Themes include perseverance, climbing mountains, parenting, etc., although at times, they do wander into Cupid’s playground on songs like the title track.

The album starts off strong but ends up overcomplicated.

The problem of carving a new brand of sprawling music that feels carefully hand-crafted at every nook while not letting those nooks fly by too easily, or unappreciated, is not one that Palms has a great solution towards.

There’s nothing particularly weak about the record, but it sacrifices the band’s singularity in service of a punk sound that, while plenty amped, ultimately feels a bit by the numbers.

When Tripwires push so far out of their confines that the boundaries can’t be seen, the uncertainty and frustration of the lyrics starts to make more of a connection. Unfortunately, too often on Spacehopper they stick too close to the traditional patterns of orbit.

Allusions to apples are all across the 16 self-produced tracks, along with glimpses of snakes, countless temptations, and the feeling that Cole knows too much for his own good.

While the best moments on The Distance Is So Big have hooks to spare, “Scienceless” and “Public Opinion Bath” could’ve used at least one. It’s just hard to maintain that kind of optimism over the course of a whole record.

It’s neither better nor worse than Dream, but for all that talk of “pushing through four dimensions” (“Surround Sound”), the album remains planted in its comfort zone.

Park’s songwriting is nothing if not confident, energetic, and pop aware. The downside of that focus, though, is that the album feels homogenized, both lyrically and musically.

It’s a deep dive that, while not as accessible as the band’s previous works, proves they’ve chosen experimentation over stagnancy.

The subject matter gives depth to the record, but sometimes it feels like Smith Westerns are filling in templates instead of writing songs.

It’s an ambitious collection, but the roots veteran pulls it off.

The hooks are still here, but that level of hyper-attentive musicianship is absent on this decidedly punchier, glossier effort.

Even among these highs, the pairing of Lovefoxxx and Sitek has resulted in a few highly combustible selections which burn themselves out quickly and with little lasting effect.

Green shows a new depth and further proves the jump from shaking walls in a post-hardcore group to melting hearts with his current project was the right move.

If Brazos can focus on their strengths, they have the potential to make a pleasant, summery mark on pop music.

It’s by no means Rogue Wave’s seminal work, but it manages to come off as an honest and hard-earned statement from a band that’s been dealt more than their fair shares of blows these past few years.

Overall, Selfhood is caught between two worlds in the worst kind of way.

After exploring BBD, it seems the rest of Mellowdrone wasn’t needed for idea creation as much as containing and editing the various artistic notions generated by Bates.

Slow Summits sees the band producing less shadowy than their peers and fellow Scotsmen Belle & Sebastian.

Putting aside some of those rough edges, however, the record is a more than adequate diversion until Real Estate return with LP3.

Ten albums in, the singer proves he still has the juice to keep things interesting, even if he ultimately falls short of his own headstrong expectations.

The strength of this record is that, even without sunshine to bolster it, these songs remain enjoyable and nuanced.

It’s Shaw’s seemingly uncontrollable voice that steals the show, finding powerful moments even in stale formats.

While all of these versions differ wildly from their originals, they also lose a withering amount of weight due to arrangements that are generally sparser and slowed down.... The other half of FOUR‘s tracks are original, and although they veer more on the foreboding side, they also end before Harvey can establish any kind of differing mood.

Sometimes too much is super exciting, and sometimes too much is just a little too much.

It’s a less appealing debut than Lanegan’s first records with, say, Isobel Campbell or Soulsavers, and a challenging introduction to American audiences for the talented Garwood.

Wake Up is happy and very danceable, but it should only be consumed in small, commercial, or movie trailer-sized doses.

A greater emphasis on humanism would give Dungeonesse more soul and, perhaps most important of all, more hooks.

Perils‘ biggest strength is also its biggest weakness: even at its best, it merely recalls the strengths of its individual players, instead of charting its own course.

ADULT. certainly have a precise understanding of their sound, but can’t seem to inject any new life into the system.

The duo’s debut album solidifies that process, but doesn’t stray far outside of the range set by Beacon’s For Now and No Body EPs. The sound is smooth, but the stakes are low.

Put simply, The Great Gatsby soundtrack resonates like the dinky Grammy sampler album they give to us plebeians who aren’t important enough to attend the ceremony anyway.

When Fink sings, “I think still after all these years, something still burns,” on the chorus, seven tracks in, we’re left feeling less like teens trapped on an island and more like parents who have beaten the odds and stayed together. Similar disruptions that take us away from “teenland” are the records’ main fault, though it’s largely successful as a sunny summer album.

The trouble with Little Boots’ choice in house music is that there’s little room for experimentation. At times, lyrics rhyme just to be adhesive and the beats drone on and on and on.

