As moving as it is to hear her and Chilli together for another album, the material is not up to par with TLC's past. Flashbacks are more likely than repeat play.

The ways they refashioned vintage pop on Days Are Gone felt risky, but Something to Tell You offers safer, smaller pleasures.

Often, Montana gets lost in the guest shuffle, but of the six tracks where he's riding solo, he showcases his own skills well enough.

Though much of the record lies in a blander space somewhere in between, intimacy definitely takes a hit with Ultralife's expanded production, while its more radiant, rousing demeanor is likely to play well to larger venues and those seeking sunnier, or at least partly cloudy atmosphere.

While Bloom isn't as thrilling as his debut Lace Up, fans of 2015's General Admission will appreciate the familiar blend of pop-savvy rap and the occasional guitar riff. Even though MGK assumes a dark and brooding energy for much of the album, the efforts toward introspective maturity are admirable.

Despite the flares of inventive arranging and limber songwriting that flash from time to time, Boo Boo is the first Toro y Moi album that doesn't work overall, the first to feel like product instead of artistic expression.

Fans that feasted on the band's seven previous outings and enjoyed the minerally aftertaste will likely rate Gravebloom a success, as it descends as deep or deeper into the abyss, but those with more curious palates should probably bring some snacks.

Lifetime of Love is more about aesthetics and movement than message or structure, but it's got a little of all of those things keeping it anchored in the familiar.

Overall, the album is still an agreeable first effort, although it doesn't really produce anything demanding immediate attention.

Short for "good night," GN is hardly bedside reading material, full of tales of life trials, some personal, some harrowing, some both. Its musical warmth and unassuming tone, though, may be just the thing for those seeking a melodious, soft-focus diversion.

On the surface, Tiller still gives off that wallflower baller vibe; the brashness of the debut largely remains. The lack of connection made on the one stylistic shake-up--the lightly jutting "Run Me Dry," a cousin of Rihanna's "Work" and Drake's "One Dance"--suggests that Tiller will likely be better off continuing to refine the sound for which he's known.

At best, I Can Spin a Rainbow feels like the work of two talented artists savoring a long weekend of boundless creativity together, but from an outsider's perspective, the results are a bit too impenetrable to contextualize without having been in the room to witness its genesis.

The beats are fully outfitted, and several are suitably immense, but they blur into one another as they serve as a spirited if mostly unremarkable summertime backdrop.

The complex but tuneful standout, "Restless Summer," offers Color Film's best shot at a pop single, but for all of its craft and musicianship, much of Living Arrangements feels like an enjoyable, if somewhat rote, tribute to the very specific sound of another era.

Maybe it's not a major record but its mellowness is charming, and the two bluesmen play off each other like the longtime friends they are, which is an endearing thing to hear.

EVOLVE feels very much like the digital zeitgeist of 2017: good intentions aside, its bold, colorful textures elbow aside any notions of introspection or reflection.

Like their disappointing 2014 album ...Honor Is All We Know, Trouble Maker is the sound of a band going through the motions, telling the same stories over and over, bashing out the same riffs, and ultimately not connecting any punches.

Overall, chronically anti-romantic moments are eclipsed by sweet, somnambulant melodies that may not quicken the pulse but often hypnotize nevertheless.

Overall, while a worthwhile inclusion in Gucci's catalog, Drop Top Wop is most likely to be appreciated primarily by the Wop faithful still hungry after a dizzying seven releases within one year.

It's a sprawling effort with an over-70-minute running time, but also a haunting one, recommended for musically adventurous stargazers of all types.

Witness is a conceptual muddle but that incoherence could've been excused if there were hooks in either its grooves or melodies. Instead, Witness is populated with busy, tuneless tracks that seemed designed to pulsate in the background of a regrettable night.

The album's 70-minute length allows enough space for a bounty of mostly nondescript trap productions that support these simplistic boasts. In these tracks, Yachty sounds like he's going through a phase more than refining his individualism.

Black Laden Crown is at its best when the band keeps it slow and low, as they do with great success on workmanlike candelabra-burners like "Last Ride," "Skulls & Daisies," and "Pull the Sun" and it's in those solemn moments of churning, Jim Morrison-esque torment and woe that Glenn Danzig sounds the most sinister and at ease.

The constant recycling, along with the quantity and variety of other voices, detract from some of Evans' best, most impassioned performances, which are matched with some solid work from a roster of co-producers that includes Salaam Remi, James Poyser, and DJ Premier.

The issue isn't that it's a pop effort; indeed, they get points for a brave attempt so outside of their wheelhouse. The problem is that much of One More Light is devoid of that visceral charge that previously defined much of their catalog. It's a provocative challenge that ultimately fails to satisfy.

