Come Closer is a hostage to 90s Euro-Club-isms and torn in half by the lesser devices of two highly talented individuals, a near-first in music where a collab brings out the worst in each participant.

You’re left shrugging, like, okay, whatever. As recalibrations, or simply maturing, goes Cruel World is as mixed and contradictory as her debut.

Hurts Like Hell may feel unremarkable to some, but for those who are constantly contemplative of where one used to be, its subtle yet deeply personal storytelling will be much more touching than expected.

These songs remain uncharacteristically conventional in structure and instrumentation as a disappointing result.

As a project, Strictly 4 The Scythe is overcommitted and faintly ridiculous. Its collective chemistry is intermittent, owing something to its indiscriminately-into-the-crowd exuberance and occasionally tipping into something cynically curatorial. .... These failures are failures of abundance, though. Curry remains an earnest underground champion.

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”.

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

A comeback, then, that proves the case for Peaches herself while underselling her music.

The result is a collection of futile, brooding songs that tries to encapsulate bigger-than-life emotions but ends up being too afraid to truly delve into them. He could just need a little love from someone, anyone, to get that refined taste back.

Flashes of quality make the album all the more frustrating. If the lyrics came anywhere near his halcyon days, the shortcomings might matter less.

Cerulean, while technically masterful, is just a fine, pleasant dream to pass the time.

Too much of Quicksand Heart feels rushed, or perhaps consciously unambitious, eschewing bold creative strokes in favour of the kind of inoffensive consistency you might put on at a cheese and wine night to set the mood. Its best songs are worth a relisten; taken as a whole, though, it’s something of a disappointment.

It’s so unrestrained that it sometimes loses its grip, condensing several albums worth of ideas into a single project that isn’t quite as compelling as the sum of its parts, the sum of its collaborators, or the sum of its energy.

There’s a pleasant sea-change at the mid-way point on “Togetherness Is All I’m After”, with the dropping tempo allowing some finer feeling and vocal range to return, but tracks like “Cell Phone Blues”, “Love Chant”, and “Marauders”, feel forced and lumpen.

There’s plenty to admire of Swift – her voice, her curiosity, her ability to mine emotional nuance – but that’s been true of every Swift era. What’s missing here is the glue. Similar to Red, some tracks just don’t mesh.

Whereas her blockbuster debut Invasion of Privacy used every minute of its runtime, AM I THE DRAMA? wavers and meanders around tracks that are fine at best and miserable at worst.

This is an album that lacks the fun and hooks of their earlier outings.

The messaging does feel appreciative yet it feels too familiar between its use of commonplace metaphors and lack of clear thematic thread.

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.

The songs are proficiently penned, though often devoid of the juggernaut hooks that elevated previous outings, particularly the exhilarating House of Sugar and stunning God Save the Animals. Additionally, the production MO tilts toward the conservative – well-sanded and well-stirred instrumentation.

Period sounds like a record trying its best to be happy – the striking highs of something like “Praying” are nowhere to be found on this allegedly unrestrained album.

Idols fails to expand on the promise of its grand opening statement, instead resulting in a heavily flawed fourth outing, overly reliant on the use of tired rock caricatures and repetitive song structures.

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.

I Said I Love You First barely even tries to entertain during its runtime. It’s fundamentally uninteresting music.

Those who invest in their fave singers’ personal lives will no doubt enjoy digging deep into the lyrics. Those who fell in love with the epics and wigouts of 2018’s Historian may find engaging moments on an album too cohesive for its own good.

It’s not a hilarious disaster, it’s not a tabloid tell-all or, you know, actually good. It’s Smith’s late career in a nutshell, just about getting over the line thanks to his star wattage, and all the weirder for its smoothed-out polish.

The record is certainly sparkly, but its hollowness is glaring. SALVATION is so desperate for someone to call it iconic that it neglects what makes an icon anyway – personality.

There is a poetry to the mundanity that serves as Dawson’s subject matter, which he draws out in its best moments. At others, however, his writing gets mired in merely setting down dutifully that which lies before us.

Horsegirl’s songwriting isn’t distinct enough to imply any hidden tension though, and back to back sweetness becomes a little sickly. It’s no surprise that the best songs here are the meaner ones.

