Ironically, this hip-hop heavy revision has the net effect of straightening out a wild, wooly record.

This LP will no doubt please listeners with an ear for more astringent experimentations, but for the most part, it seems like Rats on Rafts have drifted a bit too far into their own ambitions at the expense of their songs.

Throughout the album, Kylie sounds very game, merry even, and there's enough holiday spirit on offer to help even the grinchiest customer make it through the season with the bare minimum of humbug.

A bumpy, oddly compelling restart, Purpose should hook open-minded pop fans who previously paid him no mind, and it could even win back some of those who wrote Bieber off years ago.

Like the EP, it frustrates almost as much as it charms, but Raury's energy is ceaselessly positive, and his potential is abundant.

The brass in question swells and sways capably throughout, but ultimately feels like window-dressing, never fully delivering the arm hair-raising crescendo that one would expect from an army of cornets, trombones, and euphoniums, though this is mostly the fault of the source material, which ultimately lacks the structural boldness with which to support such finery.

This is surf music for street goths and beach bums with bad attitudes.

Not quite as catchy or harmony-rich as a few of their earliest songs, some of Little May's early adopters may be a little bummed out by the material, but many will find it hits a sweet spot between the heart and head in which to snugly settle.

For better or worse, that same sense of déjà vu pervades much of Sounds Good Feels Good, with the band borrowing liberally from its influences.

At just under 30 minutes, it feels like a bit of a lark, but its brevity actually works in its favor, as an extended set of Haines' sneering incantations and electronic skullduggery would likely require a certain amount of intestinal fortitude.

It makes for a solid pop album overall, but it's a little too formulaic and predictable to rate among her best work.

Keith went back to the tried and true, crafting songs that fall within his wheelhouse. At the edges, there are some signs of either experimentation or, perhaps, desperation.

The 21st century version of the Zombies are, not unexpectedly, a band with a different sound and feel than the '60s cult heroes, but Still Got That Hunger reminds us Rod Argent and Colin Blunstone still have the talent that made their names, and there are enough moments here where it shines through that fans will want to give this a thorough listen.

Beck isn't so much interested in resurrecting specific songs from his career as he is in revisiting particular styles and moods

Uncovered feels slightly spare and quiet in comparison [to 1994's Cover Girl]--there are no productions as bright and full as that on "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic"--but it follows the same basic formula as that album, with Colvin finding the quiet, intimate heart lying in each of these songs.

If it's not the group's finest work, it has a genuine emotional purity and reaffirms Born Ruffians' place on the Canadian indie rock scene.

Kelly Jones and his crew know how to craft big music, knowing that often the atmosphere matters more than melody.

Underneath its aggressive opening and occasional woozy electronics, it is anchored by two or three songs (the exuberant "Fallinlove2nite," the recycled "This Could B Us," maybe the Graffiti Bridge throwback "Million $ Show") that wind up revealing how the rest of the record feels like little more than nimble calisthenics.

Hollywood Vampires is just a lark but it's a fun lark, and having fun is what matters in a party.

There's no disguising how Ryan Adams flips Taylor Swift's 1989 upside-down, turning a moment of triumph into bedsit introspection, a concept that is undoubtedly theoretically interesting, but the record works because Adams doesn't play this as a stunt.

This EP dazzles and then disappears before the sun comes up, leaving listeners with the exhilarating feeling of "wow," and the less-pleasing feeling of "what happened?"

While the occasional foray into the shallower end of the mainstream may divide some listeners, there's enough here to keep longtime followers satiated (and probably a little curious/nervous as to what the future holds) until the next ride.

Girl Band have similarly taken advantage of their expanded recording budget in order to craft their most bracing work yet.

Even making an allowance for Hook's glaring absence, Music Complete is still a watered-down and uninspired album by a band that lost the plot long ago and can now only capture an occasional glimmer of what made it so great in the first place.

Repentless is a retro, workmanlike effort from a band determined to soldier on, and that's fine.

Ones and Sixes is a brave effort that stands apart from much of Low's work, and there are certainly glimpses of their dour beauty on these 12 songs, but in the final analysis this is an album that fails more often than it triumphs.

While parts of Too show FIDLAR trying to find their footing, it's all part of their evolution and is not without its charms.

Add a short runtime and You Disgust Me feels like an inflated EP of lost tracks and hidden heat, so marvel at their more crafted and conceptual albums, then come back here for a more free-form sampler of strange.

The commercial strides are obvious. The creative advancements are less apparent, obstructed by some unappealing measures, but they're in there.

Barely out of their teens, the band's enthusiastic aping of their idols can be forgiven (they even go so far as to build the largely nonsensical "Le Song" around the lyric "come a little bit closer," which is the refrain from the Walk Among Us gem "Vampira"), but they'll need to dial down the hero worship on future endeavors if they ever want to establish their own legacy of brutality.