Too often, elements of the LP are unrecognizable from that of its competition.

Where once they were on the cusp of the avant, breaking down walls through experimentation and sonic manipulation, with Fool Metal Jack, rather than come off as updated or even retro-fitted, they simply sound dated.

The album loses its confidence through multiple exhibitions of mundane excess, fracturing the dexterity to hold up over time, and proving that not everyone can focus in deep isolation.

The 10 tracks of Elephant Stone are concise, pop song-length statements that more clearly reflect Dhir’s vision--one he’s learning how to bring to life.

Take a spin through Denison Witmer’s 11 songs, and whether listening to an album stream or consciously and individually clicking through the individual tracks, distinguishing song-to-song shifts proves difficult, as Witmer chooses an acoustic guitar as his primary partner and additional instruments (hear: light percussion, occasional keys, and drowsy bass) are reduced to mellowing sleep-aids.

Given enough time, these experienced musicians should be able to pare things down to these more focused moments, finding the right songs to drape with their ultra stylized vision.

The trio continue on that trajectory, the mystic chanting and ceremonial trances dancing through the scattering ash. Due to that cratered impact, everything on the album sounds urgent, an exhilarating feeling that takes a while to escape.

Existential nu-disco hasn’t been done to death, but it has been done better than this.

Time Was is a relaxed record, one that thrives on its melancholic mood. The pace is slow and methodical, but never boring.

Like Daft Punk’s soundtrack for Tron: Legacy before it (a film also directed by Joseph Kosinski), Oblivion is symbiotically dependent on the silver screen.

Executive produced by Major Lazer, the affair is an approachable relative to Jamaican roots and dancehall.

Being surrounded by the attention of reputable producers and recorders helps make an album like Night Visions find its place on the charts. But leave room for the twinge of disappointment that comes from the lack of that Imagine Dragons edge that made them stand out in previously heard singles.

It’s an easy album to love, but hard to love it more than anything else.

This record just proves that Kid Cudi has a lot of sorting to do, and continuing down the same old path simply won’t cut it in the long-run.

Their eagerness to separate themselves leads to mixed results, feeling alternatingly awkwardly forced and brilliantly composed.

Two downtempo instrumentals do little to elevate their surroundings, and the album’s longer tracks reiterate more than they evolve. Still, Houses accomplish their aim of filling an hour with a cinematic, transportive music--a perfect soundtrack to milling about the end times.

Ghost’s sophomore effort, however, is more of a lateral movement than an improvement, and for a band whose songs rely on falsetto and choruses, the absence of memorable melodies on Infestissumam is an eternal sin.

As puzzle pieces to a full-length album, at least a third of these songs come off as superfluous and unnecessary.

The payoffs don’t always resonate with the pineal, which should be the one thing worth counting on from the band.

The inclusion of larger singles-moving, profit-generating artists leads to mixed results on Free The Universe.

EmptyMansions plays like a well-crafted diversion, an artist’s escape to play in his own corner of the musical playground, if just for a short spell.

Had GFK’s focus been on par with his corresponding hero’s repulsor beam, this record would’ve been more than a solid collection that fails in trying to make high-art with a half-hearted storyline.

For now, True Romance is a valiant attempt that doesn’t do much more than provide the soundtrack for “getting ready to go out” songs on tinny laptop speakers.

Although this isn’t a punk classic, My Shame Is True comes out swinging as Alkaline Trio’s strongest effort since 2008’s Agony & Irony.

While the album hits great heights, its scattered influences and sounds would suggest it’s reasonable to wonder which track will get the “2″ added to it on the next disc.

Beneath the lyrics live a less-than-cohesive batch of songs. But when the band allows each track a little more breathing room, they show some growth and have a good time doing it.

The album may have its shortcomings, but in the end it is a solid statement on his appreciation for varying forms of production and his intent to further embed these during his live sets and upcoming studio albums.

The meandering, navel-gazing second half diminishes the succinct and undeniable power of the first.

Dear Miss Lonelyhearts fails to reach back far enough to the band’s less polished, indie blues-fueled Robbers & Cowards days, but at least integrates that sound with hints of the striving-for-stadiums pop-rock Mine Is Yours offered up.

At his best, Calder channels a disaffected claustrophobia, bearing down on twentysomethings lost and disaffected in their parents’ basements. It’s a bummer listen, but sometimes that’s warranted.

At its best, In Guards We Trust is terrific fun--a bold break from the cynicism and detachment that characterizes too much of the band’s native city. But a few more careful edits might have kept the record from blowing its gasket by side B.

Because Caveman simmers at the same murky tempo for 45 minutes, even the melodies start to lose their sweetness.

