Tempest is an epic talent, definitely, but this doesn’t quite nail it down.

Unfortunately though, as a solidified body of work, it’s lacking. It can be likened to the Star Wars sequels: nostalgic, fun and thrilling, yet relies on sentimentality to entertain. It fails to offer anything particularly new, and feels completely thrown together disregarding the potential greatness that could’ve been.

Unwanted has genuine highlights even if it grows boring and repetitive as an album.

Why does “High Fashion”’s bassline sound so intoxicating and disjointed? Why does “Headphones On” possess trip-hop stems that are strangely symbolic of the destructive gallows? These interludes, if executed better, might’ve fulfilled and encouraged the listeners’ curiosity such as mine over Rae’s intriguing soundscapes.

Like much of Horse Jumper’s previous work, though, it doesn’t depart significantly from the canonic playbook, unfurling as derivation or emulation more than a recasting of the genre.

When My Heart Felt Volcanic is a breezy, fun debut, but The Aces hardly stray from the road well-travelled. It’s a shame, considering they’re at their best when they push beyond the generic indie-rock song structure.

Acoustic Dust is for those who, at a bare minimum, enjoyed Ranaldo’s latest solo efforts and are interested enough to hear what some of them might sound like in a different setting.

Overall Resistance is Futile is an interesting nexus of the Manics’ twin ambitions towards populism and complexity--and an encouraging sign that they are still progressing after over 30 years.

It’s hardly a surprise that Big Wheel and Others is at its best when McCombs just keeps it simple with himself and his acoustic guitar, while the moments where he overreaches are the longer pieces without the focus found elsewhere.

Marlon Williams is a perfectly pleasant listen, but we’ll have to check back to see what Williams can do when his personal experience catches up to his subject matter.

TV En Francais isn’t less successful than its predecessors, but the tracks that show a band evolving naturally offer a more welcomed take on the band in 2014.

The highs of Makes Me Sick Makes Me Smile are vibrant and energetic. Yet the album’s title itself encapsulates both these highs and the record’s low points. Some tracks merely plod along; others stretch dissonance to breaking point.

Miss Power is a solid instalment from Constance, with real high points across multiple genres. The voice notes are a little heavy-handed, and “YUCK!” risks losing the crowd, but Constance has still shown herself as an exciting voice in indie and alternative pop.

Hardly euphoric but with some real mastery in the guitar, not dissimilar to Body/Head, this is dark swell of analog experimentation will no doubt intrigue guitar geeks globally.

The sonic diversity, for a theme so enveloped in love, doesn’t sit right in a narrative album set in the age of protest. But it opens a door to many plausible pathways; his next big step is to choose wisely.

It’s an overdose of things that would, individually, be fantastic, but are made lesser by their combination.

Musically there’s much to tie Rustie to his Scottish compatriot Hudson Mohawke, and though they may be working from the same spreadsheet, at the moment Rustie still remains in is shadow.

Rather than making a sharp left turn on Basses Loaded, the band instead pays homage to their long, curious history by plugging in with some longtime cohorts, making an unholy ruckus, and once again not giving a damn about what we think of it.

For existing fans this is a tonally varied addition to his substantial oeuvre, but the record will likely prove too oblique, even passé, for more virgin ears.

They haven't really taken a new direction with regards to the songwriting on Decency.

Notably absent from Redcar les adorables étoiles is the sense of exquisite, crystalline vision present in Letissier’s prior work. Perhaps this lack is only a function of the production style, featuring reverb-soaked vocals, rambling melodies, and spacey synthesizers.

Big Deal's third album is pleasantly dreamlike and fuzzy, but lacking focus.

Most reformed bands are creatively barren, hawking around twenty five year old songs, so for Medicine to break this cliché is a great, great thing--it’s just a shame that some of the interesting sounds they create here couldn’t have incubated for a bit longer.

It’s not until Meteorites broadens its scope a little that it begins to offer up genuine highlights.

There are undeniable moments of beauty (the radar-bleeping beginning of “A Light Above Descending” is lent a lovely, watercolour quality by its gentle horn accompaniment), and the live cuts tend to fare better than the studio recordings, imbued as they are with a tangibly excitability. It’s irrefutable though--much of Sea of Brass (by which I mean both the studio album itself and its associated extras) does feel bloated.

