Riff’s lyricism, rightfully lionized for its eccentricity and boundary pushing--Riff Raff, along with rappers like Heems and Kool A.D., extend the idea of rapping as abstract expressionists did painting--is not so often hailed for its dexterity, which Neon Icon demonstrates in its barbed hooks, lackadaisical lopes, professional wrestler entering the ring peacocking.

Most of the tracks come in at under two minutes long; short drafts and ideas stitched together with smoky loops and obscure vocal samples. An atmospheric and pensive sound shrouds the majority of Rainbow Edition - the only thing missing is the underlying grooves that were found on their past releases, leaving some of these beats slightly too industrial and cold.

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.

Dynamics is, first and foremost, a dance album, and as such, it passes its most critical test with flying colors; at no point during its duration is one unburdened of the desire to dance.

These young Mancunians have perfected what makes pop such an addictive, essential genre, and My Mind Makes Noises is both immediate and idiosyncratic. Pale Waves’ presence may be gloomy, but their songwriting and ambition could not be brighter.

Broken By Desire To Be Heavenly Sent is a triumphant return from Capaldi. There’s plenty that’s consistent with his debut.

It’s very hard to understand where the identity of the band will finally settle when it alters its mask so numerously and swiftly across these ten disparate tracks.

The Monsanto Years is another inessential and underpowered Neil Young album to file alongside the likes of 2003's ecological garage rock opera Greendale: good ideas and inspiring ideals grounded by half-baked presentation and paucity of substantial songcraft.

This might be a transient flash in the pan for some, but it’ll find a special, permanent home in the hearts of others.

Prism shows a more mature side to the singer, an ability to really connect with her experiences whilst still producing absolute pop smashes. It’s a combination that suits her very, very well.

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 the second release may not live up to the first, it’s hard not to hope for a third.

As it is, the quality is a bit inconsistent, which is a shame, as the bits that are good are really, really good.

Certified Lover Boy is polished, well-executed and yet is completely devoid of ambition or memorable moments.

Diana Ross simply has no right to produce music this engaging, this vital, at this point in her life - and this devil may care attitude has enabled her to produce one of the most definitive bodies of work in her entire career.

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.

Comebacks are often ego trips, but never quite as brazenly as this.

Sean Carey could really do with pushing himself further than he does at any point on this laurel-resting stopgap release.

Her world beats obvious veneer while her crack at electronica too half-baked to portray as much more than Pro Tools tinkering, even with her ballyhooed use of Clams Casino behind the board.

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.

It’s an album that displays great faith in the late 70s/early 80s nexus of bar rock, punk, and 50s nostalgia, meaning that its melodies, riffs, and aesthetic choices often charm (to a point), even as its narratives mystify.

Whilst the orange glow of sunsets and Aperol Spritz’ are in full swing, it’s a record made exclusively for these moments.

This album doesn’t pack enough punches to provoke or demand a rebuttal, and given the length of VietNam’s hibernation after their debut, they may head straight back there if there’s no impetus to keep them in the spotlight.

The bizarre juxtaposition of Jay-Z on hit and miss form and a borderline-perfectly produced record makes it a trying listen.

By pushing Josh Kolenik’s vocals further up in the mix, the songs tell more of a narrative of discovery than their hazy, ambiguous earlier material.

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.

Here we have him boldly stating his desires, aligning himself with our baser nature. Whether this is a sign of a lack of subtlety or a brave forward step is, of course, up for debate but that clash of the brutal and the human, the savage and the sensual is certainly compelling.

All Wet is an album with its fair share of sturdy pop, but hidden deep alongside are a selection of instrumental, French-spirited house and slouch-shouldered techno that act as pillars to help support and connect them together.