Like his debut album, the sequel suffers and shines due to inconsistency. Cudi's strong creative streak leads him to follow through on every idea that crosses his mind, resulting in brilliantly unique moments and lots of stoner stumbles.

The distance between men and women--emotional and physical--is at the core of many of these songs, yet the album manages to be the most playful PARTYNEXTDOOR record to date.

Although the album revels in its sonic clutter (it’s remarkable how they can make percussive rhythms sound both primitive and absurdly futuristic), there are tracks scattered throughout to catch your breath.

It doesn't sound quite the same coming out of a pair of headphones as it does, say, from the bathroom at Sneaky Dee's, but even on record it's sure to quicken your pulse by a few beats.

His songs are structured around one big, hummable hook and not much else. The L.A. band has a knack for that, but we can't help wondering if they have anything more sophisticated in store. We'd rather have the next MGMT than the next Maroon 5.

Steeped in country, folk and pop, Desveaux errs on the side of understatement; her rich lyrics sometimes inadvertently take a back seat to the band’s nuanced musicianship, anchored by lead guitarist Mike Feuerstack.

Ultimately, Aguilera's the only one of her peers with the vocal prowess to pull it off.

Two-thirds of the songs fail to cohere.

RUFF is Born Ruffians’ strongest album to date. With gritty atmospherics that closely resemble their magnetic live show, the album is less polished and slick than 2013’s Birthmarks.

The album is absurd, confusing (the random sequencing can be a bitch if you're trying to follow individual plots), hilarious (only Merritt could pen a libretto titled What A Fucking Lovely Day!) and bloody brilliant.

Newly installed guitarist Kiko Loureiro weaves blistering licks around Mustaine’s own, elevating the frontman’s sorta sardonic, sorta goofy politicized lyrics. Longtime bassist Dave Ellefson ramps up his low-end pyrotechnics, with Fatal Illusion boasting maybe the grooviest Megadeth bass line since Peace Sells.

Overall, Feel Good nails the delicate balance between experimentation and restraint, making the listener feel... great.

Once you get over the lack of choruses, you'll find a very solid, satisfying melodic techno album.

With cleaner, more refined production quality to boot, Growth is an interesting and fully realized progression.

His strengths as a songwriter occasionally break through this morass, but the album is overwhelmingly concerned with anger and confusion.

Despite the mainstream references, the album is a much more emotionally wrenching experience than anything on the actual pop charts.

Black Ice may sound like a vintage AC/DC record in a superficial way, thanks to producer Brendan O’Brien and engineer Mike Fraser, but having Brian Johnson squeal dumb cliché phrases--three of the 15 songs have “rock ’n’ roll” in the title while a fourth has “rocking”--over a steady 4/4 thump is going to bore even their most ardent followers.

Some will be sad to find that his pulsating vocals and wacky storytelling have subsided, and that his vague lyrics have grown simpler. But anyone who’s avoided Banhart’s hippy-busker tunes now have a reason to give him a chance.

This isn’t exactly Johnny Cash doing Nine Inch Nails, but it’s a helluva lot better than you might expect.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with sticking to a formula that works, and in Cowboy’s case, it’s pretty acoustic songs and (mostly) mellow vocals. But for a songwriter like DeMarco, who on previous albums has triumphed when trying something new, perhaps change is worth pursuing.

Terraplane's saving grace is that it's fun to listen to and full of swagger.

If Fantastic is saying anything meaningful, it's "shut the hell up and have some fun."

Irony’s the entry point, the aesthetic and intellectual rigging that supports the record, a way into enjoying it.

The result is a kind of aggressively cute bubblegum trance that sounds like Aqua having a computer meltdown.

There are a few hot instrumental numbers, but most of this is your favourite undergrounders (add Ladybug Mecca and Z-Trip to the list above) doing their thing over bangin' live funk beats with ace production.

Overall, the record is buoyed by relentless exuberance and good-natured charm.

It works best when DiFranco points to contradictions within herself, and worst when her lyrics get preachy or black-and-white.

ew singer William DuVall spends half his time replicating Staley’s nasal misanthropy and the other half buried by Cantrell’s vocals.