It's an unnerving listen that demands a certain amount of masochism, but you've definitely never heard another band like Nissenenmondai.

The capital-P pop star backs up her I-just-don’t-give-a persona with killer singing and decent songwriting, but keeps us waiting for a banger that never comes.

The acerbic kiss-off Love Yourself feels like an honest stab at subverting the standard breakup ballad, but elsewhere his lyrics are overly concerned with righteousness and keeping things PG-rated.

The trio have also grown more comfortable singing the blues and incorporating meatier harmonica and guitar arrangements, and lurching tracks like Out Of The Wilderness and A Little Blues make up for weaker soft rock ballads that leave little impression.

It sounds grimy enough to suit the lowdown vibe they’re after, but the songwriting is a letdown.

The otherwise likeably raunchy and bratty Pink is now officially walking a fine line, leaning dangerously close to the humdrum.

Despite a few hiccups, Loney, Dear is one of Sweden’s best exports.

On his latest release, his driving, hook-laden punk rock is as precise as always.

Working with a forward-looking crew of producers, musicians and writers, including Madlib, the Roots, Sa-Ra Creative Partners and Karriem Riggins, was a wise move; they do a decent job on the funky New Amerykah, a throwback to the black power sound and consciousness-raising themes of the 70s.

While it may not stand up to the rest of Hatebreed’s canon, it does a great job of promoting some smaller acts that the average fan may not be aware of, and is a must-have for those antsy for new material.

Whether Hill's singing or rapping, the fearlessness and tempestuous drama in her voice are palpable--and matched by equally raw accompaniment that makes many of the other cuts sound a little too clean by comparison.

It's quickly evident on We Are The Night that the Chemical Brothers are making a serious go at being contemporary.... They pull it off relatively well for the most part.

Syd the Kyd mostly drifts through the music, and is more compelling when getting into trouble--as on Cocaine and Fastlane--rather than lamenting love lost.

While the album could’ve benefited from the trim of a song or two, it successfully avoids the dreaded career stagnation.

Sputtering, glitchy electronics and polyrhythmic drum patterns by Taylor Smith and Austin Tufts provide layers of ambience that seem a bit too soft and tepid in the face of her melancholy but intense musings, though they complement her high, airy, melodic vocals.

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

Recorded in Los Angeles during the summer of 2015, the 10-song release is noisy, messy stuff. What sets it apart from Segall's other numerous bands is Shaw's contribution: he brings a punky, tough sing-shout to the lo-fi, overdriven tunes, while Moothart and Segall (on drums here) go in for a thrashy vibe.

Everything from the production to the songwriting seems aimed to evoke the 60s, and the album would probably sound killer on a good turntable.

The real triumphs come when beats make unexpected appearances, bringing to mind the left-field electronic music that his new label, Warp, was once revered for. Makes you wonder what Eno would come up with if he ventured into techno.

His vocals do the job, even as his lyrics will probably keep the majority of ears fixed on the instrumentation.

Wisely, he doesn’t sing this time around, leaving that to Kenna and Phonte of Little Brother. But the tracks with guest vocals never really take off either, reinforcing the producer’s weakness as a songwriter.

Each woman's distinct singing and songwriting style is front and centre, but their voices blend beautifully.

Despite the album title, there's an undercurrent of humour in these songs of loneliness, betrayal and death.

The burst of primal aggression is welcome (especially in today's political climate), but this EP is too meandering and amorphous to hit as hard as the band’s best stuff.

Consistent, yes, but not the king yet.

While the songwriting is more varied here than on previous LPs (Shapiro sometimes causes rather than experiences heartbreak), the pop hooks don’t always ascend to the maximal sound they aim for.

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.

Even though the songs are full of warm analog synths, a strong sense of cold melancholy and anxiety permeates even the most upbeat electro-pop moments.