The instrumental interludes between tunes--the aimless meandering of "Muddy Dune," the squiggling "Ash Toke," and the squall of "Pincher"--are just long enough to distract and blunt the twisted, head-crushing impact of Kunk somewhat.

Bookended by a pair of moody cuts replete with intoned prayers spoken in the background, Abandoned plays to the severity of the Catholic faith, and if Defeater's thematic tendencies have begun to wear a bit thin, they still manage to pack a pretty big punch on a musical level.

If Kip's songs aren't as hook-heavy or as sticky as his idols, it is nevertheless admirable that he's completely revamped his sound so he doesn't feel like anybody else in contemporary country.

In the right circumstances, the Bohicas seem perfectly capable of putting it all together, but overall, this debut could use a little more spark and a little less label-purchased leather jacket.

There's just not much here to keep the group's detractors from bringing out their pitchforks, and over time, staying the course may leave fewer and fewer townsfolk to protect them.

All Around Us stands as a puckish, blustery, peculiar creation recommended for a good pair of headphones.

The highlights, unsurprisingly, occur when Allen is allowed to exert more of his power, heard in the darting/jabbing third and twisting sixth tracks. Those two tracks are worth the wait.

Although nothing achieves the same height as "Try Me," the EP is promising at the least.

While it's admirable that he's trying new things and broadening his scope, Morning World still feels like an experiment or a transitional stage.

A little fine-tuning here and a couple tweaks there and the follow-up might really be something special. Until then, Nap Eyes are solidly promising and that's a good start.

Buddy Guy serves up a straight-ahead platter with Born to Play Guitar, his 28th studio album.

While one can always sense the pain and joy in the mere sound of Stone's voice, some of the songs' lines provoke head scratching rather than knowing nods. Through deep, repeated listening, the album increasingly resembles ragtag emoting. Heard passively, it's all pleasant summertime listening.

While the songs are sturdy enough to withstand such gentle rocking, this is a vibe record, the sound of an old pro playing not because it's necessary but because it's fun.

Young still doesn't do darkness as well as light but Mobile Orchestra shows a willingness to grow and change that makes it the most complete portrait of Owl City's music yet.

It is recognizably the album in its form but not quite in feel.

While Currents would have made a decent Kevin Parker solo album, people coming to the album and expecting to hear the Tame Impala they are used to will most likely end up quite disappointed.

Her earnestness is nearly as appealing as her prettiness, a quality apparent in both her voice and her surroundings.

Yuck may be bereft of any edges, but it's devilishly clever sophisti-pop disguised as big- box shopping center background music.

This isn't among the most substantive Four Tet albums, but it does reward repeated casual listening.

The album works more as a selection of striking individual pieces than a coherent whole; there are moments of brilliance here, but they're inconsistent, and the album has more than its share of false endings that muddle the pacing.

Established fans will likely welcome the new developments; it's not a shift in style so much as in attitude, and her relatable introspection is in full force, just at a different stage--still searching but looking toward the light.

While Dancing at the Blue Lagoon brings Cayucas' shortcomings to the fore, more often than not it's more blandly pleasant than irritating, serving up a watered-down tropical drink of an album that just doesn't connect the way Bigfoot did.

Ask a Yelawolf regular for a listener's guide then split apart this purposeful beast accordingly.

Drenched in Auto-Tune and more frustrated than a ringtone rapper should be, Lil Durk turns in a surprisingly down effort with Remember My Name.

Feels Like gets high marks for craft but barely merits a passing grade for fresh thinking.

It's all a pleasing time warp without turbulence, one with songs built more to evoke the past than to last in one's memory.

Even if Dopamine shows the scars of labor, that in itself is impressive, and it also emphasizes how, nearly 20 years into his career, Stephan Jenkins prefers to indulge in his idiosyncrasies and not polish them for reasons related to pop.

Despite its unevenness, at its best Déjà-Vu is an entertaining return from a dance music legend looking to translate his style into something that isn't overly familiar.

Not one for the skeptical, but Carnegie Hall charms: give yourself over to it, and Adams wins you over, first through his act and then through his songs.

Generally the polished punch of Wood's work pushes Love Is the Great Rebellion into sunny positive pop, the kind of album that can double as motivation or pleasing background music for the office.

Summers and Weikel's talent and craft are all over The Helio Sequence, but this music is more than a bit short on inspiration, and the finished product sounds less like music they had a passion to create than something they were put up to--which is just what they tell us it is.

That material ["Like A Drum"], as well as much of what surrounds it, is significantly less substantive than the singer's past work.

While it'd be nice if the slower songs were as sticky as the speedier tunes, this nevertheless maintains a classy, well-manicured mood throughout.

Her Brit-pop soul treacle is still miles better than some of her contemporaries' top-tier offerings, and when the album connects it moves right in and starts to redecorate, but when it falters, it's akin to a chatty party guest failing to realize that everyone else has gone home.