Clocking in at just under 35 minutes, Sorcerer's willfully lo-fi, exploratory jam session architecture is pretty digestible, which makes the occasional sonic detour much more rewarding.

While there is some appeal in this bright blast of sound, especially when he's in party mode--"One Beer Can" in particular recounts the aftermath of a raucous adolescent bash--it can also seem vaguely desperate, as if he's still clutching a reality that's faded into the past.

Coziness certainly has its appeal--it works as balm and a tonic--but it's hard to shake the feeling that Zac Brown Band overplays their hand somewhat by insisting they've reconnected with their roots. All those lyrics feel calculated and defensive, undercutting the grace of the music.

White Knight is split fairly evenly between solid senders and odd detours, which just makes the overall package weirder: it has the bones of a good record but Rundgren seems disinterested in actually making a good record

It doesn't surprise but it doesn't seem stuck, which gives the album a mellow appeal.

The album is deficient in emotional depth and congeals into a mass of adequate mood music. It doesn't offer much more once the themes--including romantic fulfillment, solace, and longing, with a little materialistic frivolity, eyelash batting, and cutting loose--come into sharper focus.

Sounding revitalized, projecting a mix of gratitude and disgust, Wale breathes new life into an old breakbeat (and a sample from Marvin Gaye's version of "I Wanna Be Where You Are") for a defiantly proud pro-black finale. It should be enough to retain the listeners who strongly prefer the more lyrical, less hedonistic aspects of the Wale discography.

The Black Lips still sound like the rulers of an unwholesome party underworld on Satan's Graffiti or God's Art?, but it's hard not to feel like both hosts and guests are running out of steam.

in•ter a•li•a is solid enough and more refined than its predecessor, but will nevertheless disappoint those attacking it through the lens of Relationship.

There's almost a charm in the way Blondie push so hard: it's hard to think of another legacy act so determined to play a part of the modern musical dialogue without losing their identity. If they're not always successful, there's nevertheless something ingratiating about the ambition.

More Life is another overly serious, musically uninteresting effort.

What Now is less eccentrically atmospheric than its predecessor, but their boisterous energy is intoxicating enough to win you over, and their sense of fun is palpable.

Devout will undoubtedly resonate with former ravers who have now grown up, started families, and face problems dealing with relationships and parenthood (and whose taste in music has drifted closer to introspective pop and R&B rather than dance music). For other listeners, however, the sentiments might fall flat, and the album might be too sparse, sluggish, and sad to really latch onto.

This certainly is not one of the worst albums ever recorded; indeed, it has its moments of merit that hit the proper spots and deliver the intended dose of dopamine. However, as a cohesive statement worthy of an album's length of the listener's attention, Memories is lacking.

Later cuts like "Love in the Time of Surveillance" and the nervy, angsty closer reveal some decidedly complex layers of sonic architecture. Toss in the requisite instrumental, the all-atmosphere "Make No Sound in the Digital Forest," and you've got a pretty solid Incubus record in your hands, albeit one that won't win over any of the group's detractors.

The almost breathtaking goodness of the best tracks here combined with the songs that don't quite connect leads to a very mixed listening experience that will have Ettes fans wishing Hames had kept some of the grit and fiery energy her old band had in spades.

Ross' mixtures of outrageous fantasy and sobering reality, side-splitting humor, and piercing vengeance, are intermittently as potent as ever.

It might make their fans happy, but for a band that claims to be dangerous and rebellious, it goes a long way towards reinforcing the fact that the JAMC are no longer either of those things.

The temptation is to listen to some of their mentors instead, as many of the acts who have walked this sonic highway before have done so with much more swagger, a better inclination for a danceable tune, and an inherent dose of innovation.

There is much to be enjoyed on Everything Is Forgotten, but the elegant lightness of touch on their debut has all but disappeared. The potential is clearly still there, but next time they'll really need to embrace and explore it to their full ability if they are to make their mark.

The tone of Locus is unerringly dark with the repetition and harsh timbres occasionally tilting proceedings into the overly bleak, but there is enough overall nuance to keep the listener engaged for the duration.

A sparse duet with Oleta Adams comes across like a bonus track transplanted from a different project, but it lets the listener out in a state of romantic contentment, the finishing touch on a uniquely bittersweet addition to the box of chocolates that is James' discography.

