The disc clocks in at less than 30 minutes, but its short songs hit like a hatchet to the head.

Their new debut album, Watkins Family Hour, retains all the homespun intimacy of a bunch of musicians enjoying one another’s company and talent.

There’s enough variety here that you understand why the whole shebang needed to come out--and vintage audiophiles will just about bow down before the quality of these tapes.

Deftones frontman Cheno Moreno shows up on “Embers,” but sounds tame next to the recharged Blythe.

It’s definitely more expansive sonically than Monroe’s previous work, which doesn’t mean it sounds disjointed; rather, it comes across as presenting different sides of the same artist.

Galactic backs each act with professional, jazz-influenced ease and, on some songs, a hedonistic, dance-rock pulse a la Prince, all the while keeping its Mardi Gras flavor.

The veteran duo and its guests are challenging and provocative throughout Born in the Echoes, even as they creatively blow up dance floors.

Nothing here is quite as instantly engaging as MS MR’s breakthrough single, “Hurricane,” but the duo’s gaze remains trained on both the expanse of the horizon and the insularity of the internal drama.

You can feel the giddy fun Parker was clearly having in the studio.

Quieter but equally captivating.

The tracks vary from astonishingly good--Gregory Porter taking up residence inside “Sinnerman” with a palpable desperation, the urgent instrumental track matching the calamity of his emotion--to acceptable, as when Mary J. Blige renders “Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood” a sort of edgeless quiet-storm jam.

These carefully manicured, melodic songs are much too transparent and lightweight, though, to leave much of an impression.

Ghost Notes unsurprisingly reflects (and reflects on) the band’s maturity, but retains the confidence and playfulness that made it an alt-rock touchstone.

[The music] gurgles gradually into consciousness like the titular binary, the colors of sunrise and sunset enveloping in the electronically rooted compositions.

Lucky 7 is a bit too comfortable; despite consistently solid returns, it would be nice to see Statik raise the stakes the next time he’s up to bet.

Vince Staples goes all-in on his sprawling double-LP commercial debut, and the returns are decent if not world-beating.

“Living With War,” his 2006 album about President George W. Bush, was a dud, and so is this new one.

If there are no obvious radio-ready hits on par with “Adorn,” his massive hit from 2012’s “Kaleidoscope Dream,” there is something more potent in their place: a stone-cold classic not tethered to time, genre, or expectations.

[An] unsparingly intimate, deeply moving 11-song cycle.

Too bad that the rest of Forever feels incomplete without EDM’s streamers, lasers, and giant crowds.

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

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.

With her slight but sweet voice, Musgraves has a way with a sing-songy chorus, many of which she co-writes with her frequent collaborators and fellow hitmakers Shane McAnally, Brandy Clark, and Luke Laird.

That theme stays consistent, but our heroes are far from complacent. Indeed, much credit goes to 7L, whose inventive productions provides cannon fodder for the rappers to blast apart with witty punch lines, clever metaphors, and agile flows.

The group has expanded to four pieces for its most accomplished, most musical album yet.

Where “Butter” sounded like he downloaded every idea in his brain into the music, this is more concentrated and immersive; the 13 intricately sculptured songs inform one another and cohere into a complete work.

It’s an appealing snapshot of how Lambert has grown, and how he’s still willing to surprise his listeners and himself.

“Far Afghanistan” is an interesting detour, a new side of Taylor as he ponders the hardships of a soldier and the devastation of war. It’s not enough to distract from the glaring fact that Before This World doesn’t add much to Taylor’s beloved catalog, but doesn’t detract from it, either.

Surely someday, Of Monsters and Men, the successful, melodic pop band from Iceland, will actually burrow beneath the skin and reveal genuine depth, but the pleasures of this, their second record, remain mostly on the surface.

With Norwegian noise artist Lasse Marhaug producing, Hval walks a tightrope over melodic, sometimes lush pop music surrounded by dissonance straight out of a horror film.

Unsurprisingly, they double down on Drones to satisfying effect. That means broad strokes, big beats, and expertly placed electronic filips and vocal processing as the band explores its big themes in ways both satisfyingly corrosive, such as the speedy metal riffage of “Reapers,” and oddly saccharine, as on the somewhat corny and generic uplift of “Revolt.” Muse fares better when churning out inspiring head bangers where nuance isn’t a major factor.

FFS is more than worth the wait: a stylish, outsized romp that balances Franz Ferdinand’s gentlemanly muscle with Sparks’s adoration for the theatrical.

The knotty, gleaming structures often have hooky pop appeal (bassist Reid Anderson’s “Dirty Blonde,”), and the band can deliver an affecting ballad with brushes.

This new album, their first in four years, is a fine return to form, Emily Saliers and Amy Ray trading lead vocals and reclaiming their pristine harmonies without much fanfare.

In addition to a clutch of strong originals, the men also take on another lion with a cover of Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” and each puts a stamp on one of the other’s classics as Haggard tackles “Family Bible” and Nelson croons “Somewhere Between.”

