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.

There are flat parts when the band takes shelter in its mid-tempo comfort zone, and not every song is a triumph. But each one feels personal and full of intention.

At this point in their career, Mast and Stroud's brand of whip-smart laptop rock secures them a spot on any dance party playlist. Alas, some songs here sound more fit for a party's background music than music for people to actually dance to.

The result is shockingly better than might be expected - and in some ways superior to his final regular studio album, 2001's uneven and bloated Invincible.

Like their other albums, it's a collection of spirited, guitar-forward tunes that remain upbeat, even when it seems like everything is falling apart.

Stripping down to a three-piece on the new ‘Grand Animals’ has actually made them more ornate.

Thankfully, though, the singer-songwriter imbues his work with real soul, and classic country fans could do worse than to worship at the altar of this Church.

Her typical lyrical bent remains, but musically, Tears, Lies & Alibis is largely a spare, acoustic affair.

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

There's no doubt about it, though, as in-your-face as some of these songs are, the Proclaimers are at their best when, well, proclaiming and protesting vehemently over simple melodies and a stomping march of a beat.

Mostly, with its wintry hush and flurries of harmonies, the album evokes the title, a not unpleasant vision of contemplatively gazing out a window encrusted with frost in a thick Irish wool sweater drinking a steaming cup of cider.

A sexy and sweet sophomore release that’s got more love flowing from it than an ‘‘Oprah’’ audience on ‘‘My Favorite Things’’ day.

In many instances that willingness to change things up has resulted in a more conventional record, with well-executed but standard-issue, radio-ready country-pop.

A few too many tone-shifting interludes slow down momentum, but “Free Your Mind,” “We Are Explorers,” and “In Memory Capsule” in particular are a welcoming embrace into a sea of moving bodies and blinking lights that extends as far as the eye can see.

Considering the album's disparate origins, its slightly disjointed feel makes sense but doesn't keep it from being a solid must-have for fans.

Only a singer-songwriter with the force and clarity of Mary Chapin Carpenter could make nihilism sound so cheery.

The best songs on this album, including 'Vini Vidi Vici,' subvert the band's bravado without erasing it altogether.

The Pussycats' debut from 2005 was that kind of disc, and though this follow-up tries darn hard to follow that formula, it comes up just short.

The singer's material is tackled competently and faithfully throughout, resulting in a collection of tracks that are pleasant if not particularly earth-shattering (an admittedly tall task for a musical genre that lacks subwoofers).

Shakira is a more middle-of-the-road affair, but it’s also more revealing.

Throughout the album, Rock, who clearly understands his vocal limitations, employs some dynamite backup singers who enliven, fill out, and otherwise beautify their surroundings nicely.

He also brings a touch of jazz to the proceedings with hints of smoke and elegance in that voice. The songs themselves are a tuneful lot with nimble musings on love (“Heaven Help Me’’) and the expectations of filling big shoes (“Good Enough’’).

Phillips may be an artist of just a few ideas, but he believes in them. And he's not afraid to use them over and over.

It's a cluttered affair with bleeping, buzzing lows (harshly ambient tracks like "Straightjacket" and "Versions of Violence") and a handful of humble high points in a pair of lovely piano ballads.

Unlike their previous overdubbed recordings, the album has the nicely ramshackle clomp of a live band, and Dawn loosens up accordingly.

The headiness doesn’t always work to Dupuis’s advantage; for every song on Twerp Verse that gets its point across with fresh, memorable language, there’s one where cutting through the thickets of wordplay feels more exhausting than enjoyable. Still, when she gets the balance just right, as she does on the creepy sexual-harassment story “Villain” and the romantic-dysfunction anthem “Backslidin’,” she’s one of indie rock’s finest lyricists.

[A] fluid, likable disc.

The Horseshoe Curve offers few surprises.