The album feels less ponderous and more balls-out than its predecessor, but the band hasn’t stitched up its maniacal tendencies into commercial pop either.

The album shows he’s progressed since bursting onto the scene four years ago, but it’s definitely not going to change the minds of those who think he’s ruining dance music.

Arrangements are unfussy--at least by today’s standards--and Cash’s rich, familiar baritone is in fine shape.

The album is bogged down in missteps like Tyga, Lil’ Twist and YG’s limp One Time and uninspired strip club anthem Back It Up.

It’s a collection to bob your head and sing along to, something that will never go out of style.

Beneath catchy pop hooks, there’s deep-rooted pain in these love songs.

YG may just want to party, but the layered storytelling displayed here proves he could be the next transcendent, endlessly original West Coast superstar.

The result is tunes that are pleasant more often than arresting, tailor-made for playing quietly in the kitchen.

A few verses drag out too long, but Drew’s storytelling remains firmly in the foreground.

Somehow they’ve managed to become both more accessible and more unique.

Just when it starts to feel like the album is continuing in a high-powered vein, the Lips start sounding like they’re steering a chuckwagon.

Tensnake mostly favours brisk tempos, though the sultry ballad 58bpm makes you wish he slowed the pace more often.

The album may have been borne in a fog, but the result finds Granduciel on the other side of the murk.

The album starts strong with classic Kylie banger Into The Blue, but it suddenly succumbs to faddishness on nondescript disco tune Sexy Love and the weirdly dated dubstep track Sexercize.

The production isn’t minimal, but Ørsted and Vindahl cram in a lot of oddball flourishes without distracting from her refreshingly unvarnished voice.

There’s an eerie blandness to the mood that is initially off-putting but turns into a surprisingly compelling, subtly evocative combination of sadness and contentedness.

It’s high-quality pop, but also highly disposable.

A tighter track list homing in on its sombre (and stoner) moods would’ve been bolder, but to his credit Ross avoids commercial trendiness in favour of more personal--if familiar--forays into Philly soul, funk, 90s hip-hop and South Beach glam.

The songs are effortlessly pleasant even when they threaten to dissolve into the ether like the woolly memory of a sweet dream receding into your subconscious.

Through varied production, Q strikes a balance between his hard persona and the party vibe found on Habits’ catchiest tracks.

We keep hearing about the death of rock ’n’ roll supplanted by some fleeting, trendy sub-genre; but with more confidence than ever, these dudes remind us just how powerful the pure stuff can be.

The album plods occasionally, but then the band’s mastery of mood shifts kicks in and a dreamy landscape and simple, jangly verse turn into a big, beautiful chorus.

Even if they’re generally delivered with an easier flow and more laid-back vibe, sharp production and catchy hooks increase each track’s impact.

The album as a whole is still more interesting than any of its individual parts, but now we can truly appreciate each and every fragment.

The result is incredibly potent and human.

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

Roberts is less concerned with sticking to a chunky, riff-driven formula than with experimenting with the many layers that he and his band are capable of producing.

The lyrics can get melodramatic (Verlaine Shot Rimbaud) and vulgar (Head), but there are gems here, too.