It’s refreshing to hear Jamie xx go so widescreen.

How Big How Blue How Beautiful is a record about maneuvering around and through matters of the heart--sometimes triumphant, sometimes sad, and always deeply felt thanks to Welch acting as tour guide.

Unfortunately, at times he still comes across as Usher-lite.

From its length (18 songs, 66 minutes) to its guest list (Kanye West, Rod Stewart, Danger Mouse, Lil Wayne, Yasiin Bey, M.I.A.), the album is as much a large-scale production as his debut was. But it’s done on Rocky’s terms, with every element enhancing the sound that he laid out on his initial mixtape.

Why Make Sense? is another branch of the band’s tree, an album of infectious pop riddled with bigger questions and dilemmas that ripple well beyond the dance floor.

Parker is in fine voice, and despite a few vague lyrics the songs are strong, especially when guitarist Brinsley Schwarz adds his distinctive punctuation.

It’s no slight to say there’s not much here beyond the classic songcraft, the splendor of their high-lonesome harmonies, and the way their guitars entwine and frame the songs so beautifully.

n album of movement that reaches toward the sublime.... Ratchet meanders a bit near the end, but its haze also mirrors the slow awakening that marks the end of a night spent reaching for dance-floor ecstasy.

The Desired Effect absolutely brims with pop-rock goodness, spanning several styles that are tied together by the singer’s gifts for combining an instantly memorable tune, clever turns of phrase, ace instrumentation, and his airy yet powerful voice.

With the thunderous blues-rock of “White Sky” (where his voice takes on gospel fervor), the glam momentum of “Long Time,” and the watery vibe of “These City Streets,” he remains defiantly all over the map.

His fifth solo record, after a four-year absence, is his most focused and affecting effort, accenting his funk-soul side and melodic instincts.

Funny, poignant, melodic, and warm, Miller shows that his travels have served him well as a songwriter.

If anything, these new songs are bolder showcases for the ensemble’s talents.

Harris and Crowell cowrote six of the 11 tracks, and some are polished gems, including the title track.

Simply put, Love Songs for Robots is gorgeous. It’s also mysterious; it doesn’t reveal all its layers on first listen.

All of the things that made Snoop Snoop--his effortless, laconic flow, clever wordplay, and narrative skills--are almost completely absent.

If there’s an elegant groove hiding in a lost soul record, Oddisee’s found it, from the horns of “Contradiction’s Maze” to the bells of “Counter-Clockwise.”

In the hands of the grandiose Mumford & Sons, this shading [similar to the National] doesn’t quite work, forcing the band to shape-shift in a way so it sounds... well, not quite like itself.

His juxtaposition of dreamy, doors-of-perception tunes and frustrated romantic ones can feel odd, but the musical brilliance keeps the project in focus through to the angst-ridden, Harry Nilsson-like folk of “Get the Point.” Just don’t expect a light listening experience.

Halestorm’s third album is packed with straightforward mud-in-your-eye rockers, but also throws enough stylistic curveballs to set it apart from the crowd.

It takes patience to tag along, but hearing Tyler abandon shock for shock’s sake to explore other sides of his oddness is a sign he’s less interested in being rap’s Quentin Tarantino, and more its Wes Anderson.

If a collaboration with Snoop Dogg, “1, 2 1, 2,” exceeds expectations, it also reflects this record’s flaw: It needs more Raekwon.

They wend through minimalist pinwheeling (“The sun roars into view”) and pared-down funk (“The rest of us”) to reach the title track’s Renaissance-motet epiphany, their odyssey made relatable through the grit, breath, and song that permeate their enchanting chronicle.

For longtime fans of Blur’s alluring blend of pop smarts, rock edge, and electronic flourishes, The Magic Whip is close to a slam dunk, as the quartet conjures the vibe of its ’90s glory days without veering into rehash territory, making it a good ambassador for potential new listeners as well.

This roots-rap hybrid might appall rap purists, but it’s a striking improvement over 2011’s messy, compromised “Radioactive.”

The echoes among unhinged riffs on “Good Neck,” “Raising the Skate” and “My Dead Girl” speak to the unity of Speedy Ortiz’s vision, as well as its limitations; the spikiness that gives the music its appeal also turns it abrasive over the long haul.

Kindred is also the group’s most unsinkable album, barreling through the speakers with muscular, glossy synths and the jittery tension between Angelakos’s tangy falsetto and what he’s actually saying.

Sound & Color makes clear this success was not a fluke. This is the sound of a band that’s in it for the long haul, amplifying what worked the first time, and stretching in new directions to challenge both the performers and their listeners.

Young, sexy, and chic, Dark Red is an album that undeniably is made for this moment, blurring the lines among past, present, and future in a way that could appeal to both EDM neophytes and history-obsessed nerds.

Edge of the Sun, the band’s new album on Anti-, is no less adventurous, but it feels curated in a way that sets it apart from previous releases.

