The album’s repeated motif of smoking and cigarettes as an addiction metaphor feels try-hard rather than smart. The best tracks are those that transpose the drama of Li’s best work to the album’s more explicitly pop context.

Whilst some tracks are arguably a bit forgettable, this album is still full of some brilliant moments.

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.

Hypnotic Eye is little more than a decent record with a few ideas above its station.

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.

He has not made a classic here, but he may have made an album which allows him to do so again in the future.

While it’s good to have Sebadoh back thrashing around in the unfurnished basement of the music industry once again, you just wonder how much better the results would have been if they had a complete album’s worth of material that proved worthy of their return.

Either through reticence or reverence for the music, this approach feels half-hearted and only partially realised. If the group wants to keep pushing the limits of Mariachi El Bronx, it may need to look elsewhere.

The Chronic and 2001 were simply collections of great songs and the order didn't matter much; Compton, conversely, is one giant song presented as a specifically sequenced album. While it succeeds as such--a lush, expensive-sounding art rap song-cycle--it fits the Doctor about as well as a baggy t-shirt. Dre makes great songs, not great albums.

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.

At its worst, Red Hot + Arthur Russell shows up the limitations of the cover-album-as-form, but at its best, it's a thrilling tribute to a none-more-singular artist.

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

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.

While Providence is by no means a failure or throwaway LP, as a body of work, it doesn't quite keep you enthralled and, more than often, leaves you grimacing at the cacophony of, at times, irritating sound that's pummelling your eardrums.

While Chris Cohen is by no means a bad record, the combination of muddy production value and laid-back pace can make it feel like somewhat of a drag to listen to (despite it clocking in at just over half-an-hour), and, while there are gems on here, you certainly have to seek them out.

Here, finally, is some of the ebb and flow, some of the emotion that’s been lacking on the album up to this point. What a shame that it comes so close to Slow Focus’ end.

Era joins the other three albums as a missed opportunity.

This debut record still sounds like a band caught between two stools, not sure if they’re still full-on punks anymore or softer, introspective shoegazers.

It’s refreshing that the most appealing parts of Whorl are when the duo abandon exactly the musical nuances they’re known for. At the very least they should be applauded for exploring new territory, even if the overall record is not entirely satisfying.

None of the tracks are bad per se. But they lack something that the first tastes promised, and so pieced together it feels like the debut is not worth more than the sum of its parts.

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.

There are plenty of great ideas here, and if you really listen, they’re not particularly hard to find. But it would be nice to be able to let an album like this simply wash over you, rather than be forced to pan for gold in its still, murky waters.

Whether due to the pandemic or not, Contender however suffers from a lack of consistency mirroring the context in which it was created. Despite nuanced shifts in their sound, the blueprint remains much the same.

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.

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

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.

Not quite pop perfection, but it has its moments.

This EP is more for fans of Robinson than Vile, though those picking it up just for name recognition won’t be disappointed as long as they don’t ask for more than what’s on offer--an absorbing but brief ambient interlude.

La Luz excel when they commit to the way the songs of that era worked, rather than settling for the aura or the pleasant, used-vinyl memories of it all.

By leaning into their maximalist tendencies on Lust For Youth, the introspection that really marked this project out is lost among a smorgasbord of other people’s sounds.

PS I Love You stand worryingly characterless--as nervy as that inadvertently muttered, instantly regrettable moniker--in the corner of the party; forgettable faces soon cast into history once the fresh night air hits intoxicated skin.

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.

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

Problem is, this is essentially the same stuff they released in 2008, and since there are 77 minutes of it, it's entirely too much of the same stuff.

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.

Equally far from disappointment or ascendency, it tacks about its ashen existence, perfectly fine and perfectly listenable and perfectly suffering for it.

Drenched in minimal, slow and moody arrangements, Badwater, like Speck Mountain’s previous efforts, gives no apology for its intentional pace. In fact it revels in it.

The songs here are elegantly crafted, and keenly constructed, but there is absolutely nothing on the record that you haven’t heard – done better - elsewhere. Your enjoyment of the album will depend entirely on just how much soft-focus, meandering indie music you can stomach.

The fact that Pattern Is Movement defies genres is both its strength and its downfall.

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

Sadly, so much of Somewhere Else exists in such a haze that it’s difficult to really find anything to sink one’s teeth in to.

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.

By catering to everyone in an effort to uplift, Common doesn’t connect with the listener as much as he could–and as much as he has in the past. Common's big tent might be too spacious for its own good.

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.

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

Ultimately, Indian Yard doesn’t really leave the listener knowing Ya Tseen. But some songs do hint at a distinctive identity.

‘Their most mature work’ it may be, but listening to a shuffle of all their output to date outlines a noticeably poorer quarter.

The Afterparty is messy, amusing at times and intentionally touching on uncomfortable moods, that honesty is appreciated, and the songs themselves feel fine, if underwhelming when they’re describing such potentially big emotions.

The real problem with The Classic is it just can’t often enough avoid the pitfalls of mediocrity, whether pastiche grooves, lackluster songwriting, or Joan’s own vocal limitations.

Love-burnt and ambitious, Drake has produced something better than its predecessors, but without the fallback of crowd-pleasers, it is hard to see it standing the test of time.

The credentials are there, the ability is clearly there, but for now these emperors are yet to truly shine.

While their aesthetic hangs in the balance, they’ve proven on The Age of Fracture that they have it in themselves to achieve cohesion.

