Legend's lounge-track sentimentality often spills into schmaltzed-out Streisand-on-Broadway territory.

This might be news to the Arctic Monkeys’ Alex Turner, but for every artist there’s a point where aspiration exceeds ability. The Last Shadow Puppets, his new studio dalliance with pal Miles Kane, have way overshot it on The Age Of The Understatement.

The problem is that he hasn’t yet developed a signature sound that immediately identifies a track as his own, nor is he capable of writing the sort of provocative rhymes that stand out.

In a genre based on repetition, standout moments are critical, and We Move provides too few of them to be impactful. But when they show up, the results are stunning.

It works as an homage but also as a reminder that specific eras, places, styles and sounds can live on as a state of mind.

The result is pragmatic but also quite creative and surprisingly catchy.

It's full of breathtakingly beautiful harmonies and spiralling narrative lyrics that balance complex emotional subject matter with pitch-perfect delivery and hummable melodies

Demented, sloppy, brilliant, and above all a great way to spend three-quarters of an hour.

While The Fool has clear focus and crafts a particular sound, the music fails to resonate emotionally.

Converge create art-school hardcore while still delivering on metal’s basest needs.

There are missteps--Talib Kweli going through the motions on Get Your Way (Sex Is A Weapon), Ghostface's unfortunate pairing with Wiz Khalifa--but like the movie, the soundtrack is good, bombastic fun.

This could be any novice eight-track job recorded in a basement or garage, but at least For The Season comes off like the work of a real band for a change.

Fans might find it a fascinating revelation, and Madonna will likely swipe a few ideas, while everyone else is left wondering what happened to the tunes.

Reign Of Terror still sounds like Sleigh Bells, but a more polite and conservative version.

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

There's no denying Bronson is a supreme talent, but Mr. Wonderful feels more like a low-stakes failed experiment than a grand proclamation.

While her straightforward songwriting certainly comes across as honest, it can feel a little hokey.

A courageous statement that should resonate far and wide.

The alien textures of St. Vincent's guitar heroics and the crunchy electronic rhythms lurching behind the trombones and sax stabs keep things just on the right side of gleefully weird.

The sophistication suits the songs, which have a tragic seriousness without becoming a gloomy slog.

It's a solid album with strong production and songwriting, but it won't blow any minds.

It's the kind of album that resists being parsed out into singles. Aside from radio-ready lead track Love As A Weapon, the rest work together as a cohesive whole even while bouncing around lyrically.

String sections, brushed drums and, on High Hawk Season, backing vocals that recall the Jordanaires give the album a dynamic, varied sound and make it the Mountain Goats' most surprising creation.

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.

Unfortunately, few songs truly stand out. Peven Everett’s effusive turn on Strobelite is the biggest pop moment, while De La Soul fronting the pounding Momentz gives the album some early momentum.

15 seamless songs that consistently keep interest high and ideas varied.

Toy manage to be psychedelic and craft memorable pop.

While their spacious, mostly instrumental music makes good use of dynamics (and reaches ear-bleeding volumes during live shows), they mark their label switch from Matador to Sub Pop with a lightness (as in absence of darkness, not bereft of weight) that's refreshing.

Despite the production side's strengths, Two Eleven's themes and lyrics are ho-hum.

It’s his excellently loose band (featuring M. Ward and Sonic Youth’s Steve Shelley), intimate vocals and fondness for chimes that keep the disintegrating threads woven together.

Even at its most pieced-together and deconstructed, Califone's music feels organic.

Despite the more professional scenario, they resisted the temptation to pile on unnecessary ornamentation, and instead pared back to the essentials. As a result, they've finally captured their live energy on disc, coming up with the album that might be their big breakthrough.

Death Lust is an extreme album in which Williams bares his raw, overcome soul over ear-splitting guitar noise. As harrowing as it can be, it’s transcendent rock music that feels unparalleled so far this year. Durham Region should be proud.

Tense, electronic, impeccably crafted and, yes, a little bit too long (classic 90s alt-rock), it’s a satisfying twist on the band’s legacy that doesn’t abandon its signature sound.

