Perhaps the concept and execution are conventional, but even in this utterly expected setting, Clarkson retains her fiery, individual spirit, and that's what makes Wrapped in Red appealing: to the letter, it delivers what it promises.

Without mellowing too deeply or becoming so serious that the songs aren't fun to listen to anymore, +/- turn in a fantastically studio-crafted album that communicates greater depth and more sophistication than any of their other work.

Ultimately, The Pink Caves has a haunting, surrealistic quality that, while melodic and song-based at times, also feels abstract and organic, as if these songs were not so much written by the band as cultivated as they grew out of the earth.

Ten spiny noise-pop jams that occasionally resemble New York contemporaries DIIV, and even bits of early era Cure, in their moody guitar styles.

Yes, the references are abundant--in an homage, they're supposed to be. Wobble employs them with a curator's taste; his skill as a bandleader creates space for disparate tongues to communicate before evolving into a different musical language--his own. Everything Is NoThing is a monster.

The robust rhythm battery of Rönkkö and bassist Rasmus Stolberg really propels 1982 forward and adds a great deal to their bigger picture. An improvement on their debut, this release solidifies Liima as a band.

If Tomorrow's Daughter isn't a great Matthew Sweet album, it's most certainly a good one, featuring a batch of strong songs played with genuine skill and commitment by one of the most distinctive artists in contemporary power pop. If you liked Tomorrow Forever, you'll enjoy the sequel, and even if you missed the first installment, this is well worth a spin for pop obsessives.

Production-wise, this roams around with some abrupt switches, supplying slow-motion and spaced-out grooves, low-profile boom-bap, and wayward guitar scrawl with highest frequency. Hynes' downcast disposition and the return of several Negro Swan collaborators -- Lu, Isiah, Pat, and Porches -- provide the continuity.

The warm, fuzzy melodies take hold almost instantly.

Her uncommon, even singular approach to singing, recording, and writing, remains fully in evidence here.

Accessible and elusive at the same time, The Floodlight Collective is an addictive debut.

It's definitely a change from Clinic's brash art-punk and wicked folk, but it's one the band had to make to keep their music vital. Fortunately, Bubblegum's sound is so inviting that it sticks.

The level of sophistication--arrangements with subtle details, the frequency of slow tempos, a couple well-trodden motifs--lends itself to a couple tepid tunes, but Ne-Yo remains a premier source of R&B that is both traditional and contemporary.

He has a true knack for rhyming about the dangers of the West Coast.

An album that's already brimming over with personality thanks to the chemistry between the two rhyme stylists and their ability to bring out the most inventive sides of one another.

When taken together, the tracks on III provide incontrovertible evidence that 15 years after their career ambitions went up the chimney, Death continued not only to make music, but to evolve and grow as a band. Even though this music is less intense, it retains the trio's trademark sound throughout.

While the EP is a little more straightforward than Do It Again, it's a fun, spontaneous portrait of a moment made all the more poignant due to Falk's death from pancreatic cancer in 2014.

With its lavish arrangement and Williams' gritty performance, the band find new ways of celebrating one of the great underappreciated artists of the '60s and '70s--something that's true of Bobbie Gentry's the Delta Sweete Revisited as a whole.

Ultimately, Drastic Measures is more distinctive and memorable for its unique textures than things like melodies and grooves, although its more organized songs forms give them something tangible to adhere to.

Okie is a laid-back collection of original songs that are more poignant and more nakedly autobiographical and topical than anything he's previously issued.

These tight, explosive songs combine a refined poetic lyric approach in songwriting and arranging that's every bit as urgent as the album's two predecessors, yet it's so emotionally charged, it leaves the listener breathless and exhausted, as well as compelled and excited.

Bronson's imagination, vivid as ever, makes up for the decreasing variation in his microphone approach.

Still Sucks stands as a fun and highly enjoyable addition to the band's discography, delivering exactly what a Limp Bizkit listener wants to hear.

Pinegrove has yet to deliver a clunker, and 11:11 should be a welcome addition to any fan's regular rotation, in addition to offering a few gems for anyone partial to a tuneful, earnest protest song.

