As a recorded artifact, the album falls short of providing a greater realization of the band’s honest potential, losing its better threads in a clutter of noise too loosely woven together to enhance the intended tapestry.

Generally, they stick to their formula, sweeping hooks buoyed by gang vocals and commanding horns, making for an album that’s predictable yet reassuring.

Likely as clean as you have ever heard it, Big’s flow is the glue that holds an otherwise disjointed project together with cadences that kick the songs into hyperdrive, cement his versatility, and prove that he and the Organized Noize production team--the guys that built The Dungeon and the bulk of the joints on this album-- might be close to returning to form. Their indecision about the creative direction of the project, however, takes away from the overall quality of the release.

On his new album, Big Fish Theory, Staples continues to perfect his brand of nuanced nihilism while exploring new sounds that should put the music industry on notice that the future is now.

OK Computer never stopped sounding timeless. In its new form as OKNOTOK, unreleased songs feed off beloved B-sides, forming a web that supports the concrete themes of the original album so as to make its points even sharper.

With Ctrl, SZA proves that the cult following that ballooned with the release of her 2014 mixtape, Z, was not some flash in the pan, but a deserved wellspring of attention from an adoring fan base whose faith in what she had yet to produce helped to produce the project that could eventually stand as the best thing she has ever done.

Even without the willful innovation, the record is important evidence to just how strong and poignant his songs are in skeletal form. Wilco is nowhere to be found here, but Together at Last is still a very good Jeff Tweedy record that should hold over fans until his band’s next musical flight of fancy.

Lorde’s overreaches and missteps are just as charming as the incisive parts, so she must be an icon. The board-manning Jack Antonoff’s over-reliance on synths and clicks limits what she can do with this new maximalism, and her insistence on, well, melodrama will occasionally mar her best writing, which remains in the shadows. She’s not a liability. But she can be a forest fire.

There’s no formal breakthroughs on Trouble Maker beyond the astounding economy, unless you think the harmonica on “Buddy” or Clash-goes-“Ring of Fire” chords on “Telegraph Avenue” makes this the band’s folk-punk album.

Free from the weight of living up to the Grammy-winning behemoth’s history, this 40-minute collaboration shimmers and contains the cheeriest laments about unrequited love you’ll ever hear.

When the record does stumble, it’s because he’s trying to juggle too many ideas at one time as opposed to a lack of effort. Mostly, City Music succeeds at displaying Morby’s strength as a rocker, and along with Singing Saw, the two together paint him as an artist truly coming into his own.

For those who already believe, it represents a promising comeback that, while never fully hitting the marks set for it by time or the band’s own peers, points to even more inventive, invigorated music on a horizon that likely isn’t another two decades away.

If Berry leaves the world with any last thoughts on Chuck, it’s that his vitality and relevance will continue to endure.

Every listener will have to individually cherry pick the songs that work best for them, but these are the ones that best deliver on the possibilities of the album’s premise.

Ti Amo isn’t a perfect record; things sag slightly when the tempos drop, and the tracklist doesn’t quite have a year-defining hit in the caliber of “Lisztomania” or “1901”. However, while it may not be an instant classic, it also feels like required listening for a summer that seems destined to be sun-drenched and scary at the same time.

Witness has great singles, forgettable singles, forgettable filler, and songs that go clunk.

Ultimately, she knows the pitfalls of dating more than one gender better than anyone in pop, and those moments of insight are when Hopeless Fountain Kingdom truly stands out from the pack, but it’s also reassuring that Halsey (who tags herself “alternative” rather than “pop”) conceives herself as an album artist first.

Lenker doesn’t always do pretty things--she can most certainly craft a beautiful song, but she’s canny enough to know that the ways in which we subtly alter our lives to be more aesthetically appealing often obscure a far more interesting truth.

Challenging throughout and at times jarring and inscrutable, Crack-Up searches for a resolution just out of reach.

Gone Now makes it clear that he knows his way around a chorus--he often jumps right into them at the start of songs--but verses are strained and general while impulses are too often freely indulged, rather than examined and pulled apart in the hopes of building something that looks more like innovation than imitation.

Is This The Life We Really Want? is easily the most accessible of Waters’ solo work--a distillation in many regards of the anti-fascist, anti-imperialist, anti-greed messages he’s been broadcasting since Pink Floyd.

