Songs like 'Little Bombs' and the title track are evocative of his "So Impossible" EP while also showing a definite maturity without relying on the disappointing FM-friendly electric rock that's marred the band's work in last few years.

The tunes mostly stick to a low-tempo, shuffling formula, though Bridges gets a chance to stretch a bit in a few scattershot moments of idiosyncrasy.

He stays true to his reputation for unconstrained madness.

On his third album, experimental electro sounds that initially seem grating and disparate weave together to form bona fide pop melodies.

Aside from a couple of visceral rockers like the title track and Better Than You, Cause is dominated by mid-tempo blues jams.

Some take a little while to hit their sweet spot, like the middling That’s Life, Tho (Almost Hate To Say). But when Vile hits those hazy, beautiful peaks, he reminds us that the untamed wilderness of modern Americana is still his backyard.

Bizarre lyrics, wooze-inducing dissonance and overly elaborate embellishments maintain Friedberger's genius-of-pretension title.

At times his vocals sound too distant in the mix and overpowered by guitars (No Device), but singing any more forcefully would undermine the peculiar comfort that most of the record maintains.

Even though not every twisted move they make on Third pays dividends, considering the stakes, consciously fucking with their formula is a bold gamble for which they should be saluted.

The tunes are peppy and driving, the performances and production polished to a fault, and the lyrics simultaneously celebratory and wistful.

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.

There's not enough doo-wop or doom on much of the material, and their willingness to get far too goofy with the lyrics and delivery gives the sense that they're not taking the project seriously.

This is fairly arm's-length music--more about beat and texture than emotional confessionals.

It may not be the best introduction to the band, but it's a must-have for hardcore fans of Conor Oberst's vocal discordance and stripped-down musical tantrums.

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

Sounding closer to their more earnest Smash days, the songs are snappy to-the-point SoCal punk, albeit with a more polished sheen.

The diversity leaves it without a consistent mood or conceptual through-line, however, and while Hogan's singing voice is, like the album, pleasant enough, it's not especially distinct or memorable.

[It] treads a fine line between charming and cringe-worthy.

The rewards are there--it just takes some work.

Basically, if London Bridge doesn't make you want to rip your ears off, you'll enjoy almost 80 per cent of the album.

If you haven't encountered Jenkinson's strange world of jazz-fusion-hardcore before, this is a decent starting point, and if you're more into the jazz funk than the digital hardcore, this is one of his less abrasive outings.

The more nuanced approach is less immediate but stands up better to repeated listens.

No doubt they know to bury weaker material; the last few songs are less memorable.

Kiesza’s so much better when she reels back her impressively ranging vocals to buttery.

While Alone is a big ol’ mishmash of varying quality, it is, for the time being, the closest any of us will get to Cuomo’s former songwriting charm.

It might be an imperfect stepping stone, but the staircase he's climbing here shows great promise.

The L.A./Paris musician has a voice reminiscent of Owen Pallett’s and tends toward cutesy (see aforementioned Gallop). But these cloying idiosyncrasies are stirring on darker songs like Canter Canter and the title track.

It's a bold move to pick up the scraps from the floor, finish them up and declare them worth hearing, even if they don't fit tidily on any previous (or future) albums. Song by song you could be forgiven for asking "Is this the same band?"