It's a mellow album, but definitely quirky, and with enough rawness to offset her soft, pretty vocals.

He rushes through the tunes, slurring syllables as if enunciating the lyrics would be too much work even if he could remember all of them. And clearly, one day wasn’t enough rehearsal time for his hired band, who are so often in vamp mode while trying to figure out where Morrison’s going that they lose track of the tunes.

He may not be reinventing himself with each album, but his songs are so rife with double meanings and flourishes, there's always a lot to unpack.

Each performance bursts with unadulterated emotionalism as Hegarty's voice swoops and swells around the impeccable-sounding band.

There can be a thin line between ambitious and pretentious, but this record dodges the latter gracefully.

The band's heavy, high-octane assault gets an extra kick of power from MacNeil's throaty growl, making their third LP their most direct and pummelling yet.

Celebrity aside, Speak Now is as hooky as its predecessors but differs in its often angry, spiteful tone.

Same Old Man isn’t Hiatt’s finest hour but it’s still far from his worst.

Recorded, like their last album, without guitarist Bruce Gilbert, it contains many other ingredients that will sound familiar to long-time fans, namely an emphasis on erudite, sometimes snotty lyrics and big, heavy riffs.

Henry, fresh from co-producing the Knocked Up soundtrack, doesn't have an exceptional voice. It's croaky, with little range, and the piano- and acoustic-based music on Civilians (out Sept 11) is kept unobtrusive, serving his writerly lyrics well.

None of them are as immediately catchy or memorable, and perhaps that’s to be expected. But Petty and Co. are at ease and doing what they please.

Days is a step in the right direction, but we're hoping they can challenge themselves to do something greater on album three.

They sound like one brain playing machine-gun rhythms and echoing chords on a multitude of instruments, and their incredible fusion makes even the tunes with the simplest, most standard structures... exciting.

It's still epic – and a bit grandiose at times - but in a charmingly human and believable way.

It's lacking the melancholic darkness that added substance to Strange Geometry.

Shine is built around her voice and guitar (or piano) and will appeal to fans who'd rather hear yet another rendition of a familiar fave than anything experimental, which is probably why we get 'Big Yellow Taxi' (2007).

The surging crescendos and improv freedom give his wordy songs a refreshing dynamic that could gain the 41-year-old folk troubadour an entirely new audience.

Once again Steve Albini-produced, their third effort doesn’t stray wildly from Matt’s laid-back vocals and the intertwining melodic guitar parts they’re now known for, but there is at least one effort to evolve.

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

Protest the Hero have never been short on energy, but their fourth album lacks variety and rarely allows the listener to breathe.

While several other songs get overly-orchestral. Sometimes the strings work really well, though, like on Lonely Desolation, fuelled by plucked violin.

Cosmic Troubles lives up to the promise shown on Lack Of A Lake. It's mellow, super-chill dream pop.

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

It’s exceptionally diverse, especially for hard rock.

Their imperfections blare through your speakers, as do the clanging discofied hi-hats, nervy guitar lines and jagged, boy/girl shouted vocals. And yet it satisfies in a way similar to seeing the final pages of your fanzine come spitting through a photocopier.

It's nice to hear De La Soul stretching themselves creatively, and even the less successful detours are interesting additions to an already eclectic catalogue.

The expansive, heavenly textured, rambling blues jams that make up a good part of the record preserve some of the improvised spirit they were created in.

These details--textures, feelings and moods translated into sonic imprints--elevate the work to a cohesive and impressive debut. It’s proof that taking time, both in creation and in listening and metabolizing an album, is more valuable than ever.

Closer Oh Bummer, sung by drummer Greg Saunier, is a straightforward moody rock song--at least for the first three minutes, after which a striking doomsday-meets-Thriller breakdown erupts, reminding diehard fans that the band members are still weirdos but also keeping fair-weather listeners at a distance.

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.

This means there are fewer musical surprises, though one comes when Martin Doherty takes over lead vocals for a song, seemingly out of nowhere. It makes Mayberry’s return to the mic even sweeter.

