Monica’s highly anticipated sixth album is rich with songs about self-validation, love lost and subsequent recovery, and doesn’t let up on that thematic gas pedal until the last tune.

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.

She may have gone a little too far toward conventional pop, and not all of it rings true.

Their combination of new wave coldness and glam rock glitter is a formula that works well, and Haines has a genuine talent for walking the line between tough-girl swagger and fragility.

You have to admire the way Gaga fearlessly throws herself into, say, a disco mariachi arrangement on Americano, but she should be careful: her frequently righteous tone and overindulgence in clunky Catholic metaphors threaten to mire her memorable melodies in schlocky self-help proselytizing.

The record's emotional centre hits toward the end, so stick around for Your Moon, a cathartic downer backed by processed strings and 808 claps.

The lyrics are dense with vivid imagery that could be autobiographical but may just attest to the duo's ability to create intimate moments for their listeners to enjoy.

Although the new direction isn't revolutionary, it's natural enough and distracts from some of the filler.

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.

Calvi’s obviously got great pipes, but the EP would’ve been better if she’d made every cover unrecognizable.

Echoes sounds pretty business-as-usual.

Neither as playful as previous efforts nor as spooky as it wants to be, Mirror Mirror is a middling effort by a good band.

Billy Bragg’s studio return finds him in his comfort zone provided by the Blokes and producer Grant Showbiz under yet another title copped from novelist Colin MacInnes.

At this point, however, the movement of white UK female artists using 60s nostalgia to reinvent pop music is not all that original, but at least it’s a welcome break from the previous trends.

Of course, hilariously outlandish quasi-mystical song titles like 'Fire Lances Of The Ancient Hyperze­phyerians' probably won’t help their cause, but the progressively regressive arrangements, more skillful riffing and their relentless, groove-conscious attack will go a long way toward endearing them to serious metalheads who’ll appreciate the Sword’s obvious Sabbath, Maiden and Budgie inspiration.

Instead of moving forward with a bold new sound, they seem lost and confused, eventually reverting to the sprawling space rock jams of their early years, which may be their comfort zone.

Cuomo’s notes contain detailed autobiographical backstories for each song, some of which are probably the best Weezer never recorded.

There seems to be something unsettlingly artifical about the whole Beirut project, as if idea man Zach Condon is playing some strange cultural appropriation game for which he’s the only one privy to the rules.

Overall, the record is solid: lots of fuzzy psychedelic riffs and infectious melodies. But inevitably, a few of the toned-down tracks miss the mark.

Much of the record is stuck in a good but not great sound from 10 years back.

Overall, it's an ambitious and beautiful album.

Amazingly, though Elan Vital easily could've become their resounding Sandinista flop, Zollo's clean vocals, knife-sharp melodies and subtle politically charged songwriting help secure its nomination as Pretty Girls' London Calling.

It’s just the sort of gently strummed, sweetly harmonized and vaguely familiar-sounding pop music replete with quirky lyrical turns that is designed to make indie-rock-obsessed music hacks swoon. And they will.

I Predict A Graceful Expulsion is not only immediately accessible, but also rich and nuanced enough to survive repeated listens.

Beautifully spooky.

They've delivered faithful, appreciative renditions, but the elephant-in-the-room question is why anyone would cop this disc instead of an H&O best-of.

Despite the evident talent of his backup band – vocalists Patti Griffin and Jill Sobule, guitarist Smokey Hormel, bassist Don Was and Giant Sand's Howe Gelb on piano – it takes a while to get into, in part because the arrangements are often so busy that they verge on chaotic.

With Uncle, Duke & The Chief, they confidently step into calmer, more spacious sonic terrain and lean on classic pop songwriting. The nine songs still take plenty of left-field Ruffian tangents, but they come in brief, controlled bursts that add personality and colour.