Relaxer represents ambition and a willingness to take chances. The downside is that it finds the band in a state of confusion, pulled in all directions and sacrificing a sense of cohesion.

Although it features a few radio-ready summer moments, Waiting on a Song never quite rises to the heights reached by its famous collaborators or canon-approved inspirations.

Lil Yachty the pop star shines on Teenage Emotions, and the wide range of styles with which he delivers his message of youthful exuberance shows a growing artist. ... Filler tracks such as “Dirty Mouth” and “Moments in Time” derail the parade of energy Teenage Emotions delivers, leaving the record with too many skip-worthy moments.

Ponderous musicality can be both mesmerizing and boring, and Black Laden Crown touches on both extremes.

Altogether, this is the sound of the former King of the Beach aging gracefully. Or as gracefully as this punk can manage.

A muddled mess of a record from a band that completely abandoned any sense of identity.

With everything under one roof and no vacancies in sight, the 25th anniversary return to Singles is a pleasant one. It’s a humble reminder of a time when soundtracks could rule the roost and yet also serve a greater purpose.

Black Origami is an album that, like its predecessors, will be savored and analyzed for the rest of the year. It’s a lock for best albums of 2017.

Despite the uneven results between that last track and the album’s superlative opener, Goths is a record that grows on you.

The missteps don’t detract too much from this ambitious, if slightly unfocused, debut.

As inscrutable as it can be at times, Giannascoli never betrays his purpose, making Rocket his most developed and accomplished album yet.

No matter its rocky moments, After Laughter exhibits the enduring trait that makes Paramore so appealing: Even when the situation is dire and emotions are running high, they tell it like it is with smiles on their faces. You’d be forgiven for missing the seriousness on After Laughter for just how much damn fun it is.

This album is a pure nostalgia play, and it’s going to score plenty of airplay on KROQ as a bridge between that station’s modern alt-rock staples and the ‘80s groups that once served as its bread and butter.

While the arrangements show collaboration, the lyrics sound like the work of the lonely mind. Powerplant is full of the solo enterprise of watching.

So much of In Spades recalls what makes the Whigs so much fun. It’s unapologetically brash, soulful, seductive, and more sophisticated than naysayers might care to admit. What prevents the record from nearing the realm of Gentlemen or Black Love really begins and ends with Dulli’s vocals.

From beginning to end, even in its moments of resentment and self-doubt, Pageant is shot through with empathy, kindness, and sincerity.

These nine songs have the potent rumble of a muscle car revving its engine as a show of strength balanced with that poignant ache that country music does so well.

Slowdive delivers nearly everything their fans desire in a return: familiarity, innovation, and vast atmospheres to get lost in.

One of the greatest accomplishments of No Shape is how it provides a lush, seemingly endless musical playground in which Hadreas’ stunning, one-of-a-kind voice can push past any limits and shine in new and unusual ways.

With more daring songwriting and cleaner studio sound, Mac DeMarco has created the most polished version of his signature sound we have heard to date.

Granted, the majority of Pollinator isn’t nearly as compelling as its singles, but it’s Blondie, alright: older, wiser, and confident enough to make music that’s true to their identity.

While The Possum in the Driveway may not be the type of album every Mulcahy fan has been anticipating, they can be assured that it’s yet another worthwhile stop on a journey that seems to have many miles left to go.

Guppy lures you in with fine-crafted honey, before blindsiding you with a sudden downpour of vinegar (or piss, take your pick). This is why they call it “power pop.”

“No Wolf Like The Present” tips off the festivities with loads of frenetic energy, but it never leaves reality, and that goes for the rest of the album. Oddly enough, this restraint warrants some of the record’s finest moments, and when the Texas rockers aren’t twisting and distorting their music like a rubber band, they get lost in the ether.

With a bit more focus, Humanz could have been an essential part of Gorillaz’s narrative. Instead, it’s a scatterbrained frenzy of emotion--which is what’s to be expected of anything immersing itself in the chaotic, logic-free nonsense of the world post-election.

Feist is back, and, for the first time, it feels like she can finally feel the warmth that everyone has felt in her presence this whole time.

An outing as plain as its title. It is the band’s most consistent album in years, never dipping into any true clinkers but never approaching anything close to a risk either.

