Divisive as they might be, Cudi’s experimental urges are what make him interesting; on Passion, Pain & Demon Slayin’, he’s largely drowned them in a sea of unenlightened navel-gazing.

Sadly, these tracks don’t have any of the spontaneity and unexpected surprises that the warmer months bring with them, and instead these songs are plagued with familiar strains and arrangements that we’ve heard done far better in the past combined with overly simplistic, lovelorn lyrics that fail to make you think of anything other than bad middle-school poetry.

This record certainly makes things no clearer, but like standing and observing any great work of art, it’s true intentions and artistic merit might not become immediately clear. Only upon repeat experience may the true extent of its merit reveal itself.

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

Overall this record feels like a pocket in time and the breeze of nostalgia is welcome in parts but is wholly unsatisfying.

Try Not To Freak Out is a decent album, but on the whole, there’s really not a great deal to say about it, unfortunately.

This is a frustrating second record, but it does prove that To Kill A King have the potential to be a far better band.

Hardcore fans will likely find things to be affectionate about here, with Pollards knack for sweet melodies with a rough edge still just about shining through, but the safe production and tired performance means Earth Man Blues is ignorable for those outside of the '90s indie sphere.

Law and Order attempts to restore some sort of musical faith, but comes across as sounding like a narscisstic debut that only Jonathan Rado really understands.

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.

There’s too much telling and not enough showing across More Light‘s 70 minutes.

Throughout the album, there’s a sense they’re just playing around.

While the album is pleasant enough listening, and certainly doesn’t make you want to block up your ears, it is just too plastic-sounding to yield any lasting substance.

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

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.

If you can let Pacific Daydream completely envelope you; throw you to the beach that instigated the album, then you’ll find sheer happiness here. If, however, you go in with any expectations of than that, you might find things a bit more difficult.

There's no doubt that Spaceman offers guilt-free pop with a tinge of R&B. Unfortunately, this doesn't make up for the lack of depth and emotion which means, despite being Jonas’ strongest work yet, the album still runs the risk of being forgettable.

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

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

Wasted Years is unlikely to appeal to a whole new legion of fans, but those already on-board should be happy with their order of ‘more of the same’.

As a whole, it’s just a shame that on Means, FEWS’ originality seems far between.

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

All of those tracks ["God’s Plan," "My Enemy" and "Wonderland"] feel sparse, built softly with a light touch, which is why the overblown, full-steam-ahead manner of much of the rest of the album is so maddening and--given their past pronouncements on big studios and producers--so utterly perplexing.

Despite the writing on several songs being undercooked, coupled with production that’s overbaked, Yours Dreamily has its charms, but the onus is on the listener to find them and given the clutter in the styles and songs here, that’s not an easy thing to do.

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

This is the same old monotonous Weeknd melancholy, only distilled through a huge pop filter. Which certainly makes it listenable, and a little bit nicer, but far from the innovative mainstream breakthrough album we were promised.

There’s little to get excited about here--there’s no wheel reinventing, no formula shake-up, no scrawling outside any boxes... it’s just pleasant, familiar indie-rock that verges on wishy-washy.

There’s no denying that Head Carrier generally veers between sounding like an exhausted tribute to their former configuration to feeling something akin to a disposable Frank Black solo effort via a few conciliatory tracks.