’s fifth disc is an infectious collection of bright rock songs (Whose Authority) and calm, soothing numbers (See These Bones).

The band’s second album has terrific production values, and beneath all the industrial edges and gothic stomp, Dean Tzenos’s vocals are surprisingly melodic.

The album's psychedelic pop runs out of gas near the end in cringe-worthy Battersea Odyssey and Let The Wolves Howl At The Moon, but by then you're won over and wondering how you slept on this band for the past nine years.

Fallen Angels is a hazy, laid-back history lesson with as many enigmatic twists and turns as a classic double-cross caper. It subverts archetypes of romance, heroism and interpersonal connection to reveal something more sinister about human intent, all packaged in beautiful musicianship of the highest order.

It's Collett's ability to lyrically and aurally crystallize moments in time that makes this album such a delight.

The 16-song record (some previously released) never feels bloated: the tracks could be love letters by the Harlem native to all the cultures jamming in the Big Apple.

After a few listens, hidden melodies reveal themselves and easy-listening bass lines guide you through the ruckus. Or rather, you get used to the disorder and appreciate the songs for what they are: weird experiments from a prodigal songwriter.

If the Replacements were to release an album stuffed with vital performances of stylishly crafted roots rock like those on Three Easy Pieces, it would be hailed as the comeback of the century.

If you thought no one made albums like this any more, they don’t so enjoy The Hard Way.

Unless you’re a desperate DCFC fan in need of satiation, The Open Door isn’t worth the purchase.

Somehow they’ve managed to become both more accessible and more unique.

He seems to be making an effort to be more positive, though sometimes that comes across as cumbersome or strained.