The production on this unfocused album is, as usual, nothing mind-blowing. Still, Skinner has an insightful charm and a lyrical gift that makes this a respectable send-off.

Their records are blueprints laying out a basic architecture to be improved upon, expanded or subverted when the band plays live. Big Boat offers glimpses of the group's playfulness.

Add in some politicking and dissociative trilling and Wild Water Kingdom is revisionist rap meant for fans who believe in Heems's neurotic, post-post-colonial, lapsed-academic POV.

The overall level of creativity bodes well for Harvey’s next proper solo outing, but this one is a mixed bag.

It might have fewer surprises and off-kilter oddities than we’d hoped for, but it definitely won’t kill your buzz.

After a year of Kanye and Pharrell's Lacoste-sweater-vest raps, this gutter shit should find DMX welcomed back with a vengeance.

Some of the hunger and electricity he displayed in his pre-prison era seems to have diminished. This is something to tide people over until his next record, not an artistic statement by any means.

If you can't stand top-40 contemporary dance pop, don't bother (and consider not leaving your house for the next couple of years). Listen to Contrast with an open mind, though, and you hear a kid with real talent.

Sometimes abruptly but always skilfully, these rhythms drag and push the record to its limit on the existential moaning of the album’s closer, God?

By never taking her spare, mystical tunes down the typical singer/songwriter avenues, Ices sets herself apart from both the New Age and the folky acoustic guitar sets.

Little Broken Hearts is held back by a lack of intimacy and the unemotional stiffness we associate with Jones. Still, it's almost a great album.

Mangan's emotive voice is as assured as ever, and his socially conscious lyrics penetrate. Add in a stark, disillusioned tone and sluggish tempos and it makes for an overly serious listen.

Unfortunately, too many songs have that thin, cheap quality that so many indie dance bands were into a decade ago. Good thing they're so ridiculously catchy.

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.

If you can deal with the frequent ridiculousness of the songs, Wild Cat is a fun listen. The production is raw enough to approximate their live sound, and more than a few choruses will get stuck in your head. If you’re looking for much more than that, you’re listening to the wrong band.

It’s full of the proggy rhythmic U-turns, complex structures and virtuoso playing for which the band’s known.

The album's biggest flaw is that Jonsi's opted to sing in English. Sure, we can now understand his lyrics, but hearing about people riding bikes, making out and just gallivanting about derails the experience.

Emotionally, this album doesn’t live up to the principals’ own recent projects, but it’s an energetic, feel-good summer listen--in traditional New Pornographer’s style.

You'll find great boy-girl vocals, muted guitars and quiet but hooky pop.

The shelf life of this stuff can be fleeting (ask the Darkness), but for now it sounds pretty good.

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

At its best, Untitled sounds like a compilation of his previous work--a smooth-voiced crooner reading a sex thesaurus over R&B beats.

Diversifying is a good plan, seeing as this kind of thrashy, mid-fi guitar pop can all melt together. Thankfully, the sugary keyboards and furious, to-the-point guitar solos (and guitarmonies!) cause most of the songs to shred in their own special way.

When they're flowing about anything but shooting people over the expensive-sounding synth-goo production, the record could pull a school bus with its teeth. But aimless, boring gunshot-laden tracks like 9mm and Gun Blast find Bone unable to let go of their dated murda-isms.

If you can deal with the nostalgia factor, it’s a pleasant but unremarkable disc.

Her domestic bliss songs are predictably the most boring, the exception being L8 CMMR, the dancehall-esque, Auto-Tuned track in which she sings of her husband’s virility.

Definitely a turn-it-up album to add to your summertime playlist.

The result is akin to bottling one of their energetic live shows, and it makes for a thrilling, if not altogether bump-free ride.