Time will tell if Lavers is snatched up for work in scoring or if he will develop his songwriting on future albums, but based on this under-30-minute taste, his handiwork seems destined for continuation.

Wherever this door does go, it is a place that calls for boat shoes, a relaxed attitude, and a returning fan's patience.

Simian Mobile Disco's debut is a dance record that shows a surprising amount of subtlety and flair.

For Now I Am Winter, effortlessly incorporates elements of pop into the budding singer/songwriter's already evocative blend of wistful neo-classicism and icy electronica.

As with the other Fiepblatter releases, Miscontinuum Album may not be for more casual fans of St. Werner's work, but those willing to dive into the sounds and ideas he leaves on the fringes of his more widely released music should enjoy this journey.

The Wink may be less readily accessible than the music Presley was making as White Fence, but it's definitely as good.

Anyone who can craft a record that sounds and feels as good as Get Guilty deserves to keep on making records forever.

Belong manages to strike a nice balance between San Fermin's musical theater/experimental rock predilections and their emerging pop ambitions, and while there's still a lot to chew on, the taste has grown significantly sweeter.

The Old 97's sound youthful and newly energized, having returned to Dallas and relocated that beloved crossroads between twangy country rock and tight, economic power pop.

Grass Widow set the mood masterfully and never breaks it. Past Lives may be a short album that seems slight on first listen but as you play it again and again, it sinks in deeply and magically.

These kinds of lyrics paint pictures that can be simultaneously morose and inspiring, avoiding the stock repetition of 2010's mainstream love songs by imbuing them with the bold creativity and vicissitude of songwriting in the '80s and early '90s. All in all, Lo Moon is an impressive debut.

It ranks as the artist's most concise and accessible release to date.

Now as before, there are few groups in rock & roll that perform as brilliantly and purposefully as an ensemble as the Feelies, and on Here Before their trademark sound remains a thing of wonder that hasn't been dimmed a bit by the passage of time.

If Kristofferson never cuts another record, Closer to the Bone will have been a proud note to end his musical career on.

Despite their changes, PVT remain as hard to pin down as ever, and Church with No Magic is admirable, if not exactly embraceable.

[A] completely respectable collections of tunes from a well-oiled machine, but falling short of the almost accidental brilliance of their best work.

It's mildly disappointing that the Futureheads' first independently released music sounds more conventional than what they issued on other labels, but This Is Not the World is still a solidly enjoyable album on its own terms.

He's mastered the craft of writing tight and focused rock songs that transcend their beginnings but make no concessions to current sonic fashions.

Fidelity! is effective, suggesting that Jones has an appeal somewhere between Glen Hansard and Jeff Tweedy, an impeccably messily manicured roots troubadour who works hard to make everything look easy. He's ingratiating, but his charm is strengthened by Hynde's reaction to him.

Darker, wiser, and more personally reflective than her work with Angus, By the Horns strikes a nice balance between standard, confessional singer/songwriter fare and radio-ready alt-pop.

The album closes as strongly as it begins with "Miami Titles," a thrilling orchestra-hall-meets-club synthesis from a trio that draws from Mahler, Reich, Mills, and Hood as if they're all part of the same lineage.

The band sounds vital and energetic, and while there's still a hint of sour grapes to be heard, all in all the album feels like a return to the basics.

Often, he returns to this revved-up blues--something that's more appealing when it boogies ("You Left Me Nothin' But the Bill and the Blues") than when it slams ("Distant Lonesome Train")--and while that anchors the bulk of the record, the moments that linger are the departures.

Ultimately, while some fans may miss Beaty Heart's previous bent toward tropical indie rock jams, it's difficult to imagine anyone not swooning over the focused, nuanced pop craftsmanship.

Heartfelt and nostalgic, it's Tidal Wave's less sonically charged cuts like "Homecoming" and "I Felt It Too" that resonate most deeply, suggesting that while time may not heal all wounds, it can certainly lessen the pain.

Her richest music yet, Fool's Paradise is a beautiful portrait of Hussein's heritage and artistry.

