Depression and personal battles still make up the lyrical content. But there are also spacious, cosmic moments, swaths of texture (Tim Bruton adds keyboard lines and Matt Rogalsky synth bass) and gentler fingerpicked and/or softly sung moments.

Her pain is less harrowing – she's older now and knows how to cope -– so instead of singing only for herself, she's doing it for her listeners, a noble goal but also dull and predictable.

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.

This isn’t a summer jam. The Reykjavík natives’ seventh studio album is moody and minimal, with slow-building beats.

The results are intimate yet expansive--a pleasing balance between post-rock sonic experimentation and traditional songcraft.

Pierce has called Brutalism his most honest work yet, but personal detail aside, it’s an incisive album about the prevailing mood of the moment: anxiety. The lyrics might be grim, but the music encourages us to stick it out.

The SOLs are skilled at crafting songs rooted in striking specificity.

An album for piano and string quartet, this follow-up to the superb Solo Piano II is another soothing listen, and fine orchestration by Hamburg's Kaiser Quartett adds greater harmonic complexity to Gonzales's songbook.

Wainwright is definitely not an artist short on ambition, and while you occasionally wish he'd show a bit more restraint, most of the time you love him because he doesn't.

[The album] is not in the same league as his magnificent 2004 debut, Get Lifted. But Love In The Future, boasting production and writing credits by Kanye West, still has plenty of beautiful moments.

He clutches that control so tightly that the album has turned out insular and ill-conceived.

This isn’t Mandell’s best album ("Thrill" holds that distinction), but it’s as strong as nearly anything else she’s done.

What it lacks is an interesting emotional--and thus truly cinematic--dimension.

The disparate guest list means the record lacks some cohesion, but Big Boi--ambitious, effusive and still a remarkably lithe rapper--holds it all together.

Petty’s classic pop knack, breezy melodies and laid-back drawl take a back seat to Campbell’s meandering, jammy solos and the album’s overwhelmingly old-guy-blues sound.

Initially off-putting due to the pitch-corrector’s close association with the grossest of gross pop, Woods slowly enchants with mesmerizing vocal layers that pay no mind to verse/chorus/verse conventions.

Songs are focused, multi-layered and crafted, sometimes even bringing Wilco’s more experimental moments to mind.

After the long wait it’s not a disappointing effort, but it’s all over the place.

Whether effervescent (the poppy Promise Not To Think About Love zips along on handclaps and a jaunty bass line) or solemn (elegiac closing track From Now On), her modern take on folk music often delves into the darkness, but always looks toward the light.

Unfortunately, Coppola hasn’t got Winehouse’s writing or vocal chops and Pallin clearly lacks Ronson’s knowledge of hit song construction.

Now and then, as on Say, the bigness of the music prevents you from really hearing and feeling the lyrics through the trumpet blasts and huge solos. But then I've Been Loved comes along, sounding a bit like the Eagles and touched with seriously melancholy cello, and you sense the gravitas beneath the dizzying crescendos.

Without a fluke hit single or prime placement in a big-budget Hollywood film, the Heavy’s disc, which easily outclasses The Odd Couple fiasco, may fall between the cracks, but that Swaby character has serious potential.

By sticking mostly to introspective songwriting, the quintet ignores the strongest tool in its arsenal. It's no surprise that the most memorable tunes are the few where they let their fingers fly.

Ferg has enough lyrical promise and personality to make him a legit trap player, if not, quite yet, a lord.

The sick is far outweighed by the sloppy as the selection shifts from slo-mo chronic puffers to wobbly boozer bumps bracketed by two thugged-out rips by Guilty Simpson.

Long-time fans might be a bit weirded out by the shift, but a few seconds hearing Ditto channel Peggy Lee on the smoky torch burner Coal To Diamonds should assuage their fears.

It's like Koster has a wellspring of positive vibes that he channels into songs without engaging in schmaltz or clichés.

When they slip up, it’s due to stupid lyrics or mainstream tendencies (like the beginning of the first single, 'Burial'). But they do create winning synth moments on 'Song For No One' and 'In Search Of.'