This rather back-loaded LP--which has fittingly been released in time for the Northern hemisphere summer--will not only go down a treat live, but also rates as Four Year Strong’s best record to date.

Even if she is done splaying out the furthest boundaries of her sound, one can hardly complain that she's doubling down on the qualities she's always excelled at when she sounds as refreshed and refreshing as she does here.

This is the sound of a cohesive unit letting it rip in the studio for by far the shortest album of their careers--and not a note is misplaced or wasted, despite how (intentionally) messy it sounds.

It's excellent, to be honest. Jay-Z sounds relaxed and comfortable in his legacy on the mic: he's not feeling as pressed to perform as he did on Kingdom Come, and the MC just lets his talent flow effortlessly.

Because beauty comes thick and fast with this album, and even though it's taken wholesale from more popular sources, here it feels like we're only now hearing it for the first time.

If you're a fan of ambient, new age or soft folk music, there's not much here that you won't like. I can't think of many other albums where a harp is so prominent and the chilling, reverb-soaked vocals are a perfect compliment to the misty imagery that Julianna and Mary are able to solicit throughout the entire 42-minute runtime.

What the album lacks in refinement and songwriting polish, it gains in the unflagging energy these tunes emanate.

Even more than any of their previous outings How To Stop Your Brain In An Accident bridges the gap between efficient noise rock, whip-smart comedy and timely social commentary.

23 has a lack of contrast, and that is really its only flaw.

All the characteristics of JID's music appear in full force: the attention-grabbing beat switches equalled only by his effortless changeups in flow, absolutely absurd rhyme schemes and storytelling chops, and features that range from fantastic (Earthgang on their fun shit, a more fired-up Yasiin Bey than we've heard in the better part of a decade and a disarmingly beautiful cameo from James Blake) to the banal (21 Savage and Lil Durk, sounding exactly like you'd expect them to). ... Fun, idiosyncratic and personal.

Occasional flourishes reveal brilliance (‘Lost’, ‘Start Again’), but mostly it’s a homogeneous trudge through palpable emotional intensity. It culminates in some stunning imagery, which makes it worth the journey especially when you consider the relative brevity of the whole thing.

Orbiting around the frivolity of human existence and overpopulation, Existence Is Futile is yet another successful chapter in a gothic horror novel that began thirty years ago. It is thus both a celebration and a testimony to the power of perseverance.

Lyrically, the album is demonstrably strong enough to stand on its own two feet, but I cannot explain just how phenomenally the narratives are bolstered by the instrumentals.

Heaven Is A Junkyard might be a comparatively trim release, but it contains multitudes.

His mastery of synths and the quality of his songwriting are apparent, but there also lies some regret that the album doesn't feature more vocals - Adigery's charisma and electricity sure helped Topical Dancer in that regard.

Edginess and quirkiness aside, the band's latest is an immaculately constructed beast that never straggles behind or overstays its welcome.

Black Up is at first mind-bending and perhaps confusing in its production and aesthetic, making it easy to lump in with fringe rap artists cLOUDDEAD. But to do so ignores the visceral qualities of the album, both in Butler's lyrics and in the production.

Andorra strikes out further, reaching deeper into Snaith’s box of musical curiosities which are, at once, tasteful and fruitfully tawdry. Phantasmagoric and stunningly organic, another crowd pleaser for fans of Daniel Snaith’s aural hallucinogens.

This lovely journey offers both lush and haunting moments without sacrificing any of the experimental edges or familiar sounds.

Wilco have had their peaks and valleys, but they have never sounded as confident as they do on The Whole Love.

Transgender Dysphoria Blues might be the most important album of the year, and its message will hopefully seep into music culture and spread till records like this don’t *have* to get made anymore.

Weathervanes is a bit of a downer. Regardless, though, it’s Isbell’s reliably exceptional songwriting, the bursting-out-of-the-gate energy of the 400 Unit (just listen to the barnburner that is “When We Were Close”), and a talent for subtle but inescapable hooks which make the doom and gloom of these songs not only bearable, but rather inviting.

Option Paralysis equivocates the maturation of musical ideas over the Dillinger Escape Plan's storied career, as Miss Machine and Ire Works are currently looking as mere test samples leading up to this point. In all, Option Paralysis is a work of art, but don't think for a second they've gone soft on us.

Nine Types of Light proves how hard this quintet can hit, experimental New Yorkers or love-sick idiots.

Major/Minor is just another testament to Thrice's ability to do no wrong.

An album this tepid--which is to say, not completely tepid, but tepid enough--from a talent that immense, though, can only register as a minor failure. She can do better. The sonic virtues of her performance on Pang, however mixed, guarantee that I'll be listening.

Reset, in spite of its flaws, still offers a unique wrinkle in the Animal Collective fabric that's worth exploring. Even if you only come back for the saccharine highs, some of the record's more subtle moments will continue to tug at your ankles like a strong undertow.

No longer supported by two decades’ worth of prophetic scope or career-highlight compositions, Godspeed’s revolution feels as performative as it always has - and a good deal more hollow.