Here's hoping they ditch the alt clichés and find their own sound on the next record.

Spread over 12 songs, Del Rey becomes so ordinary, even bland, that no amount of little girl vocals or pouting can save her.

Unfortunately, the band play it safe on No Coast.

Teri Gender Bender's vocals are the star and the driving force here, pretty much the only truly engaging element.

The thing with As You Please is that while it feels uneventful, it also seems like Citizen might be just on the edge of a breakthrough.

The risk of keeping things breezy is that tracks can often lack weight.

The EP is good but not great. Diplo missed an opportunity to explore a variety of emerging EDM genres, instead releasing a slew of tracks that bang hard but fail to resonate.

Tracks like the rambling "Old Things," the hoedown-lite "Bluebird" and perhaps the most precious song about outlaw life, "Private Property," shoot for middle-of-the-road appreciation, sucking out any grit from the recording.

The album's missteps aren't egregious; rather, it's that after multiple listens, very little sticks. The Tourist's inconspicuousness is its biggest issue.

The mixtape format may excuse the lack of sonic cohesion for the project, but it does not explain the faltering artistic direction that is more than likely to leave Yachty's fans disoriented and disenchanted.

The album is fun and enjoyable, but it never really reaches what they are capable of as a dynamic group. Every song bleeds into the next, almost sounding the same. It's not the worst feature ever, but as a collection, it doesn't stick out as anything exceptional.

On By the Fire opener "Hashish," Moore and his trio wholesale borrow the intro, main riff and melody from Sonic Youth's 1998 single "Sunday," while the most poppy and compact track on the LP, "Cantaloupe", freely cops the guitar rhythm of SY's 1992 classic "Sugar Kane." But once Moore becomes tired of repurposing old riffs, noise breakdowns, and tunings, he reverts to simply repeating intros and harmonies across the album's nine tracks and 80 minutes, melding together elements from the sluggish "Calligraphy" and the guileless "Dreamers Work."

There's nothing super memorable about this record, nor is there anything horribly offensive about it either. Ultimately, ACR Loco doesn't match A Certain Ratio's past glories, but it doesn't erase their legacy either.

V. never rises above space rock, making the album feel like any other '60s hippie/psychedelic record. It's adequate, but when you can easily predict how it's going to play out, you're never left wanting more.

There's nothing quite crazy enough, however, to be truly exciting and the slower numbers offer little in the way of texture or atmosphere.

The sparse "Phone Tap" tells a tale of drug dealing paranoia, while the Big K.R.I.T.-assisted "Brimstone" is a remorseful hymnal. These moments are still few and far between, and the rest of Ross' tales of pushing fall short of revealing whether his ascent to boss status is factual or purely fictional.

Most of the material just hovers around the same tempo, tone, lyrical style and sound dynamics, robbing the listener of any sort of emotional peaks or valleys that are so important when floating a double album. It's simply a shame that the execution of Cyr fails to match the naked ambition Corgan's concepts promised.

Diehard fans of the Brazilian band who rekindled their interest in the band with the return of Roots producer Ross Robinson will find Machine Messiah lacklustre, possibly even forgettable, when held up to Sepultura's better past work.

A good portion of Total Folklore finds Friel treading the same murky path, leaving the listener with brazen, barefaced ideas and shambling, barefoot execution.

Team Ghost and Fromageau have a number of good ideas, but the band's biggest downfall stems from the fact that they sometimes condense too many of these ideas into too small a space.

Many of the tracks, all recorded since 2007, echo the questionable cacophonic splurges of 2008's Skeletal Lamping through to this year's lacklustre Paralytic Stalks. But there are some respites.

On Pentagram, Gui Boratto seems uninspired, but worse, unsure of what made his music so inventive in the first place.

The inevitable has caught up with O'Brien, who finds himself struggling to stay afloat on The Art of Pretending to Swim. The self-produced record dives into murky waters in an ambitious attempt to incorporate an electronic flair to an already complete set of folk tunes.

Sadly, despite flashes of brilliance, fourth record Radlands more often finds Mystery Jets operating on autopilot.

Despite many of the songs not building on the promise of the opening track, there is a sense of playfulness to the proceedings. You can practically hear Grohl grinning throughout as he indulges in some thrash metal cosplay. Unfortunately, it sounds like Dream Widow was more fun to record than it is to listen to.

Firepower is exactly what you would expect of Priest almost 50 years into their career. It's well-produced, expertly executed and understandably quotidian.

If more attention was paid to crafting better songs, rather than just sounds, Howl would have been much more fulfilling.

While the sound splashed across Wrecked is quite gripping (exceptionally gritty electronic that heavily works the industrial angle), the lack of distinction within, and contrast between, tracks makes it tough to get behind.