Think of it as maturing without growing up, and it works here on a handful of tracks.

From the lean, scrappy production value to the grandiose guitar solos and Alex Coxen’s wobbling, vocal delivery a la Grant Hart, the record has the messy fingerprints of indie rock’s cherished first wave smeared all over it.

Between Abi Fry’s lilting viola and Wilkinson’s cogent, sentimentalist vocals, BSP sails through Machineries of Joy without any fatal blunders.

The beats are so simple that they’re a nonfactor, and there aren’t very many funny lines--which was Wayne’s most redeeming quality in the past.

Dormarion [is] his most mature album yet, and proves Lerner to be one of the more talented young indie pop acts out there today.

The album is only about 30 minutes long, but the desire to move on hits long before that, and two strong tracks aren’t enough to save it.

While Green’s sleepy pop-punk songwriting is the stuff of afternoon nap dreams, it’s too bad that the vinyl single isn’t a more viable option, as the longer, slower tracks that fill the spaces between those little gems dissipate the album’s buzz.

Those hungry for the more immediate release of her techno might find parts of the album tedious, but LISm‘s long-form arc rewards a patient listener.

The False Alarms is marked by a frustrating lack of movement, direction, or variance.

For all [Nicolas Fromageau's] attempts at darkness, Fromageau can’t shake the pretty effusiveness that bolstered M83′s first few albums to the spotlight.

The album marries moments of both excess and restraint, and the dance between Skrillex and Martinez makes the ebb and flow of the music match that of the plot: a successful score.

nd. Yes, the band tugs a little too hard at its roots at points, but it’s still a fun listen, and it’s hard not to dive in as they play in the dirt.

Call these cuts dark. Call them rockers. But they’re neither of these things when stacked against something much more simple and hard-hitting: sincerity.

Despite its flaws, it can at times be an unexpected and stunning trip.

The album’s middle stagnates some, but even at its least focused, Invisible Life is a pleasant experience, Lange’s downy production floating by like a pastel cloud.

He may not be the most verbose artist, but the temperament of a reluctant romantic is a quality he shares with some great ones.

Hit the Waves is both the darkest and the glossiest Mary Onettes record to date. That tension between style and content creates a few engaging moments, but doesn’t offer much for listeners who haven’t already subscribed to the band’s ’80s rehash.

Sound City: Real to Reel has its highlights, but the bad songs are hard to justify. Some collaborators don’t mesh with others, and all of them suffer from embarrassing lyrics.

A reflection of the outfit’s independent nature, Les Revenants shows Mogwai succeeding in their aim to replace the typical anxiety-inducing scores of horror flicks with one that urges the viewer to uncover their own fears within the melody.

What Hackford and Lyon really need is a plot, a purpose, a driving force, and an end goal. Without those things, Soft Openings gets lost and doesn’t quite know how to make its way back.

People, Hell and Angel isn’t perfect--or godly--but it does contain some canon tracks that every Hendrix fan should hear.

The varying topics and often-indistinct lyrics miscommunicate, making this record better suited for easy listening than deep delving.

Honky Tonk finds Farrar once again bearing the brunt of Son Volt’s musical and emotional baggage, and that’s nothing new.

In the end, Welcome oblivion is really just three stitched-together pieces used to create a living, breathing, albeit disjointed creature.

One key note on Nanobots then, given its general lack of new things to take note of, is in the surface stats: 25 tracks crammed into 45 minutes, including nine delightfully incomplete ideas under a minute long.

As evidenced by their remixes, the instrumental tracks here, and some of the pithier vocals, Javelin are high-caliber producers; their lyrics and melodies just haven’t matched that intensity.

None [of the tracks], however, are particularly distinctive from the rest, and while that’s not always a bad thing, it can get frustrating fast when an artist’s single weapon is a certain narrow, half-awake affect.

[Hamilton’s voice] carries the wispy, breathy feel of an Iron & Wine, but where Sam Beam’s rustic vocals float like a leaf down a sunny river, Hamilton’s putters out like a deflated balloon, and he comes off as hesitant and unassuming.

Overall, the few great tracks balance out the filler, and Gold Fields manages to forge a hodgepodge of weathered songs into something wholly emotional.

The album is more a loving revival than a modernization of some of the Everly Brothers’ lesser-known songs. But when the duo’s influence can still be heard trickling into everything from Fleet Foxes to Animal Collective, it’s hard to claim that What the Brothers Sang does much more than reminisce.

With the jazz-flute-driven “Walking In Your Footsteps” rounding out the highlights, it’s these tracks that radiate the most, but the whole LP serves as a welcome illumination of the otherwise abandoned dance floor we call February.