Langford's songs reflect his fascination with the culture and legacy of the American South, for better and for worse, and if his Welsh-accented voice sometimes seems to run counter to the music, Bethany Thomas and Tawny Newsome are both marvelous, putting their own spin on this music while honoring the traditions of Muscle Shoals soul.

Metric synthesize the stadium rock of Fantasies, the moody hookiness of Pagans in Vegas, and the new wave spunkiness of their early albums into something that's recognizably their own, instantly memorable and one of their best overall albums yet.

Though they include sentiments like "Romance is dead and done/And it hits between the eyes," songs such as "Romance" and "I Can't Keep You" are more up-tempo and incorporate drum kit and multi-part accompaniment, but the album's sound, on average, is less sustained and more frail than Daughter's, and the lyrics more personal.

Conveying a sense of childlike wonder about the natural world, the album is full of life and immensely enjoyable.

While not quite on par with his best work, it is nonetheless a welcome and surprisingly fun return by one of Britain's great voices who has lost none of his wit and panache.

If not particularly important, We Are the Pipettes is both witty and filled with ear-catching melodies.

While the rest of us went to work or college or worse after graduation, Avi Buffalo hit the road, but they too spent those formative years navigating the strange cognitive duality of post-high school young adulthood, and the sad, strange, and beautiful At Best Cuckold does an awfully nice job distilling that unease into audio form.

While the more upbeat tracks on Threadbare are competent and downright catchy, they're ultimately engulfed by the fog from which they were born.

It's an ironic title for an album that's so sure, and even if his early fans frown as their dancing shoes collect dust, complaining about what doesn't happen on Lost seems silly when compared to the wonderful and intoxicating things that actually do.

Despite all of its strengths, neither the recording nor the songs are as memorable or as fully realized as his late-'80s/early-'90s comeback records -- Freedom, Ragged Glory, and Harvest Moon -- let alone his classic '70s work.

The Tarnished Gold will melt whatever preconceptions you have about the band and leave you basking in the warmth of the summer of Beachwood Sparks' career.

Songs written to sound like old pub standards helped to gain the group attention, but these heartfelt tunes gleam with McCauley's individuality.

Approach it as a much more relaxed, refined, and ethnobeat version of St. Germain.

The grim truths and fantastical tales are almost equally vivid.

Ultimately, while the album may not hit with the rockabilly wallop that marked the best of her previous work, Life. Love. Flesh. Blood is nonetheless a sophisticated and gorgeously rendered album.

Riceboy Sleeps has all the majestic calm of Sigur Ros with none of the dramatic storm, all of the lull and none of the squall.

If this record came out in 1965 they'd be superstars; however, in 2002 they would have to settle for cult favorites.

It's not as poppy as some of his other albums, but it is more focused and appealing, and one of the stronger testaments to his ornery talents.

Though he's never as instantaneously gratifying as the Streets, the Roots or Jurassic 5, his efforts to continually defy convention in both production and lyrics - simultaneously looking forward to electronics and back to days of good rhymes, talent and passion - make for a rewarding, maybe even educational, listen.

She has winnowed her dueling personas -- brilliant techno-inflected DJ and haughtily self-aware vocalist -- into a fantastically complete, wildly inventive package that offers the lunatic best of both badass sides.

Get Rich isn't quite the masterpiece 50 seems capable of, impressive or not. But until he drops that truly jaw-dropping album -- which you know he will -- this will certainly do.

Neatly tied together by opening and closing cuts that include Stevie Wonder on harmonica, because Ronson could swing it, Uptown Special is another nostalgic fantasy that provides light entertainment and provokes backtracking.

Fans of System's earlier work will be used to their unique brand of lyricism by now and will be more impressed with the band's ability to make a solid assortment of songs in a toned-down genre. Even with half the members.

Even if the primary common characteristic of this stuff is how exceedingly pleasant it all is, there's always a place for that, regardless of what month it is.

Sundowner recalls the more relaxed and reflective moods of Morby's earlier albums.

It might be nice to hear them amp it up a bit on their next record for a change of pace, but this works just fine as a bummed-out garage trip.