These songs feel as if they only exist as a reference for performances, rather than for their own good. Not to mention that the point of a house show is missed if I am forced to put the record on in a crowded metro just to imitate the feeling of getting thrown around in a drunken haze before work.

The second half passes with little to no note, leaving a yearning for perhaps a bit more adventure in the future.

At times acutely annoyingly, far-out wackiness permeate much of the proceedings, rendering the album's less rewarding half as disposable as the band's frustratingly inconsequential recent self-indulgences ala messy guest star workout The Flaming Lips and Heady Fwends (2012).

There are certainly high points to be found here, but the feeling that vital cogs in the Rustie machinery are missing never quite subsides.

Joy'All ends up being a bit of everything and never establishing a clear enough character. The injection of joy is refreshing yet contrived, and all the simultaneous changes seem too big of an undertaking for her collaborators, who are not able to cultivate her sound.

With skills and interests cemented across various styles, he’s figuring out in real time exactly what he does best – providing floor fillers to club crowds or elevating his performances through complex production. Perhaps when he sings, “Where are my wings? / they’re loading”, the artist is acknowledging that he’s still to assume his most resolute form yet.

She’s infectious on stage, and her videos and performances are all planned and conceptualized. But THINK LATER is a little too hollow, a little too cohesive, to make any big statements right now.

There still feels like the same ratio of hit and miss that you might find in a twenty track White release. But when there's half as many tracks at twice an instrumental's length, it means those tracks you don't get on with rather overstay their welcome.

There are a decent amount of genuinely stirring moments on this album to prevent it from falling completely flat. It’s interesting and occasionally shines but, front-ended with its strongest tracks, Two Trains ultimately runs out of steam.

By stepping into this unfamiliar territory, he’s not only proved that he’s the dynamic and hugely talented producer that those early EPs hinted at, but he’s ended up just inches away from making that record he’s aiming for.

There is nothing special about this--dualities of form and content are as old as art itself.

While Praxis Makes Perfect does boast some terrific, shimmering, moments, it simultaneously puts hurdles in the way of an easy listen, especially towards the end where it all gets a bit... well, dull.

Perhaps the wildly-inventive producer isn’t inspired to break the mould, or to look for a new direction, but he is a producer sure to contrast this low with a high next time. It’s alright as it is, this record, but no more than that.

Ultimately, while Grey Tickles, Black Pressure should be a career-definiting opus, it just seems unfocussed and uncertain; Grant's barbs aren't as sharp, which means too few of the songs stick like they should.

It's clear what they've wanted to do, and in some aspects have nailed it head-on, but to execute this properly, there needs to be more focus on wrapping that pure-as-fuck punk heart that beats in their chests in something more than a cartoon unicorn.

Whilst Heartstrings is unlikely to break new ground in the way they have before, it’s a return to brooding form from a band many thought had rung out.

The laid-back pace and contemplative mood then doesn’t really evolve over the 11 songs, and although Croz doesn’t outstay its welcome, there is a nagging feeling that the slickness of the production and instrumentation don’t play to Crosby’s strengths as a singer or songwriter.

During its most striking moments, Weather is yet another example of Scott Hansen’s musical craftsmanship and excitingly it clearly illustrates the validity of his collaborative efforts with other musical artists. However the weighting on Weather is at times off-kilter and inconsistent, if Hansen can rectify and master this in future projects, he will likely be making the best music of his career.

Much of the album largely lives and dies by how much The Fresh & Onlys can animate five-decades old materials.

There’s a nice blend of folk, country, and while it’s a step in the direction for Mendes the Artist (and the Human), there’s a line between performance and genuineness. Mendes slightly oversteps it with an ill-fitting cowboy boot.

Asunder, Sweet and Other Distress’ is good enough, by post-rock standards. But it really falls short of the bar that GY!BE set themselves before they took a break from the game.

Even if it doesn’t feel like a groundbreaking return, many tracks here align with his ingenious artistic consistency.

Short n’ Sweet may arrive at the right time for her, but it’s often too tame, too comfy and untidy – a designated mainstream rather than artistic breakthrough.