The constant more-is-more approach is no doubt a blast for the pickers in the studio, and it’ll probably sound cool live, but on the record, there’s an airlessness to it all. This isn’t always the case - the classy “String Theory” stands out for its delicate instrumentation built around subtle lap steel and sturdy stand up bass. This does however serve to bring Starr’s vocals to the fore.

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.

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.

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.

While there are moments of genuine honesty and emotional clarity, these are overshadowed by Halsey’s refusal to let the music breathe.

If a track is below three minutes, it’ll be a modest barnburner that fizzles too fast, and if it’s above that, then you’re in for Black Francis impersonating a middle school vocal recital. .... When the distortion is flowing like beer on V-E Day, The Night the Zombies Came proves to be a modest party record, beneath the fat.

The Dare is trying to present the New York songbook to the Zoomer masses with such generality that he legally cannot be paternity-traced to any one act. Slap a bass on top of some rumbling rhythms and a synth so glitchy that every line feels like a mis-input that made it through post, and all that’s left to do is pull a line from your notebook of “TikTok virality potential.”

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.

It's a soothing, uplifting listen, perfect for those moments when you need a gentle, positive presence in the background. But for those seeking something more, something that challenges the boundaries of what Tycho can do, this album may leave you wanting.

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.

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

The record is at its best when we’re having fun with Ice, which seemed to be her initial ethos. But much of the record is unfortunately underbaked.

Griff has a talent made for the stage, but Vertigo is often hindered by its avoidance of risks.

[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.

Does the record deliver after all these years, then? Occasionally, but not satisfactorily when playing with the tempting what-ifs.

The renewed cohesion and collaboration may have saved the band during this album’s recording process, airing grievances and settling put-off tensions, but the resulting homogeny of their sound lacks real bite and feels muddied.

Most of the material is pleasant at best, and while the lack of overcompensation is appreciated, it makes the group’s lyrical deficits that much more noticeable than on previous records.

Ultimately the album's uneven tempo and uncertainty at its heart make it unclear what Hyperdrama wants to be and to whom they still appeal.

It changes its arm in a myriad of directions, with only a few really working, but they remain a band set apart from those around them, even if here they stumble.

On Found Heaven, the wreckage of love overstays its welcome; sadly, profundity gives in to frustrating familiarity.

Bleachers would have felt more complete if their signature goofiness prominent in the upbeat production had seeped into more tracks. Despite some occasionally affecting lines, songwriting isn’t their forte; instrumentation is.

Larsson knows her strengths, but she knows them too well. If she could only break down the facade further and reach beyond her comfort zone to meet the listener halfway, she would be unstoppable.

Daniel shows potential for Real Estate to take their music to the next level and in a way, that’s both its biggest plus and greatest minus.

GRIP is stylish and moving, yet lacks a sense of provocation.

There's a lot to like here. "Bucky, Boris and Dent" aren't long for this world, but their memory lives on thanks to the song's chipper melody. It's just that a good chunk of the tracklist unfolds along a steady procession of waltzes. They're all gorgeous, too, smooth and shiny as a commemorative dinner plate. The spacey interludes will keep you on your toes, but anyone who's looking for a hoedown might get bored in a hurry.

What Do We Do Now has some interesting moments on its first side, but quite a bit of it does feel leaden and lacking in energy.

While the signature style they have debuted with is admirable, some time to experiment and push the boundaries just a little further will make NewDad a true force to be reckoned with.

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.

The stories he attempts to weave into each track mistake frankness for plainness, venting with both the vagueness and the strange specificity of an Instagram story stating, “Only the real ones will know.”

Jenny from Thebes, depending on one’s fascination with The Mountain Goats’ 30-odd years of winding lore, may either have the connotation of your dad and his group of friends finally getting around to making that album they always talked about, or, where charity applies, stay just high enough above passability that it can be recommended by fans with the asterisk, ‘one of the better ones.’

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.

Some tracks feel like throwaways, then there’s the TikTok and radio cuts like “IDGAF” with Yeat and ear-shattering production from BYNX (who has been killing it btw) and “Rich Baby Daddy” that aren’t particularly rap-savvy but benefit from extremely catchy tracks with a large number of producers.

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

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.

Lovato’s move to heavier music is by no means a mistake, but this reimagining of her old music feels artificial. Generic pop music is turned into formulaic rock music, lacking the substance and authenticity of her previous album.