On “DNA.”, Kendrick slices himself down the middle, spills his guts, and mines the finer points of all of his moving parts over an 808-heavy production from Mike Will Made It. The combination may sound to purists like it should not work on paper, but it is absolute fire, and they reprise their magic again on “HUMBLE.” and “XXX.”, challenging rap’s own perceptions of itself and what value really boils down to from the Hot 100 to the underground.

It swings between biting and sublime, with occasional moments of triteness; but when Meath and Sanborn get it right, they get it very, very right. In a live setting, even the trite ones will bang, and maybe that’s all you can really ask.

There are flashes of a more invigorating band underneath, but Season High ultimately ends up the kind of record for festival attendees to pleasantly dance along to while sipping their drinks waiting for the headliner.

Even as he’s celebrating the wonder of America and all its spoils, there’s an undercurrent of razor cynicism that belies the joy. That’s the fun yin and yang that makes Americana such a rich listen.

The 12-song project is the Brooklyn native’s most well-rounded release to date.

Ultimately, The Far Field serves as a reminder of how skilled Future Islands can be when everything locks into place, and even if it never reaches the highs of Singles, it more than holds its own.

By peeling back the layers of his persona, Ghersi breaks himself down in an attempt to find rebirth, trying to reconcile with his past and present. The result is his most daring and enthralling record yet.

Some of the songs feel too sterile and Pornos-by-numbers; others are derivative in a way the band rarely is. Overall, it would have been more successful as a five-song mini-LP than as a full-length.

The result is her most vulnerable and honest work to date.

From the incendiary solos of “Word to the Wise” to the evocatively personal/universal lyrics (“The throne of maladies/ It’s right in front of me/ Your malignancy”), Emperor of Sand proves cathartic for the listener and, hopefully, for the band members as well.

The return we have all been waiting for, and it does not disappoint. Let’s agree never to part again for so long unless the reunion promises to be just as joyous and refreshing as Automaton.

Contact just finds a way to pull it off without sounding like she’s on the verge of collapsing--which, for the sake of everyone’s well-being, is a surprisingly good meeting point. There’s just a small space left unused that finds listeners wanting more.

The album spins best when Misty is picking a fight with God or observing human nature as a screwball play, all while honoring the fact that people were given a raw deal in concept, not just execution.

The music on the record seamlessly ebbs and flows while not sounding repetitive, and Alison Goldfrapp remains one of pop’s most charismatic, if underrated, singers. In all, Silver Eye has a little bit of everything for fans of either the band’s uptempo electronic or reflective folk-ambient phases.

The Wild is a worthy addition to Raekwon’s extensive discography and should comfortably take a position near the top of most fans’ lists.

On the whole, everything proceeds much too predictably and with far too much caution and restraint.

Personality reigns, because a cursory glance at the album’s tracklist would have you believe this is an absolute clusterfuck--after all, there’s a track by Irish comedy hip-hop duo The Rubberbandits right smack in the middle. Yet such eclecticism happens to be its strong suit, and winds up embellishing the strengths of its younger selections.

Heartless continues the successes of Sorrow and Extinction and Foundations of Burden, while also incorporating familiar but tasteful sonic flourishes from adjacent genres.

For 44 minutes, Mann slips into the skin of someone walking an emotional tightrope, and it’s an act she pulls of with grace and conviction.

The singing and melodies are massaged with a care unheard in the prior Drake discography; this album flows as improbably as The Life of Pablo, with more assured lyrics and smoother sequencing, to offset the lack of a certifiable genius at the helm.

A Crow Looked at Me stands as a remarkable example of the restorative power of music, an intimate display of love, daring both in concept and execution.

Best to appreciate them for what they are: a noble effort that likely won’t have a marked impact on the world at large.

[Britt Daniel's] big statement is his Body of Work, of which every fine part adds up to a greater sum. Here comes another one.

This is a band cruising in their own lane, the road smooth as Teflon.

Semper Femina does not reach the soaring intensity and edged elation of Once I Was an Eagle, nor does it carry almost any of the freaked-out electricity that propelled Short Movie and allowed it to stand as a worthy successor to Eagle. But it is a strong, elegant, and self-assured album that, in its creative arrangements and lyrical world building, contains remarkable complexity and depth in terms of both skill and concept.

