Not a dud in the entire meticulous love letter to a da-do-ron-ron era.

The best tracks are the most pointed, because they go beyond technical style and really delve into each rapper's head.

What stands out more than the production is how consistently solid the album is, and how effective the lyrics and songwriting.

The insightful tunes are cleverly composed, with a sharp sense of wit and a comprehensive knowledge of the game.

Gorgeously inventive.

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

Blue Wave fails to clarify what kind of band Operators truly is. Are they post-punk rabble-rousers? A modern pop band hiding behind retro synths? A gritty indie rock trio? Of course, they're all of the above, with Boeckner happily shape-shifting in between.

Matt's Mind Over Matter stands out by digging in a little harder tonally and rhythmically, adding some grit to all the sweetness. And it has such a classic Matt Murphy chorus and guitar licks that our nostalgic hearts go a-flutter.

Boring grooves that last a couple of minutes before ending abruptly just don’t cut it. What a letdown.

It's a more solid album than the critically acclaimed debut that put him there in the first place.

Producer Ewan Pearson occasionally falters in connecting her vocals with the arrangements; there's a nice engagement on the slower, non-beat-driven tracks that you wish he'd mastered on the clubbier cuts.

Here, Jamie Stewart and his crew of arty innovators use the penchant for sonic deconstruction they honed last time round to take their project of disemboweling pop songs to a new plane.

Ruminations is difficult, packed with depression and despair. But closer Till St. Dymphna Kicks Us Out, with its rejuvenating piano, shows us that things haven’t gone completely dark yet.

These kinds of shameless retro-isms would usually be cause for a scathing review. But as much as we’d like to snub their lack of originality, it’s hard to deny that the Pains do what they’ve set out to do quite well.

Lyrically, Styles is at his best when he’s biting. 0000... He’s not exactly mining unexplored territory. But, he’s an Internet Boyfriend – and Internet Boyfriends are non-threatening. As he inches closer towards the adult pop contemporary charts, Styles is thankfully owning his one-fifth of the One Direction power-pop legacy.

Occasionally sounding like Vast Aire’s little brother with Bigg Jus aspirations, this immense man spills his solemn life lessons while treading the literal lyric territory that Vast owns so effortlessly.

Plenty of bits tug on the heartstrings, but only in the moment. Once that swelling piano ceases or Watson stops singing, the goosebumps disappear.

The Sheryl Crow duet works where his Norah Jones collabo didn't; I Taught Myself How To Grow Old is classic tortured Adams, and Pearls On A String is a rewarding reflection of the time he spent hanging out with Willie Nelson.

The Nashville band’s ninth studio album is definitely sleepy and nuanced, only Wagner’s halted singing is disintegrating further into the background as the overall sound inches closer to adult contemporary.

Adele's husky, powerful voice is what keeps you listening, but here's hoping she experiences something besides betrayal before writing her next record.

He’s sounding more Sly Stone than Otis Redding this time, which gives him room to get delightfully weird and psychedelic while still keeping everything deeply rooted in R&B.

She writes old-fashioned love songs enhanced by Ward’s expert arrangements and reverberated girl-group harmonies.

There’s no mistaking the album for anyone but Yorke’s, but despite his rep as a singular genius, he does play well with others.

His intentions sound pure, but Shaggy's musical moonshine will leave all but the biggest fans with a heavy hangover.

Save for a few minutes near the end, almost every second of Machetes gets smothered with their vocal duelling; the songs are never allowed to come up for air.

Li's productions tend toward a functional minimalism that works well for DJ singles but to some ears might lack the dynamics expected from albums. If you can get past that, though, Under The Same Sky holds together as a compelling exploration of a theme.

They do try to mix up their formula, a move that pays off when subtly employed (the reggae textures in Satellite, for instance) but fails in the big, obvious spots.

Though the music is breezy, Kenny's sage, unfussy meditations on life and love add welcome weight.