The songs "The Ballad of Jimmy McCade" and "Bottle" hail back to "English Rose," while "Jawbone" simmers to funky wah-wah rhythms and swaths of psychedelic guitars. These grab the attention--the other three short selections are essentially incidental music, even "Jawbone Training" with its hyperactive hi-hats--but the album's centerpiece is its opener, "Jimmy/Blackout," a 21-minute suite that builds from atmospheric electronics to a shimmering sung denouement from Weller.

At 17 tracks, it covers a lot of ground and not every track is a winner, but there's a decent number of promising artists here.

Too often, however, he gets mired in sexual pursuits, as well as excessive drug talk. The album's vinyl edition is 18 tracks long, including bonus songs and instrumentals, but even the 13-track standard CD version is exhausting, at 52 minutes.

Overall, Black and White Rainbows is an interesting piece of the Bush discography, hinting at a late-era trajectory shift and a reinvigorated spirit for Rossdale and company. While he nurses fresh wounds that have stripped his world of color, at the very least he can still see beauty and hope through the gloom.

The tempo would benefit from being quickened at times, as one track blurs into another, and given the range of styles and instrumentation you would hope for a more multicolored experience. But Digging a Tunnel remains a fascinating collage that suggests Wästberg has the imagination and ability to build on these worthy foundations in the future.

Part of the problem lies in the wispiness of both White and Morrissey. Neither vocalist is a strong presence, so their voices wind up not as the focal point on the record but as an element in the tapestry.

As they head further down this cerebral path, it would behoove Newcombe and his gang to work a bit harder on their core offerings before they paint on all the fun stuff.

Overall, Tears in the Club may aim for the melancholy, but it's also pretty enough to please those in search of a lush, soothing escape.

It all makes for an unbalanced listening experience, one that only the most dedicated Los Campesinos! fans will likely want to undertake. For anyone else, Sick Scenes might be a little too over-produced and undercooked, despite the moments when some of the band's old thrills poke through the fresh coat of paint.

Committed fans and casual admirers will find Notes of Blue worth a listen, but ultimately this is the work of an artist who has done better with similar ingredients in the past.

The album gathers songs of a more personal nature than were fitting for his band's fierier post-punk disposition, with a few actually predating Ought. Not that Saturday Night is a sullen acoustic-guitar record; rather, Darcy is more reflective here, sometimes channeling early solo Lou Reed and sometimes wandering into more experimental meditations.

The range in quality here indicates that superior work is in reserve.

His influences are worn lightly, the melodies remain inventive, and there is a real elegance to Sinkane's music. Hopefully next time he'll get back in the driver's seat.

If anything, the defining factor on The Temple of I & I is that it's their most formless record to date.

Blue is an inarguably impressive full-length debut in terms of Communions' ability to evoke the sound and mood of a particular time and place, but it might be a stronger work if the groupmembers had actually witnessed the time and place themselves.

It really sounds like a basic Moon Duo album, which is still a good thing, but just not as special as it could have been if they had taken another step like they did with Shadow of the Sun. This feels less like a step in any direction than it does a pleasantly trippy holding pattern.

Sometimes, it sounds like Surfer Blood don't know exactly what to do next--which is understandable, considering the massive changes and losses they've experienced. However, there are enough promising moments on Snowdonia to suggest that they'll figure it out.

While it doesn't break any new ground (for the most part), All These Countless Nights is an enjoyable listen for fans of radio-friendly hard rock that plays it safe.

It's a trade-off that many bands make as they progress, cashing in on the uniqueness of their original sound for something more palatable to the imagined masses. It almost never works out well for the band involved and despite a few bright moments where they almost get it right, it doesn't work for Cherry Glazerr here.

He's Got... may alienate even some of Kinsella's more patient and open-eared fans, as it sometimes wanders into a slow ramble over repetitive dissonance. At the same time, its impulsive quality may be irresistible to a punkier sensibility, offering catharsis in its deliberate lack of polish and self-censorship. If it's possible to be refreshing and somewhat tedious at once, this album nails it.

Sundara Karma have talent, ambition, and youth on their side, but so do a lot of other rising bands. In the end, it's personality and distinction that endure.

While disjointed in a way that plays like a perhaps-too-extensive portfolio rather than something intended to be an album, the set reveals a bold and versatile songwriter as well as a performer and engineer.

London Fog showcases a band who doesn't know its own attributes, and that's why it's worthwhile: it's the sound of a band discovering its own strengths.

The execution is inarguably impressive, but the Head and the Heart have made much better music with simpler technique, and Signs of Light is the sort of album that confirms a fan's worst fears about an indie act signing with a corporate label.

Certainly the musicianship and arrangements are impeccable, but even with differing vocalists, all of the tracks are so similar that it ends up being as tedious as the producer's later work.

