The album is executed slickly enough that this lack of cohesion isn't a huge problem. The goofy lyrics, though, owe too much to the hippy-dippy era.

Whitehorse's sophomore effort signals that this is one musical marriage that's only getting better with time.

You might only remember the songs with words, but the rest of the album puts those moments in context.

Jackrabbit is smart, charming and ambitious. But it would have been a lot more concise without the filler tracks in the middle.

Their approach is no longer as unique as it once was, but unlike many reunion albums, this one stands up fine next to their seminal work.

Now and then, as on Say, the bigness of the music prevents you from really hearing and feeling the lyrics through the trumpet blasts and huge solos. But then I've Been Loved comes along, sounding a bit like the Eagles and touched with seriously melancholy cello, and you sense the gravitas beneath the dizzying crescendos.

Barter 6 eschews obvious hits for what feels like an attempt at crafting a cohesive work.

hat mix of worldly and familiar references, moods and textures ensures that The Magic Whip buzzes with urgency, even at its most serene and existential (or when Albarn rehashes his banal reservations about modern times).

FitzGerald's only musical foils are guest vocalists, so the contrast between fragile sentiment and driving rhythms feels obsessively and perfectly realized. It's pretty standard stuff, but it works because the album is full of subtly affecting moments that viscerally lock in to a magic-hour state.

Never Were The Way She Was is stunning, understated and poignant, evoking isolation and yearning for some unnamed thing. Despite some less successful detours, it's a monster of a journey that calls to mind a windswept, brutal white North fraught with life.

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.

Their fifth album, which is all hyperactive synth melodies and shrill sing-shouting in classic Matt and Kim style, sounds like it was smothered in thick syrup, drowned in glitter and then levelled out with soul-sucking effects for good measure.

Top-loaded with impenetrable stabs at noise-rock-infused rap, Cherry Bomb is a frustrating exhibition of musicality mired in Tyler, the Creator's contrary sensibility.

It's the lyrical shift that propels the album in a new direction that will be hard to appreciate amongst throngs of festival-goers. That's what the sugary hooks are for.

The songs are fast-moving clouds, riffs with drift (let's call them "driffs" for now and leave it to someone else to come up with a better term), immediately catchy and contemporary but also tastefully inflected with gazey and psychedelic sensibilities.

The Past We Leave Behind is lovingly crafted but too vague to live up to its title.

The trio hit on a raw, emotional, gritty new sound, but success failed to materialize until some 40 years later.

It's not exactly adventurous, but he remains tough to pigeonhole and doesn't sound like he'll be slowing down any time soon.

At times there's too much going on to be comfortable, but that sonic complexity also keeps things interesting. Shlohmo deserves kudos for making an instrumental electronic album that expresses anxiety, despair and sadness so vividly.

The most frustrating part is that many of the songs are decent, but they're consistently compromised by the ham-fisted presentation.

A full three years later, Sound & Color avoids the sophomore slump by packing a sense of purpose into its 12 sleek yet gritty soul tracks.

Fun, easy listen? Not so much. But Calder's vocals are too cheerfully bright and the sounds too pleasant for things ever to become a downer.

Houndmouth resurrect a blistering, off-its-hinges breed of Americana complete with tangible wild heart and soul.

The lyrics are the album's strong suit, and for the first time ever Darnielle will be releasing them with the album, allowing for easy dissection.

Young Fathers' alarm at being boxed in has led them to make an uncompromising, and, yes, prize-worthy pop statement.

Here, he ratchets that up another notch, attacking familiar concepts (wantonly commercial rappers, his complicated relationship with his mother, the push and pull of celebrity) with seasoned vigour.

Air Conditioned Nightmare has fewer traces of the experimental Montreal loft party scene Doldrums originally emerged from, but it's not quite accessible enough for big festival stages either.

[The songs] are confessional and vulnerable, yet so strong. Of the quiet songs, only the grungy dirge slows things to a crawl.