On Everybody Works, Duterte’s timid, but not terrified. Like any sophomore album, it constitutes a bit of a departure, but at this juncture, she has every right to experiment.

Each passing cycle saps a little more life from the record, until we’re left with background music, fluff that goes in one ear and out the other. That includes the lyrics, which run the gamut from sentimental, to rote, to downright creepy.

While gentler than its predecessor, Salutations is his bulwark against the tide, a warm record that offers calm in the cacophony, comfort in the struggle, the darkness amid the hope and the hope amid the darkness.

While his most definitive project remains 2015’s Dirty Sprite 2 for its balance of Future’s innate melodic sense and especially effective trap records, HNDRXX comes in as a close second.

Drunk is what we’ve come to expect from Thundercat, which is to say it’s a welcome release. On his third album, he embraces his sound, stereotypes and all, so that teenage humor lights up otherwise overly-heady bass.

An unprecedented two-and-a-half-hour journey into the typically guarded Merritt’s life, the album is as revealing as it is resonant.

A welcome return that’s more solid than it should be, yet less varied than you might hope.

The double album concept only waters down Kozelek’s biting social commentary and exquisite observations on living.

It’s not the glut of product that’s Future’s problem. Future’s problem is that, like his cohort Drake, he’s drunk on his own myth, and unlike Drake, his (intentionally) limited skill set doesn’t have any obvious backdoors to sneak out of for his career’s third act.

This latest release shows they will continue delivering the brand of technical death metal they helped define without compromise.

She’s not pushing the envelope so much as crinkling it a little bit, so she can curl up comfortably inside.

Though there are near misses on Crystal Fairy (like the riffs that don’t quite reach heavy metal territory in “Secret Agent Rat” or the teeth-gritting introduction of “Under Trouble” that does more to incite annoyance than apprehension), the album succeeds far more than it falls short.

As a solo project, Dirty Projectors works well. As significant of a shift as this album is from past Dirty Projectors’ records, the detailed production and arranging work shows Longstreth put all of himself into making it.

Even though the record is layered in angst, Showalter has an inner fearlessness that has allowed him to take accountability for his actions. While Hard Love isn’t a clear solution for Showalter’s problems, it’s definitely a step in the right direction.

There’s something to be said for the potential for personal growth inherent in traveling without a destination, and every song here is the sound of Julie Byrne making peace with her restlessness.

I Decided. is a fresh statement that proves Big Sean is continuing to evolve.

Adams assembles a stunning scrapbook that captures heartbreak in an intimate array of snapshots, a collection that marks his most accomplished record since Heartbreaker.

His LP offers enough lyrical courses to chew through. What it lacks is minor and, given his immense talent, a tad comical: vocal delivery that follows through on the words’ emotion.

Backed by production from Murda Beatz, Purps, Cardo, Zaytoven and Nard & B, co-pilots Quavo, Offset, and Takeoff sustain the hubris, excess, and immediate gratification adored by fans of gutter rap machismo while somehow bottling the very particular charm necessary for them to capture the hearts of pop-loving teens across the globe and carry rapping children’s lit live on the radio.

The record surges without slowing down, expanding without adding burden. Moreover, it proves that, out of the old class, Kreator are among the strongest, crushed not by ego or commercial temptations.

The album sincerely embraces every dark corner of the brain, not just the ones that are easiest to sum up. Nothing Feels Natural is daring, sincere, and intimate, somehow more universal in its particularity.

Even when he doesn’t break new ground, Segall and Ty Segall remain solid investments. There’s definitely something to be said for getting exactly what you pay for with a new album.

After nearly a five-year wait, Japandroids could have written a record with more wind beneath its wings, but the pace of Near To The Wild Heart Of Life is consumable enough to warrant repeat listens. It just won’t be a record that saves you when you need it to.

It’s a chugging, nimble-footed affair, showing a matured and restrained group; no more eight-minute-plus pounding, slashing jams, replaced instead with a sense of clarity and focus, a driving, raw sonic thesis statement.

France and Rado steer into the skid of the cliché, taking something old and making it their own, unafraid to veer into Pinterest board territory if it means it will get their point across. And the point of Hang is to feel something unapologetically.