They occasionally slip into derivative territory, Beggars Banquet-era Stones in particular, but strong solo material saves Lifeline near the end.

This album is back-to-basics rock and soul; you won’t find any further ploys to appease contemporary audiences, and therein lies its charm.

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.

His ambition is never entirely realized, and though his voice is versatile, his almost operatic style at times borders on annoying.

Public Strain is front-loaded with some of the more patience-testing tunes, but stick with it to discover some astonishing beauties.

The Kooks seem unable to get beyond the Brit-rock blueprint.

The result is an album with chart-worthy songs that are uncomfortably familiar at times and a touch low on risk.

Here, every song tells a little story in which Johnson assumes different perspectives and uses broader instrumentation.

It's mostly just softly plucked, atmospheric guitar and Webb's weary vocals building up songs that are achingly slow, sombre and intimate.

So, Danja hooked up Duran Duran with some seriously dope beats and nasty Neu-ish grooves for Red Carpet Massacre, way hipper stuff than they even know. The downside is that Simon LeBon is still singing and writing all the lame lyrics.

Lots of bands pillage from the pop music canon; few do it with the aplomb of the Horrors.

Not every song succeeds, and the best moments tend to be the danciest.

Through it all they maintain a charmingly chiming and cheery vibe that's probably the closest humans can get to making elf music.

For every moment of cynical dance pop genius, there's a dull midtempo dirge bereft of decent hooks.

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.

Thankfully, there are just enough flashes of brilliance to save it, even if much of the album comes across as a really expensive demo.

They do stick to that formula a bit too rigidly: the first half is uniform in its patterned builds, and back-to-back tracks like Hunger and Wolves Without Teeth aren't very distinguishable. But the band's near-masterful ability to weave pop sensibilities with moodiness still remains.

For All We Know could make a stronger statement, but that doesn’t change the fact that Nao’s voice is one of the most exciting--and fun to listen to--in modern R&B.

Even when she strays into overwrought moodiness during the disc's trip-hoppy second half, her menacing omnipotence has a way of willing you onward.

RTRWRA neatly combines those familiar chantable choruses, punchy guitars, pleasant harmonies and simple, clever lyricism--all in all, a great vehicle for that smooth, too cool croon of singer Alex Kapranos.

It appears Patti Smith could've benefited from an outside observer when choosing songs.

The lyrics can get melodramatic (Verlaine Shot Rimbaud) and vulgar (Head), but there are gems here, too.

It's not all bad. Many of the other 13 songs on her 11th studio album (financed by pledgemusic, with a percentage going to animal shelters) show flashes of the melodic brilliance of her early 90s output.

For the most part, this collection is a great addition to the band’s oeuvre.

Glitterbust is the sound of someone coming out on the other side of that moment, armed with heightened instincts and unfaltering confidence.

The production isn’t minimal, but Ørsted and Vindahl cram in a lot of oddball flourishes without distracting from her refreshingly unvarnished voice.

To Rock's credit, his touches don't actually get in the way of the songs, and hopefully his tweaks are just what Sexsmith needs to garner the support he deserves.

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