Recorded their solo over a finished mix, which explains the presence of the late Jeff Healey and also how the guitarists don't necessarily seem fully integrated into the album. Nevertheless, that disconnect is ultimately a minor point because there's a gonzo energy to Bachman's originals.

Warren has talked in interviews about the healing nature of music, both on the songwriting end and the listening end; some listeners will likely connect on that level with Numun and, amid its airiness, its substance.

It's music to put on when things are getting just a little bit too hectic but you'd never dream of running away from your problems. Music for a suburban weekend, in other words.

By showcasing the two sides of DeLonge's musical personality, To the Stars does feel like a solo album but it also does feel a bit like a warehouse--a way to clear the decks as he preps for the next great project.

Like its predecessor, Who Me? is a showcase for Wauters' quirky, likeable personality, and balances introspective lyrics with laid-back instrumentation.

A stilted album.

Surfer Blood have regained their freedom with 1000 Palms; next time, they need to do something interesting with it.

For the most part, Ours Is Chrome sounds like it arrived pristine via a tramp-stamped, nicotine-stained, Puget Sound time capsule.

Though Moonlust is pleasant, it so actively tries to re-create the feel of its inspirations that it is more a distracted reverie than anything else.

The input of all three musicians can be heard from front to back, through swirling layers of ever-shifting sounds and trance-inducing sequences that escalate, expansive and borderline theatrical, with shifts between light and heavy that occur gradually more often than abruptly.

The group's self-titled second album cuts down on the group's more excessive tendencies, with only "A Pleasure to Burn" surpassing the five-minute mark, and seems to have more of a stripped-down songwriting style as well.

The album flows easier than Drift and Home, yet it somehow comes off as comparatively fragmentary, with 15 tracks playing out in just over half an hour.

The Waterfall suggests maybe My Morning Jacket would be better off doing a few things well rather than losing their way down several different paths.

Without their old-timey affectations, the band seems interchangeable with any number of blandly attractive AAA rockers, a group that favors sound over song.

This is a record for longtime fans: it not only evokes warm memories, but it speaks to the band's present.

Cute he may be, but he has charisma that lasts no longer than a GIF, as Handwritten makes painfully clear.

Driver feels composed more than written, not in a way that elevates or alienates, but rather one that draws the ear to each presence in a landscape that shifts, unfolds, and surrounds; a quietly intense ride and mix recommended for headphone listening.

Rundle, Burns, and Clinco are all strong musicians and it's usually their intricate post-rock pedigree that helps to pull them back into the present, making Salome a step in the right direction for them.

While the snap into tightly focused and sometimes more fiery songwriting is remarkable, the songs aren't as across-the-board strong as they'd need to be to make the entire album as remarkable as the shift it represents.

Admittedly, these are also slower-burning compositions that lack the hooks and pop immediacy of much of Villagers' previous work. Ultimately, however, the pulling back feels intentional and fitting for an album of songs that always seem born out of O'Brien's most personal experiences.

The entire album has a general lack of excitement that could be Matt and Kim mailing it in, or taking one step too far toward the pop mainstream and losing the punkish edge that made their music pop like bubbles in a bottle of shaken-up soda.

No Pier Pressure seems genuinely weird, as it's perilously perched between the best and worst of Wilson's pop talent and Thomas' showbiz instincts.

While, depending on perspective, the album's a bit shallow on dignity, it goes a long way on atmosphere and seductive, despairing style.

The Björk-based art piece works better when consumed as album number two.

Add the way "Roadblox" provides the cinematic side of Prodigy that's often overlooked and the album seems a triumph, but lead single "Nasty" is a lesser "Firestarter" and at 14 cuts, this chunky effort is built for returning fan club members and not the EP-craving EDM crowd.

So, a mixed bag: good enough to satisfy and also to wish the whole thing was slightly better.

Semi Detached is sincere in its distrust, distaste, and ire, and by the time "Bloody Hell Fire" underlines it all as a dour closer, the album winds up a worthy companion for bad days or chucking it all.

Listeners looking for something in the realm The 1975, Emarosa, I Prevail or, to a lesser extent, a darker Sleeping With Sirens, will find a lot to be excited about here, but anybody looking for something that pushes the post-hardcore envelope a bit will probably find themselves wishing that they had walked into a different Hot Topic.

The aptly named Run never really finds its mark, as it too often charges brazenly into the ether and is gone forever.

It feels as if this is as calm as a placid lake. Sometimes, the record is as pretty as that, too, a nice, polite collection of adult alternative pop designed for young girls and their moms.

Ultimately, it frustrates because the listener doesn't get much in the way of reward for the chore of endurance.

Where My Weekly Reader shines is on the quieter moments.

The duo's desire to strip the music of all energy leaves the songs limp, unable to make an impression in an age when songs are screaming for attention everywhere you turn.

Strangers to Ourselves is an album where the trees matter more than the forest: song for song, it demonstrates the exacting nature of Brock but put it all together, it sprawls.