Of The Earth is ultimately easier to admire as an audacious gamble than to love as a fully successful statement: sections of the album feels still under construction, an impression amplified by a handful of fully realised gems, like the hypnotic and haunting highlight “Light The Way”.

Time has its highs and its lows. It’s an album that doesn’t take itself too seriously. The lyrics may be tongue-in-cheek, but the craftsmanship of each song is nothing to smirk at.

The difficulties seem to arise when melody and vocals are expected to step up and carry a track for them. They don’t, much more often than they do, which ends up leaving the listener (or this listener, at least) vaguely dissatisfied.

It certainly sounds like black and white and red, but while it’s quite clearly in a better way than a sunburnt penguin, its attempts at something completely dramatic and bold aren’t quite as successful as Spielberg’s iconic scene.

While they aren’t designed to make pop bangers, they clearly have an ear for the kind of instrumentation and production tricks that enable them to cut to the feeling much faster than naked piano. Let’s hope the future holds a bit more exuberance and a bit less niceness.

I have no doubt that Tangerine Reef will be a remarkable experience when paired with its visual stimuli, but without it, it is an album hard to recommend.

While psych may offer an altered experience, a shifted perception, a rarified reality, Dead Meadow’s take on it this time around is an occasionally wonderful, momentarily beautiful, but largely confused and confusing experience.

A songwriter with a distinctive world view definitely but rarely the musical nous to really make the most of it--as such North American Poetry amounts to some sweet melodies delivered with slacker poise but is largely forgettable.

If you like “State Sponsored Psychosis”, you’ll enjoy it a tad faster in “The Abduction”. The dazzling backdrops overpower Pelant’s vulnerability, detracting from his authenticity. Nonetheless, they regain their footing with closer “Desperation”, a hopeful, power pop gem affirming where Night Moves currently stand.

It’s hugely to Owens’ credit that he’s turned his hand at a slew of different styles in assured fashion to date, but neither this album nor Lysandre really hold the universal pop appeal of Girls’ output, either.

While Purple Noon is likely Greene’s most lackluster output, it’s not a total bust. He does manage to squeeze in a few noteworthy moments that briefly highlight his songwriting.

This is a conventional theme LP rather than a document providing a great deal of insight into Bright Eyes’ musical development.

The stories she unveils here can get dull and repetitive – as they are designed to be relatable to as wide an audience as possible – but the way she tells them is, more often than not, captivating enough to sit through the 3-minute runtime.

At only 32 minutes and housing five interludes, The Age of Pleasure is slim on ideas and music. It would be more successful if she followed the same pattern of zinging between genre and form effortlessly like on Dirty Computer, but this record largely sticks to reggae and funk, leading to a slower, more lax mood.

Smile feels like it’s just kind of there. It just sits at the table surrounded by Perry’s past, which has some of the aforementioned biggest tracks of the ‘00s, and a couple of toe-dips into new territory which were at least commendable, but Smile just walks the line of enjoyable.

Nobody’s Home struggles to grasp the organic feel of Badkid throughout its run time, but tracks like “Youthenasia”, “Riot”, and “Alone Again” make whatever heights are out there for him an eventuality.

There are no question marks next to ambition here but rather a general air of confusion in the artistic make-up of the songs that makes Mosaic a slightly frustrating listen.

There aren’t any outright failures on Full Circle--Bernardout and her bandmates Dom Goldsmith and Arthur Delaney are too talented to turn out a subpar project--but there are moments that simply lack staying power.

Views, like Take Care and Nothing Was the Same before it, is brilliant in places and thoroughly bloated in others.

The record isn’t a patch on his very best stuff, but compare Original Pirate Material to the work of the vast majority of artists and they’ll come up short. For every eye rolling moment, there are more than enough to make you glad The Streets are back.

The frustrating thing about Past Lives is that it simply sounds like good music. It is not bigger or smaller than the sum of its parts – it’s exactly that. The members got the recipe just right, but it doesn’t leave much of an aftertaste.

House in the Tall Grass is a sonically pure endeavor, but its beauty does not withstand scrutiny. Though it aspires to soundtrack, music by which to have interesting experiences, it amounts to mere mood music; ambience and suggestions of potential, but little else.