Always Strive and Prosper is arena rap in jet-set dance-pop drag, and while A$AP Ferg’s talent occasionally flickers when it’s directed in the wrong places, it shines brightest when he’s just being himself.

While Independence Day doesn’t shine in the same way as the more refined Money Can’t Buy Happiness (executively produced by accolade heavy Dave), it shows a Fredo even hungrier, relentless and refusing to loosen his ties to the street.

On Happier Than Ever the tempo never quite reaches fever pitch; instead, Eilish is content with the tranquillity of tried and tested methods - tentatively pushing boundaries, rather than cranking the distortion up to 10.

The band fails to keep up that feverish tempo, and the album’s bewitching beginning quickly gives way to less inspired, repetitive numbers that plague a majority of the record, especially its weak second half.

There is no question that this is a work of devotion, even a work of love, but as a document of raw emotion, it is lacking, it feels overly considered.

It can be straightforward, but more often than not on Too Much Information it’s actually quite clever.

There are moments that remind us that Watson can still work a great melody, but Love Songs For Robots is by no means contains his best work.

Ultimately, World Wide Pop works best in small doses. Still, Superorganism’s displays of creativity and personality are admirable and will get them farther than most in modern indie pop.

Adult is fun for a little while, but it’s hard to see it keeping listeners’ attention for long.

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.

While these tracks aren’t necessarily bad by any definition, they certainly lack the charisma that M83 is known for.

It may not always live up to its title, but it’s certainly an interesting branch of what will hopefully continue to be a long and fruitful partnership.

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.

Much of the album carries this sense of being a showpiece for one of its individual elements--more often than not, it is Ronald Lippok’s shuffling percussion which breathes life into Instrument.

Pinned isn’t a memorable record; it’s a cacophony of ideas that don’t pan out. While it has bursts of substance, they soon trail off, or are abandoned instantly.

Long-time fans--particularly of King of the Beach--will find plenty to like here, but it’s difficult not to feel that Williams, by now, has scraped the bottom of the pop barrel; his future, as No Life for Me suggested, looks brighter when his stylistic eye wanders elsewhere.

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.

Royal Blood’s debut is an easily digestible, unfortunately thin-sounding, slightly disappointing rock record and an exciting, fresh, invigorating pop record both at the same time.

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

The Shadow I Remember suggests something is incomplete, the band failing to consistently scale the heights capable at their gut-punching best.

In Ferneaux is arguably Benjamin John Power’s most subdued effort under the Blanck Mass moniker. It’s a slower, more meditative affair which deviates significantly from its predecessors and whilst there are gleaming examples of Power’s sonic craftsmanship, they’re hindered by sections of profound aimlessness that move against the defined conceptual direction to be found elsewhere on the album.

By the end of Baw Baw Black Sheep the one thing we’re left wanting more of is Snow himself. His presence feels secondary to the album’s weakest cuts but, when given space to shine, the artist dazzles.

Dream World is fine, but save for one or two tracks there's little on it that couldn't be called dispensible.

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.

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.’

Radiate Like This is a characteristically joined-up effort from the close-knit group, underscoring the strength of their musical bond – its only hindrance being the occasional pang of déjà vu.

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.

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.

Convenanza naturally operates best when Weatherall stays away from the mic.

Friendly Bacteria is the sound of artist easing back into his chair refusing to play the fool to get people’s attention and, unfortunately, the majority of it just passes by like a breath of wind.

As You Were is practically all comfortable, predictable, Oasis-without-Noel comfort food.

New Fragility is an easy album to dismiss, especially when it’s such low-stakes (old band, low-key release), but it’s even easier to just enjoy it for what it is.

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

The resulting project is weirdly disappointing; a bold creative decision ends up splitting the collaborators’ contributions down the middle, and BBNG bring surprisingly little vigour or experimentation to the table.

As heavy, hard rock records go, Once More ‘Round the Sun isn’t necessarily a bad one; it’s just that it seems, like The Hunter before it, to be nudging Mastodon further and further away from what made them stand out in the first place.

Whilst it is a pleasure to hear Tycho again with new ears, it's difficult to argue that what is being heard is anything new.

It would be wrong to compare this with something like the ineffable Slates, given the group’s perennially shifting trajectory, but that EP has an enduring, remarkable consistency that’s all-too-often missed.

Aureate Gloom makes for a confused, scary, frustrating wallow into the psyche of a man I’m starting to fear getting to know any better.

All the components are there, Joey Santiago’s guitar work is still impressive, Lovering’s drumming is still vigorous, but the problem is Black Francis himself. The compelling songwriting that completed Pixies is no longer there.

At their best, when not wandering along in a gilded fog--much of This Is All Yours is akin to meandering in a pretty, if tiring, gloam.

Between the dated indie dance and the ballads and the auto-crooned, electronic pop, there are promising, soulful, twinkling instances of intelligent sampling and singing and interesting instrumental interludes.

La Di Da Di however limits the potential for “free-thinking” with a series of stagnant, self-conscious ideas and motifs. Unfortunately, Battles have not mastered the art of repetition on La Di Da Di.

Haze and her production team have creative ideas and the means to realise them on record. They simply distract themselves trying to turn a rapper into a pop star.

An album clearly made by a mercurial talent, but who still sounds at his best quietly knocking out unassuming dancefloor gold.

Disposable lyrics and an overly polished sound doesn’t necessarily mean that this is a bad album, though--it’s not, although it is likely to get lost in the midst of this year’s more thought-provoking and risk-taking albums.

To put not too fine a point on it, Vicissitude is bland.