For every indulgent art-rock breakdown, there’s a simple pop ditty to balance it.

Slick production (including Pharrell, will.i.am and Timbaland) and guest spots from Kendrick Lamar and T.I. distract from all that Lothario shtick enough to make the album a poppy, easy summer listen that grows on you with each play.

Here True Widow dispel some of the pot-smoky fog, putting across a crisper, tighter, discernibly quicker sound.

At times, those love ballads veer into over-the-top Leona Lewis territory (Emeli Sandé’s More Than Anything) that only the Brits, it seems, can get away with.

Pond still appreciate the glue of a hummable pop hook and the intoxicating pyschedelia of headphone tricks, but the most satisfying way to hear Hobo Rocket is turning it up as loud as it’ll go.

The 80s funk references are more submerged under the washes of synthetic drones, and the songs even more pastoral than before. Still, there’s nothing here quite as immediately satisfying as Feel It All Around off his 2010 Life Of Leisure EP.

Its best moments reference the label’s penchant for breezy, languorous guitar lines, like on the catchy Weekenders. If only Minks would lay off the synth and embrace the guitar more often.

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

Max Martin wrote the opening track on each of those early records, as he does here on their eighth. But even the anthemic title tune can’t hoist the group out of elevator-music territory.

The album definitely grows on repeat listen.

Given Grey’s connection to music’s biggest headline-makers, it’s ironic that her own output isn’t all that memorable.

Lyrics are corny and sometimes funny.

It’s an album of spare and precise beauty, and when it was over I really wanted to see the film.

Gibson is a very talented young artist testing his limits and only occasionally stumbling.

His debut album (named after his street, not the city in Oz) is a charming collection of lo-fi bedroom pop ditties that has the thematic naïveté of someone who’s just left his teen years and hometown behind.

Pura Vida is more subdued (relatively speaking) than the group’s usual celebratory style, but the album’s best songs are still the most anthemic, the ones that sound the best alongside a hoisted, spilled beer.

If you don’t drift off too early, though, it all resolves, making for a sonically rich and delicately nuanced album.

Wells delivers interesting textures and arrangements but also keeps things so spare that climaxes rarely happen

The middle lags a bit, but that’s forgotten when ninth song Cold brings the breakup album home with simple piano and Brooks’s wounded singing.

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

What made the band so charming--their indiscernible vocals, the prickly, overbearing guitars, the lo-fi grittiness of it all--has been lost in the makeover.

The record is effusive but unsentimental, pointedly funny (Love Is A Bourgeois Construct) and occasionally subversive (The Last To Die, a Springsteen cover).

More of that raw Jay and less of the glitz could have salvaged the album.

The moody synthesizer soundscapes of Tomorrow’s Harvest reveal their rewardingly intricate layers and details with repeated listens.

While the exceptional company he keeps (see appearance by Earl Sweatshirt and the elusive Jay Electronica) sometimes highlights his shortcomings as an emcee, Miller’s guests also push him to be better.

Emotionally raw, [Dirty Laundry is] far more intimate than her sexier songs, proving that her best recipe for success is baring her soul rather than her bedroom secrets.

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.

Sitek lends the band some nice slow-burning electronic atmosphere, but the songs lack hooks and sometimes shift into cringey faux-reggae.

13 gets tiresomely monolithic and ponderous.

Rather than merely rehashing sounds of yesteryear, Speedy Ortiz add modern rock ’n’ roll strokes to their take on fuzzy noise pop.

One of the best hip-hop records of 2013.

His greatest strength is his storytelling: lyrics are never expected or trite, not annoyingly inscrutable but just obscure enough to be intriguing.

Iz and Bobby Avila (aka the Avila Brothers) produced and co-wrote the bulk of the tracks, and those are the most successful. It would have been smarter, though, to use them for the whole album, as the smattering of generic blues jams and guest showcases seem tacked on and out of place.

Smith Westerns have proven themselves adept chameleons and excel in their new style. It’s just tough not to miss the old one.

He’s a competent emcee, especially when speaking about the struggles of young African Americans, but he’s in need of a good producer to rein him in.

The songs aren’t as lyrically cheesy as Kroeger and Co., not as overtly retro as the Sheepdogs, more fun than Theory of a Deadman and most interesting – by far--when harnessing prog rock, as on The Giant. Too bad the latter only happens once.

It’s a pop record, a history lesson and--for those uninitiated in the funky UK house tradition--a gateway drug all in one.

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

The more nuanced approach is less immediate but stands up better to repeated listens.

Yeezus isn’t his masterpiece, but it's an integral piece of an eclectic collection that will one day provide a window to an artist who will either become an insane Howard Hughesian eccentric or mellow into reality TV Kardashian fatherdom.

Like his debut disc, Cole World, Born Sinner displays an astute understanding of the male-female dynamic--or at least his contributions to the demise of his relationships.

Where the band’s double-drum rhythm section was once their most forceful sound, here it’s just another element in an impressively rich palette.

All their hallmarks (choral crescendos, swooping melodies and stately horns) and a few curveballs (The xx-esque 4/4 beat on Yfirbor∂) are present, but the songs reach their emotional climax quickly.

Frontman Bobby Gillespie’s lyrics still don’t sound as effortlessly cool as his breathy delivery (see Culturecide), but it feels like the band is back on the pulse of something.

You can spend hours dismantling Sunbather and cooking up a neat sub-sub-genre for it (post-black-metal-gaze-death-dreamcore-whatever). Or you can just call it one of the year’s best records.

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.

While the mixtape features strong guest spots from Ab-Soul, Action Bronson and a rare appearance by veteran Twista, none of them overshadow Chance, whose distinctive drawl, rapid-fire delivery and keen ear for experimental beats--ranging from hometown-grown juke to piano jazz--will have a bunch of labels tripping over themselves to sign him.

