The album bumps from electronica to cabaret to jazz and back again; it's busy but never feels schizophrenic.

As always, the British-French band has crafted upbeat, bubbly, retro-futuristic songs from strands of krautrock, lounge, French cafe music, and samba.

Middle Cyclone is by far Case's most quixotic album, and that's saying a lot considering the abstract ideas behind her last studio album, 2006's "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood." Yet it's also the most revealing and rewarding work in a 12-year recording career that has seen Case evolve from an alt-country siren to a singular songwriter as capricious as a weather vane.

His richly contoured, slightly raspy voice and the production work of Austin Jenkins and Josh Block (of the scruffy Texan rockers White Denim) give the album heft.

LP1 is the kind of soft-focus album that the late American R&B singer Aaliyah might have made.

Even Spike Lee appears to show he got game. All this would be distracting if the 14 tracks weren't so darn good. Luda's lyrics are so sharp and supremely witty throughout.

With Rick Rubin at the helm, employing his trademark austerity but not overdoing the dryness, the group swings for the fences musically, lyrically, vocally, and emotionally. Its batting average is sterling.

There is a new energy and focus acting as the perfect foil to Hot Chip’s lyrics, which have always been remarkably clever, particularly in the emotionally stunted realm of dance music.

Wolf Alice balances the difficult combination of seeming guilelessness and utter confidence.

The volleying guitars of "My Gap Feels Weird" and friendly ferocity of "Rope Light" signal a group with the same playful spirit that made its best work roar (see: 1994's "Foolish"), but with refreshed energy from a nine-year nap.

No matter the stage of the romance, it's always DEFCON 1 in Clarkson-ville. And on All I Ever Wanted, out Tuesday, that melodrama translates into a delightfully incongruous good time.

Richard’s “One Life at a Time” is roots-rock for the barroom, and Linda simply shimmers on the folk lament “Bonny Boys.” Kami’s buoyant “Careful” proves she’s the pop singer of the bunch. Zak gives “Root So Bitter” some pluck and pickup, while Jack’s “At the Feet of the Emperor” is a sumptuous instrumental. Teddy steals the show with the title track.

That said, it's not an instant classic, but it is the best rap album since Kanye West dropped "Graduation" last year.

While memories of the accompanying visuals of the jokes from the series helps, it is by no means strictly necessary to enjoy the humor and musicianship of Freaky.

Rapping about how well you rap is both stubbornly old school and totally meta. It's also a form of hip-hop Darwinism, as the Beastie Boys, now in their mid-40s and still one step ahead of trash-talking competitors, demonstrate to the fullest on their eighth studio album.

There may not be any moments of dramatic catharsis to compete with “Sea of Love” or “Mr. November,” but the band’s gift for slow, sad beauties (“Nobody Else Will Be There,” “Carin at the Liquor Store”) remains undiminished. Even as they tinker with their style, The National can’t help but sound like themselves.

If Beck is Generation X’s answer to David Bowie, then “Colors” is his “Let’s Dance”: an intentionally lightweight, enjoyable mid-career effort with one eye on the dance floor and one on radio playlists. Whether it returns him to his former hitmaker status remains to be seen, but “Colors” definitely succeeds in putting the spring back in Beck’s step.

Aching, vulnerable, and unsparing in detail, her creations invite you to listen with your whole self and feel along.

For all the lyrical power of those songs (and others here), the album’s most affecting moment may be its most plain-spoken: At the set’s end, Lund shares a song about a young niece who died of cancer, “Sunbeam,” that brims with quiet, heartfelt beauty.

The album is very much a producer’s piece, all layers, overdubs, and effects. Yet the swirling miasma of sound wholly suits Scott-Heron’s mood, which is angry yet humble, and even more his voice, which is rich and intent as ever.

Trans Am has proven more complex than most critical reductions would suggest, and its 10th album plays like a highlight reel of the band’s best facets.

Overall, in fact, the music on Good Grief isn’t as expansive as was “Wildewoman.” But it still comes across that way thanks to Wolfe and Laessig, who infuse their performances with a joy that’s almost unfettered, even when wallowing in pits of sorrow.

Decade-long hiatus or no decade-long hiatus, Bloodsports finds Suede in exactly its element.

It’s a roller coaster, to be sure, but it’s one that Olsen controls with a steady hand even as she sings for her life.

Slow, spare, and offhand, the song ["I Want to Go Back" ] admits to the restlessness that has led the gifted 42-year-old through many unpolished musical shifts, and it epitomizes the decidedly secular, deceptively low-key revelations on Revelation Road.

The album traverses Ray Charles-like country soul, smoky late-night jazz, lush Western swing, and even a bit of Rockpile-style rockabilly.

The album is simultaneously beautiful and shocking, its razor-sharp originality infinitely relatable.

The album doesn’t shy from its broad ambitions, offering a glossy club jam (“Kno One”) and an after-hours groove (“One Thing”), tracks that require Gates to ease back his flow and craft a knockout hook to carry the song, something he also does on the anthemic “2 Phones.” But as a lyricist, Gates is closer to Ghostface Killah or Beanie Sigel.