A masterful, mystical interpreter, Oldham conjures a new mood for Death To Everyone, unfurls an intense lost original called Beezle, and strikes at the gospel core of Prince’s The Cross.

Blanco takes on characters and stretches her voice into new shapes, easily switching from feminine to macho over the course of a single track, while her lyrics summon up vivid imagery and raw emotions.

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

More importantly, though, the songs still totally fucking rock.

Fans of his ambient hip-hop and blissed-out impressionist R&B will be more pleased with Guilt Trips than those who prefer his clubby side.

Rault’s commitment and ability to ape the sounds of his idols is both his strength and his Achilles’ heel.

Simply Grand is the perfect showcase for Thomas’s impressive range and understated power.

Sykes's closely mic'd vocals add a confessional quality to her melancholic delivery of cold raindrops and empty sky imagery that's endearing in small doses.

It may be exactly what fans have been waiting for, but you have to wonder how long the band can keep using the same templates.

The album also hints at bossa nova and jazz but never abandons the post-rock sounds that are the band's forte. The most inviting Mice Parade effort to date.

There are some missteps--the ballad Tripwire feels out of place in the general uptempo pace, and in (She Might Be A) Grenade, Costello lazily compares a girl to an atomic bomb (didn’t Green Day already do this?)--but when the album works, the band and the singer/songwriter sound more invigorated than they have in years.

While IV shows a progression, it lacks the progressiveness that would keep BBNG in a league with their aforementioned jazz/hip-hop predecessors and peers. However admirably, it stays in its own lane.

It's tempting to hate it for failing to recapture their earlier unhinged, chaotic glory. But doing so would be to miss out on how good they've become (despite themselves).

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.

The band’s best album to date.

The five tracks amble and pulsate and plod along in a way that feels consistent with the band and the genre.

It's dizzying, and you'll want off at times, but you'll likely ask to ride again.

The various producers behind this all pull their weight, but as usual the star is Blige’s husky voice and that charming mix of vulnerability and over-the-top diva confidence.

Energy flows smoothly from frantic sugar-rush highs to subtly beautiful, ambient polyrhythm experiments, and this gradual winding down effectively showcases the full spectrum of his vision. It shouldn't work, but it does.

Well sharp.

Mostly, though, the barely 30-minute album is a non-stop rager.

The 10-song album ricochets between great – the grammatically playful What You Is, the countryish Hurry For The Sky – and just okay.

Sparkling arpeggios and sublime atmospherics undercut the loneliness and desperation in MacLean and Whang’s singing (the latter’s is the stronger of the two’s), giving tension to the confident and frequently beautiful production.

The Roots aren't averse to a good cover song, so it's not surprising to see them team up with R&B crooner John Legend for a set of throwback soul tunes.

Sadly, no RZA production appears on Ghost's seventh solo project -- thus this isn't as good as the invincible Supreme Clientele, but it's more cohesive than Fishscale.

A couple of songs sound like Much More Music hits (Breakfast, Forever Be), but a few genuine surprises--the Simon & Garfunkelesque cover of Labi Siffre’s Bless The Telephone, the slow-burning Floyd and country-rocking Friday Fish Fry--demonstrate Kelis’s deft versatility.

Jamie Stewart, as usual, sounds like a man on the edge of checking into a white-walled care facility, but that shouldn’t be seen as a negative against Women As Lovers.

The songs are excellent in their own right, but when they’re all lined up, Interpol start seeming like a one-trick pony.

Like all Hip records, this is a snapshot of a band constantly moving away from their past and toward a strange musical unknown.

Antisocialites doubles down on Alvvays’s strengths while also helping the band carve out a stronger identity within their well-established sound. By highlighting the band itself, Alvvays one-up their exciting debut.

The band's straightforward punk leanings give way to more angular, spacious, softer songwriting--and some welcome metal nods in the title track--partway through the 10-track album, but Paternoster's vocals never back off. That's where the power, hooks and originality come from, but they're a little relentless.

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.

The weird, nuanced Rhode Island-based MC burns his references, punchlines and cold truths through a batch of X-acto-sharp beats, focusing his strong opinions, sense of imagery and lyrical abstraction inward.