This isn’t a terrible album, but it’s not much more than a re-run of what Pelican have been doing for a decade before.

It’s an album that washes over, vying for attention, but never quite succeeds in grabbing it, and never quite living up to what Cold War Kids could be.

Herein lies the central problem with Devendra Banhart’s latest record; there are moments to savour, but for each of these there’s at least one frustrating or disappointing moment to counteract it.

Strange Burden, while infuriatingly short, is paced and produced acutely.

Though impressive and vaguely explorative, the record falls slightly short of the mark for an outfit aiming to reinvent themselves.

There are a lot of underwhelming moments that come in tracks that don’t quite find the perfect marriage between conflicting styles. But Red Earth and Pouring Fire is an admirably ambitious album and presents Bear’s Den as a far more diverse, capable band that many would have previously thought.

Weezer’s greatest misses may come from their frontman’s visceral desperation to stay relevant, but it’s a relief to hear them take chances and risk failure in such a new way. The album might just be OK, but it’s been a long time since Weezer have dared to be this human.

There is a somewhat disconcerting beauty to some of Pre-Human Ideas’ songs.

In the end, another eternity leaves us somewhere in the middle, to contemplate the excellent and the bland.

Talk Memory excels as an advertisement for prodigious jazz technique, but it just doesn't excel as a BADBADNOTGOOD record.

In the end it is a work crippled by its own indecision, and perhaps bowed by the weight of expectation: a shame, for sure, but hardly a reason to lose faith.

This natural movement away from jazz has led them to a sort of awkward middle ground. It feels like To Believe is a beautiful soundtrack to a film we don’t have the visuals for. And it’s just not quite enough on its own.

While Pedestrian is not the most remarkable album, it feels honest and comforting.

God’s Favorite Customer isn’t afforded the opportunity to shine with Tillman’s usual charming spirit--that’s not because the turmoil of heartache is too mundane a subject for the philosophically-minded Tillman to master, but because in order to master it, he needs to do more to whip up his usual reckless innovation.

While these tracks aren’t necessarily bad by any set definition, it’s worth looking at them through a critical scope and for grand moments like these that once carried so much weight early in their career, we have to begin asking ourselves just how many times can a group reduplicate their sound before their efforts simply become white noise.

Bouquet is fine as a first country album – there’s a relaxed sheen over the whole thing, and she sounds great as ever – it’s just disappointing for what we know Stefani to be capable of.

It might not be all we'd hoped for, and could certainly benefit from some variety, but there are just about enough standouts here to keep admirers interested.

At its best, it’s vintage Quasi.... But at its worst, you find yourself checking the tracklist to see just how much more of the record is left.

Blue Rev is a slightly disappointing return from such a brilliant indie band.

These are songs with the glossiest pop sheen steamrolled over them, erasing any wrinkles or mishaps – the exact thing that made her so endearing to begin with.

It’s an album that doesn’t demand attention but rewards those willing to sit with it, probably best described as an understated success. It would seem the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Her latest offering, however, lacks the key component that made the bizarre spectacles that accompanied her other albums slightly less irritating--consistently good pop songs.

Her spontaneous naivete and heartfelt vocals, while inticing, somehow get lost in these glossy, large scale and commercial productions.

Its best moments are closer to pop-punk and synth-pop than anything resembling traditional hip-hop.

Singles "Human" and "Skin" are due their high praise, but there seems little soul to the rest of proceedings.

[Cigarettes After Sex] continue to refine their vision with more clarity, bigger baselines, and a continued promise to envelop you in their hazy, romantic pop noir. It’s that kind of consistency that fans have come to expect; still, one can’t help but wonder how many more releases Cigarettes After Sex will sustain this sound before they risk consistency for experimentation within their artistic boundaries.

While no wheels have been reinvented, The Show is far from a bad record. If you’ve spent any time trying to imagine what a new Niall album would sound like, you’re probably pretty close.

2017 has had better pop records surely, but hearing Halsey grow as an artist is a uniquely rewarding experience that makes the album’s faults more forgivable and its successes more thrilling.