Less overtly than elsewhere, perhaps, Second Hand Heart still demonstrates Yoakam’s peerless ability, album after album, to graft new shoots onto classic forms.

He sometimes sounds like the poet who spent too much time scribbling verses at the end of the bar (“the sleep motes gathered in the dust bowls of her eye”), but when he channels his inner Beat (the grand “Long Strange Golden Road”), he finds transcendence.

The party anthems (“Lit Up”) aren’t as convincing as they once were, yet his star producers mostly serve him well; only David Guetta steers him wrong.

No Pier Pressure sounds simultaneously over- and underproduced: loaded with layers upon layers of instruments, but unable to shake the flat, bright sheen of something recorded in a basement studio.

You’ll find oblique references [to the departure of producer Chris Walla and frontman Ben Gibbard’s divorce from actress Zooey Deschanel], but it’s just as easy to find yourself in these 11 tracks.

If this derivative album shows that he’s not reinventing the wheel, at least the wheel is still rolling.

As it stands, Stevens’s words drive these songs, and not always in the most linear fashion. Lyrics that meander in unruly metric on the page are parsed into eloquent couplets that, somehow, sound conversational.

Where “good kid” was a perceptive look at Lamar’s adolescence in a small part of Los Angeles, Butterfly is a weary assessment of his adulthood, and a world that’s bigger, more complex, and more flawed that he knew. If the albums share anything, it’s that they’re both cinematic. But the movie Lamar is shooting now puts the current era into a more fitting frame.

Her whip-smart daffiness sets up her serious moments to hit all the harder--but the performances of the (mostly ’60s) covers that make up the album are largely uninspired.

She seldom raises her voice in anger or frustration, but imbues her words with emotional heft.

Lightning Bolt’s subversive sense of songcraft flourishes in these new recording environs, creating their most accessible record yet from tones and concepts as challenging as any in their catalog.

An existential crisis has never sounded like so much fun as it does in Barnett’s songs.

On an album as free of frill as it is of gimmicks, Earl Sweatshirt lets his music stand on its own merits.

For all of the gussy rhythms--which can stop just this side of overly cute--and legit power, there’s real subtlety at work, too, and in unlikely spots.

The strongest tracks are the greasy acoustic boogie of “Checkin’ Out” and the emotional hangover of “You and the Beach,” which finds a breakup lingering like a bad sunburn.

He does what he does best, delivering finely wrought, elegantly arranged songs of subtle depth and rich musicality, many extending past five minutes without overstaying their welcome.

[A] reverent tribute to the late Elliott Smith.

The album plays like a diluted version of Twin Shadow, with discernible traces of everyone from neo-R&B singer Miguel to power-pop sister act Haim.

Grand statements about humanity in “Savages” and “Immortal” fall flat, and moments like the three-syllable “di-a-mond” in “Solitaire” mistake quirk for personality. But a few slices of FROOT are exactly ripe enough.

The songs are impeccably layered, but like tiramisu, those layers bleed into one another, so that even a relative rocker like “Rattled” gets lost in its own swirl.

Wasted on the Dream is tight and snarling, an amalgamation of punk brevity, metal riffs, and garage attitude, tailor-made for blaring from parked cars idling while their passengers figure out how to maximize the night’s fast, cheap, and out of control quotients.

It is a strong, welcome detour in the artist’s recent discography. Or just call it a return to form since the album is her most satisfying effort in a decade and nimbly connects the dots between Madonna’s various eras and guises.

Admittedly, Hawthorne’s range is limited and the lyrics flyweight even by pop standards, but the package is so polished and so much fun that listeners will be too busy dancing to notice--Snoop Dogg included

Clarkson can, of course, sell all of this and sounds great doing it. But the cumulative effect of all that bigness can be wearing by album’s end.

Gallagher doesn’t distinguish himself with his cliche-prone lyrics, but as he just told one interviewer, “The words? Who cares about the words?” Well, some of us do, but the melody-rich music here compensates nicely.

With her lovely, expressive voice, she finds the truths at the core of each song, making this one of the early year’s breakthroughs.

A hypnotic collision of cultures and influences, of tradition and innovation.

The album comes across as an adrenaline-filled milestone, filled with whimsical and personal transactions between the past and present.

Twice, he wisely enlists Jhene Aiko, who has become rap’s signifier for bruised emotions. Yet the conflicted despondency throughout (“I Know,” “Win Some, Lose Some”) never yields to enlightenment; the results are more murky than dark.

First Kiss picks up where 2012’s “Rebel Soul” left off, with Rock continuing to mix classic rock, country, pop, and, to a far lesser extent, hip-hop to craft odes to parties and the good old days, as well as to parties in the good old days.

Guitars and Microphones is right in line with Pierson’s penchant for spiky dance pop, but it’s also a more revealing look at the atomically redheaded siren.

At a time when guitars serve more often as props than as centerpieces, this album is a wondrous reminder that the simplest palette can be used to paint the most profound results.

A sudden 69 minutes of Drake binging on hypnotic soundscapes, spitting out gleefully hung-over flows.