Sorry I'm Late is certainly a belated arrival but it shows signs of positive momentum for Mae Muller and will have an emotional impact upon listeners whose path intertwines with hers – it’s just a shame that any sense of sonic bravery wasn’t given the opportunity to carry that influence further.

The sounds present could all be attributed to any other artist and would sit fine but given they wrote a purported 200 songs for this new era, there should at least be some sonic substance to this outing. Thankfully, this new electronic palette they’re toting isn’t wholly lost. They carry it at times with at least some semblance of aplomb.

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.

Overall, although there is quite a bit of filler on Rabbit Rabbit, the album does contain some enjoyable songs, with Dupuis and Molholt demonstrating their obvious talents for solid guitar riffs at several points.

Like the tracks themselves, the album as a whole contains a breadth in the way of sounds and styles, but less so in depth. Confused and trying on more hats than a grandfather at a beachfront souvenir shop, Cautious Clay flickers with interest and leaves without a second thought.

The Feminine Divine can’t match those first three deathless classic albums and falls just below the convincing return that was One Day I’m Going to Soar. Still, there’s enough of their unique brilliance on display to make this a qualified victory.

Though the album can feel dangerously repetitive at times, slower takes like ‘So What’ act as a reprieve from these moments.

While glaive clearly still has the chops to record something great, his debut falls short of the creativity that marked his meteoric rise to fame.

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.

They haven't put all the pieces together, but the evidence suggests that Geese are still capable of laying a golden egg.

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.

Although it's great to hear the forever prodigy in a better headspace, more mature and precise with his words and emotions, it was the youthful messiness echoed in past efforts that made King Krule far more intriguing than what listeners will experience under the lingering gloom of Space Heavy.

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.

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.

It’s a record that feels like a cosy hub of creative minds reminiscing about their memories – unhurried and finely reflective. Sadly, that’s much about it.

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.

It may not be revolutionary in its music or pantomime, with some evident missteps. Still, the secret society is doing a world of good by exposing a gamut of fans to the many genre-bending tricks they possess.

We're left with 14 songs that, as promised, deliver a more personal side of Sheeran, who pens ruminative statements such as "Is this the ending of our youth when pain starts taking over?" ("End of Youth") yet he still alludes us through pop songwriting that is convinced emotions need to be dressed up as repetitive pedestrian motifs and served up on a silver platter.

The album’s been in gestation for two years, and yet with a few exceptions the ten songs here sound like offcuts. It’s not that Fuse is actually that bad – but it feels like a futile exercise, a series of turns down paths which don’t go anywhere.

This is a noisy articulation of pain to be felt once but barely experienced after. It exists to shock with the intention of empathy; unfortunately, empathy takes time and is hardly elicited when all things warped and wicked are at the forefront.

On their new album, they maintain this dive into pop, but with songs that are nothing like as captivating as their back catalogue.

Providing a sweet escape from the overwhelming world that inspired it, M83’s Fantasy is one that listeners will drift in and out of, but it retains the exhilarating signature sound that the multi-instrumentalist is rightly admired for.

Don’t get me wrong, Endless Summer Vacation is a good album with each track deserving of a listen, but in the same breath, the majority of them aren’t worthy of a replay either.

While by no means a bad record, Sam Smith’s Gloria is largely hit-or-miss.

The sound of the album is too monochrome in general, with ballads and epics all drawing from a similar palette. That being said, there are stunning moments too.

Food for Worms is frustrating in its lack of direction, but more than anything, frustrating because it could be spectacular.

Though its exploration sometimes lacks cohesion, it succeeds in pushing the group’s sound to levels of experimentation.

TRUSTFALL is largely an introspective record – mostly quiet and tepid, breaking out in select moments.

Were Twain willing to engage with additional genres, it’s quite possible Queen of Me would hold up as a more engrossing listen. Instead, what we’re given is the audio equivalent of speed dating. The songs hint at Twain’s vivacious personality, but never quite let us in.

While well-refined, the composition of some of the tracks sometimes comes off as slightly formulaic and a little predictable.

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.

It would be easier if this album were bad, which it isn’t: it’s a competent, often fairly enjoyable set of performances. But as neither good Springsteen nor good popular soul, it’s likely to fade out of most listeners’ memories long before the final track drifts off into nothingness.

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.

Palomino is a return to their familiar and comforting poetic and melancholic storytelling powers.