Overall, the impression is of an assembly-line product manufactured on a Monday morning or Friday afternoon.

At times, the material here comes dangerously close to sounding like 14 versions of one song, but he manages to mix up the moods and textures just enough to avoid that pitfall.

Reg has matured a lot, and Jet Black is easily the most dynamic and upbeat record of his career.

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.

His latest disc could be his best yet.

This time his band has gelled into an effective stadium-rocking outfit, and his dark humour actually seems connected to some real emotion rather than a strategy designed to create some ironic distance.

Vetiver’s 2006 To Find Me Gone found that nice place for campfire listening, but tracks like Everyday and More Of This sound more like background tunes released for the purpose of selling a digital camera or a cellphone with really good reception.

The 10-song album ricochets between great – the grammatically playful What You Is, the countryish Hurry For The Sky – and just okay.

If you can disregard the arrogance of proclaiming yourself outside the parameters of musical taxonomy and if you don’t mind Anna Barie’s shrill chanting, appropriately ghoulish on Sand Tassels, you’ll probably dig this synthesized blueprint of the future.

With this single self-produced masterstroke, Alela Diane has effectively shaken off all the ill-fitting labels of “new weird America” and “freak folk” and given notice that a warmly expressive and unique voice has arrived with stories to tell.

It features top-shelf exclusive original and cover tracks by softer-side-of-indie acts currently riding a wave of relevance.

Edmonton’s the Faunts have livened up on the punctuation-happy Feel.Love.Thinking.Of., moving away from the floating dreamscape world of their filmic M4 EP.

It’s art school punk that you can dance to, which automatically makes Mi Ami more fun than most of their peers.

This isn’t Mandell’s best album ("Thrill" holds that distinction), but it’s as strong as nearly anything else she’s done.

Yet something needs to be said for Allen’s ability to make cursing seem cute, and tunes about giving head sound charming.

Auerbach delivers the goods with spooky, sleazy and soulful style.

Anyone familiar with the Flat Duo Jets will tell you that Dexter Romweber is a helluva guitarist (Jack White is a proud fan club member), yet our boy Dex has always been lacking in the vocal department. So his delivery on Ruins Of Berlin sometimes sounds more like a Buster Poindexter impression of Conway Twitty.

The Alabama-born Houck knows his way around this music well enough to walk the fine line between respect and reverence as he delivers impassioned readings of 'Can I Sleep In Your Arms' and 'Too Sick To Pray' and kicks out a freewheeling rip through 'I Gotta Get Drunk' with the appropriate tinge of self-loathing.

Love, Hate And Then There’s You isn’t entirely devoid of entertainment value--Stollsteimer’s misguided attempts to replicate the successful sound of the Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand, the Strokes and other alt-rock radio staples at the time these songs were conceived turns out to be quite funny, however unintentional the humour.

The 27-year-old can write killer tunes, and his voice is sweet-guy inviting. There’s a masterpiece disc in him yet, but this still isn’t it.

These kinds of shameless retro-isms would usually be cause for a scathing review. But as much as we’d like to snub their lack of originality, it’s hard to deny that the Pains do what they’ve set out to do quite well.

Rather than risk experimenting with anything radically new, they’ve cautiously tried tweaking their tempos and varying instrumental textures here and there in hopes that listeners won’t notice that they’ve written the same song about romantic frustration in 12 slightly different ways.

Springsteen has trouble leaving well enough alone. No matter how small the song idea, he whips it up into a sweeping epic with lavish choral accompaniment and blustery solos all building to some grand final flourish.

There’s not a lot to get excited about, but it’s a catchy enough confection that should work well in gadget commercials, which was likely the whole point.

Despite a few hiccups, Loney, Dear is one of Sweden’s best exports.

The Empyrean, is an engaging collection of brilliant soundscapes, fancy guitar work and some intriguing electronica flourishes.

All 11 tracks feature painfully predictable song structures and lethargic chord progressions devoid of anything resembling a hook.

Unfortunately, his songwriting isn’t much better, which is surprising given the catchy, melodic bass lines he’s consistently laid down at his day job.