If this is Brent's album, existing for comedic reasons purely to accompany the film, then it fulfills its purpose. However, taken at face value, it's nothing more than a mish-mash of classic rock tropes and controversial lyrics.

Although it's not without some dazzling moments, this is the Zomby album with the lowest quantity of thrills.

Swarming basslines and sluggish beats likewise form the rhythmic foundation, with gauzy and tickling keyboards adding sweetness to Scott's hedonistic hooks. Only on "Guidance," through scuttling drums granted by DF, is there a significant shake-up.

The mellifluous vocals and washes of texture wind up balancing each other a little bit too well: it's an alluring sound that seems attractive in the moment by disappears in the slipstream.

That ["Only U"] and a couple other exceptions aside, the hour-plus set offers more variations on the narcotic, boast-filled slow jams for which Brathwaite and his fellow OVO Sound artists are known.

All this adds up to one of Neil Young's genuinely strange albums, a record that's compelling in its series of increasingly bad decisions.

I Could Be Happy's covers vary so widely in quality that, in order to thrive, Nouvelle Vague may need to put their original concept aside for good.

The tension and unease conveyed in BBF's earlier output is present here and is magnified by Sheppard, who comes across as an anxious bohemian drifting and acquiring wisdom through a nocturnal and aimless existence.

"Anything" sounds like the Cars on an extra-snotty day, while the glistening new wave chug of "Ways to Fake It" and "One Track Mind" feels like the work of a band that influenced the Strokes instead of one of its members. Moments like these are fun for listeners who share CRX's retro fixations, but more often than not, New Skin doesn't deliver on the band's pedigree.

Highly Suspect show potential but they're still in the throes of some serious growing pangs here.

The productions--the majority of which involve Doc McKinney and/or Cirkut, low-lighted by maneater dance-punk dud "False Alarm"--are roughly as variable in style as they are in quality. When pared down to its ten best songs, Starboy sounds like Tesfaye's most accomplished work.

In general, the album focuses more on texture and fluidity than memorable tunes, so listeners aren't likely to find an earworm here, but they may find themselves humming along just the same.

It's a disappointing turn of events for the band, the kind that might lose them a bunch of their fans, while failing to win them any new ones in return.

At no point during the album do Hamilton and crew feel like they're phoning it in, but the visceral moments are fleeting, and often tempered by melodic detours that fail to swing back around to assess the damage.

The whole point of doing acoustic versions is usually to lay bare the material, deconstructing it down to its roots, but for the most part, Acoustic feels a bit too polished and adjusted.

While the production is just a tad too polished to feel as gritty as Miller's best '70s works, the music is nevertheless in that vein and many of the songs are quite good, particularly the gospel-drenched Elton John number "Where Do the Guilty Go?" and the swaggering "Way Past Midnight" (performed with Lewis).

Jeezy doesn't say much that deviates from previous ice-veined rhymes, but he attacks just about every track with intense focus and ferocity

Pharrell Williams is on the couple's perseverance anthem "Work on It," a wobbly ballad, while Illangelo was involved with "Holy War," where some dulled drums interrupt a mostly acoustic number about backward societal views of war and sex. These songs, like a fair portion of the album's remainder, are not lacking in energy or conviction, but they're raw as in crude.

The music represents a brave move forward. The lyrics, however, are not so innovative.

Songs like these and "Keep It Simple" make the most of Lo's big voice and personality on an album that, despite its provocative title, often feels more straightforward than Queen of the Clouds did.

Though they rock convincingly, there's something missing on Babes Never Die; they've become a more focused, accomplished band, but it's at a price.

There are clever parts strewn throughout and some of the more ambient instrumental tracks like "i.v." and "l.i.v." are quite nice, but overall, the songs themselves don't have quite enough going for them to support the album's quirky intentions.

Despite the talent on board and the high-concept thinking that went into it, there's a dry, brittle quality to Savoy Motel that saps this material of its strength, and this band has only so many tricks in its pocket to begin with.

The album feels like the duo are reaching for something greater, but the end result feels like a dilution, a compromise, and every other synonym for middle-of-the-road.

It's not the prettiest or easiest of records, nor is it Oberst's finest outing to date, but it does house some real gems, including the emotionally charged opener "Tachycardia," the thoughtful, Dylan-esque "You All Loved Him Once," and the barbed and broken "A Little Uncanny."

Songs like "Star Crossed Lovers" and "Shadows" sound embarrassingly old-fashioned and make Gibb sound ancient. A more sympathetic production style and some focus would have made all the difference on In the Now.