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

The squelchy playfulness in Ewen’s arrangements that marked FBH’s most memorable tunes is now cloistered by cynicism and studiousness.

Classic unrequited love song, and Karshøj sells it so well with her sultry authenticity, you’ll swear you’re in the throes of heartbreak, too.

If neither the lyrics nor bass lines break your heart, you might not have one.

Song for song, however, this is the best QOTSA album in a decade, delivering all the swagger and skew of their greatest work without rehashing it.

The production has a pristine, streamlined quality, with Grant’s vocals high in the mix, so the album’s blend of orchestral and squelchy electronic arrangements mirrors the clarity and grace with which he delivers his crude, self-lacerating ballads.

Dreams In The Rat House isn’t as diverse or ambitious as its predecessor, Sleep Talk, but it shows an increasing ability to balance winsome harmonies, raucous drumming and jangly guitar riffs while maintaining the unvarnished punk quality that makes them irresistible.

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.

Though there are clear highlights--the druggy, danceable Egypt and the dreamy Anomaly--the album holds together as a larger, unified statement.

Other Life isn’t too polished, which means it will appeal to Savage’s pre-existing cult fan base but not the wider audience it aims for.

Gravez is a unified listen whose influences serve Hooded Fang’s greatest strength: infectious hooks.

The songs’ simple moods--at times sentimental, winsome and ecstatic--nicely play off the depth and obsessive detail in the music.

Slowly unfolding ambient pieces still display a gritty, second-hand quality, but that fits the vibe of the record: never-ending travel, where the only constant is loneliness.

The album’s emphasis on repetition occasionally sounds too self-conscious, but it’s a rare excess in an otherwise restrained--if not necessarily subtle--collection of ballads.

None of this stuff sounds the same, proving grime to be a borderless hinterland populated by some of the most gifted, uninhibited, maniacal musicians.

The achievement here is that each song feels like its own distinct world.

On Trouble Will Find Me, they’ve perfected it, knowing when a hook should explode and when to hold back and let Berninger’s signature, sombre baritone take over.

All in all, a bewitchingly beautiful debut.

he band has already built a mystique with their live show (frontwoman Jehnny Beth’s penetrating glare and righteous wail transfixed a packed Horseshoe Tavern at this year’s CMW), but Silence Yourself proves they’ve got the songs to back it up.

On Strange Pleasures, Still Corners ditch their 60s psychedelia shtick for sounds two decades younger, and it works.

His strength has always been his versatility: he combines old-school rap with a solid singing voice and an ability to play guitar and drums. Separating these elements is a curious strategy, though his verbal and instrumental talents still show up on both sides.

The melodies sound effortless, but there’s complexity under the surface.

Though Bragg leaves behind punk rock fire for the personal, there are still political--and optimistic--moments, weariness be damned.

Like Snoop’s documentary of the same name, Reincarnated has its moments but needs an editor.

Monomania somehow makes Deerhunter’s previous albums sound like they were controlled and constrained, as if it took four albums for Cox to finally be the shit disturber he’s always wanted to be.

Authentic is ridiculous right down to the heavy-breathing interludes, which worked for Usher circa 2003.

Calling in favours from Neurosis’s Scott Kelly and Mudhoney’s Mark Arm makes Everybody Loves Sausages feel like a loose party record.

A smooth and beautiful listen.

Despite the limited tools, he evokes everything from jazz and doom metal to techno and classical music, often simultaneously.

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

Too bad the missteps and poorly executed collaborations stink badly enough to make the borderline stupid/genius party rockers get tainted by proximity.

The best rhymes come courtesy of Kendrick Lamar on Solo Dolo, Pt. II, and the worst are from Too Short on the album’s weakest link, Girls.

It’s all very easy to listen to, but occasionally too close to easy listening.

Despite the flashy production values and singer Thomas Mars’s wispy croon, it ultimately feels as superficial as its subject matter.

The lyrics are earnest as all hell, but only once--on Hard To Tell--borderline twee.

Wait To Pleasure shows new facets, but that shoegaze tag isn’t likely to disappear soon.

Though not nearly as stunning as its predecessor, Infestissumam still has excellent moments, many courtesy of the rhythm section.

Eschewing the indie rock tag, Born Ruffians are embracing a new diversified sound that reaches beyond the guitar-bass-drums trifecta, and for the most part, it hits the mark.

After the band’s polished, dance-friendly 2009 effort, It’s Blitz!, Zinner’s hard-charging riffs on Area 52 are a welcome return to the urgent, sometimes messy art punk of their early days.

She sounds like she’s rediscovering the thrill of making music, and a nervy triumph pervades.

First single Dope has that by way of Dr. Dre’s Deep Cover, but it fails to push the balance of the album beyond mediocrity.

The songs work best individually, though, and the tune Gang Of Rhythm is admittedly stronger when paired with visuals.

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.

Shaking The Habitual is full of thrillingly percussive highs and brilliantly deranged vocals, but overall its anti-pop move is more typical than radical.

On Overgrown, the chord progressions are more complex and the lyrics less abstracted, but it’s still the James Blake we love.

These are understated, heartfelt tunes carried by lovely acoustic guitar work.

it’s unfair to expect him to suddenly modernize now. He does, however, explore some unexpectedly psychedelic terrain here, which he handles impressively.

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

The music sounds slightly repetitive on its own, so he’s smart to collaborate with vocalists.

Vile’s laconic drawl and laid-back guitar heroics are so addictively blissful that eight or nine minutes don’t feel like enough.

He seems bent on making a career out of his adolescent emotional turmoil, resulting in a thematically stagnant, myopic and ultimately immature record.