Perhaps this doesn't make for a listen that's as wild or adventurous as its companion, but it's ultimately more satisfying, as the internal journey mirrors the evolution of the pop landscape in the 21st century. What was once a rowdy, colorful party is now a soundtrack for bittersweet solitude.

Human Ceremony is an impressive debut from a band who seem positioned to make many more excellent albums if they can continue to do such a good job of mining the past for gold and revamping it in their own fashion like they do so well here.

On most of Inside In/Inside Out, the band sounds like a more energetic Thrills or a looser Sam Roberts Band, maybe even a less severe Arctic Monkeys at times.

Doom metal fans will certainly approve of Witch's self-titled debut.

Vol. 2 shows the full breadth of the group's sound, from the ballads to the rockers to the various gems in between.

An album that gives lie to the phrase "they don't make 'em like that anymore."

This may or may not be Williams' final album but if it is, it serves as a superb coda to a career that always found deep meaning in ease.

Her livelier numbers, of which there are quite a few, aren't exactly frivolous, but they have a pulse and plenty of color which, combined with album's concise running time, give Charmer the feel of an immediate, engaging pop record.

By the end, the dizzying and beautiful piece expresses the fury and unpredictability of life while maintaining a zen-like calm at its core, finding clarity just as easily as it rises to chaos.

You Should Be So Lucky is distinguished by that casual professionalism, and the album is so comfortable, so easy to enjoy that it can take a few listens to realize how deeply Tench's original songs sink in--it's not just that ballads like "Today I Took Your Picture Down" start to resonate, but the pop hooks on "Veronica Said" and the title track seem stronger and cannier -- and how soulful this whole affair is.

The result is an attention-grabbing album that reaches inward and artfully delivers vulnerable thoughts through sharply honed production skills.

As good as these moody moments are, My Wild West is best once the darkness settles, and Lissie offers nicely sculpted miniatures that feel alternately comforting and bruised, with the human touches Lana Del Rey works so hard to remove from her own music.

Slow Club's metamorphosis feels organic and, more importantly, embraced: this is their record, and the sound you're hearing is Slow Club overcoming their struggles.

This is the sound of expert experimenters who commence with an economical, even polite inquisitive conversation before developing their dialogue to a point where total creative and emotional expression is set free.

There are some glitchy electronic beats and questionable structural turns during the album's back half that feel a little bit out of place, but the overall vibe remains one of deep and heavy existential pain. Wave is an acutely overcast album, but Watson's gift for melody, narrative lucidity, and retro-pop sensibilities help to keep things more melancholic than maudlin.

Marshall duly stuffs his concise follow-up to The Ooz with the terror and negative liquid references, both literal and metaphorical, for which he is known.

Occasionally, Knuckleball Express' loose ends threaten to unravel, but for the most part, the album is held together by the feeling that Hagerty is having more fun making music than he has in some time.

Here everything feels like a copy of something that had already been done better by another band. In the end, there's little to no reason to pull this record out instead of Siamese Dream or Nothing's Shocking. Or the other three Meatbodies albums, which have all the oddball thrills and unique perspective Flora Ocean Tiger Bloom seems to have lost along the bumpy journey to completion.

The vibe is familiar but the sound is fresh and, better still, Evolution isn't ponderous: it's brisk and bright, keeping its focus squarely on the gifts that brought Crow into the Rock Hall.

As Battles evolve, they remain true to their unique mix of brains and brawn, and La Di Da Di just might be their most engaging music yet.

As sonically pleasing as it is, Tiger Suit isn't a mere vehicle for sound; it's built upon Tunstall's strongest set of songs yet, and it's no coincidence that they're her most ambitious, either: she may be firmly within the mainstream but she's taking risks as a composer and record-maker, never settling into the role of the earnest earthbound folkie, winding up with an excellent album that satisfies as pure sound and as songwriting sustenance.

Given that Ferry doesn't sing on The Jazz Age, the appeal for casual fans is debatable. But for the faithful, trad-jazz heads, and open-minded listeners, the musical quality--from expert arrangements, virtuosic playing, and the brilliant concept--offer something wholly different and rewarding.