The lower your expectations, the better it will seem.

Legend is content to adopt a croonerific sound that doesn't challenge existing soul genre parameters in the least. That's fine, in theory, but rather yawn-worthy in execution.

The album is ridiculously fun and surprising, in that it sounds like much older UK electronic rooted in the present. What's quite out of place though are the distinctly lagging tracks that dawdle across the album.

A pleasant enough album, but when it comes down to it, Toy are much more appealing when they soar rather than tread water.

Despite poor production choices and lazy song structures, Pop Smoke's energy and solo spurts of brilliance won't allow for this stale posthumous release to tarnish his legacy.

This compilation feels totally unnecessary and impersonal, neither satisfying for old fans nor will it convince new ones of the band's greater legacy. They deserve better.

Comedown Machine is a more even effort [than Angles], but it lacks any show-stopping moments, allowing the forgettable songs to blend together.

Ununiform is an uneven album at best, showing that Tricky isn't bereft of ideas but was lacking the fire to properly flesh them out.

He's unable to find his footing, whether as a blues, soul or country singer, and the end results are a bland pastiche of all three.

Despite her great pipes however, the band's arrangements make much of Born of the Sun feel like amateur hour at Medieval Times. A talented producer would be able to focus on McCarthy's strong voice and balance some of the band's more freewheeling tendencies.

At over an hour in length, Teenage Emotions is more quantity than quality.

It's too long, sprawling and musically unappetizing for many to be willing to sit and digest as a whole. Rather than being a record that you listen to countless times, it's more like an autobiographical book that you read once out of curiosity and shelve simply for the sake of collection.

Although its brighter moments ("Adam and Eve," "Cops Shot the Kid") save it from being a complete fall from grace, overall Nasir is disappointingly heedless. Hopefully his next effort is more honest.

The production is clean and the tunes, as mentioned, sweet, but this is a sugary confection that's bound to get lost in the candy store.

Where Wake in Fright felt lean and energetic, The Long Walk is bloated and tired, not so much a fulfilling, purposeful exercise as a slow crawl to nowhere in particular.

The fact that each member of the band produced their own tracks comes off like a harbinger to why Endless Dream simply doesn't work, ostensibly ending Peter Bjorn and John's secret winning streak.

Pangaea Ultima is a cleaner, sprawling affair, but one lacking the ingenuity of some of Moore's more esoteric works.

Experience neither recaptures past glories nor forges a new way forward, and while it's better than its predecessor, it nevertheless captures the sound of a legacy rock band stuck in neutral.

The problem isn't just that the result feels more like a collection of demos than a complete record; it's that the songs themselves are generally uninspired, and often feel unfinished despite being co-written, almost all of them, with top-notch songwriters.

At their best, the Men imbued borrowed styles with urgency and fervor. Drift attempts to conjure the same spirit, but it's too divided and derivative to be vital.

The surreal strings on "We Work Nights," the doubled percussion on "An English House" and the sultry, repetitive warble on closer "Reprise" give the release a much needed kick, but Half of Where You Live still lacks the strength it needs.

MOPN would have landed much better if it abandoned the balancing act between the past and the present in exchange for wholehearted embrace of Lopatin's current realities. Lopatin has proven to us that he can deliver hits; it's time that he believes it himself.

There are some good songs on Jesus Piece, but they're decent in spite of the Game, not because of him.

What Whitfield lacks in originality he makes up for with a tireless push to the end zone.

Evans tries to preserve authenticity by enlisting producers like Chucky Thompson, Stevie J and DJ Premier (who all worked with Biggie in life). It's an understandable move, but the album's production is simply too dated to resonate.

Immaculately produced and performed, it's hard to imagine Man of the Woods not being a hit, its tracks a steady stream for playlist fodder. But sound and feel are no substitute for soul.

While the second half of the album almost makes up for its flaws, it doesn't quite manage to make Compassion a memorable whole.

Fandango tries to revel in its excess and overreaches far too often to be considered a success.

The mixed bag nature of Don't Be Scared that is its downfall: a lack of consistency leads to the album sounding more like a DJ set than a cohesive record.

As a riff rock mood board, most of the album passes by nicely enough, with the occasional embarrassing lyric (the aforementioned refrain in "Must've Always Been a Thing," repetitions of "Ring dong / Ring-a-ding dong" on opener "The Dooms Day Bells") being the only moments that are actively unpleasant to listen to.

At its best, the album retreads familiar ground.

There's no question that The Stand-In is a step-up from her previous effort; her delivery and songwriting show a confidence that previously lacking. However, The Stand-In is no stand out.

What this trio from Philadelphia, PA are offering, in spite of their rough-hewn hipster image, is nothing new and can be traced back to Barenaked Ladies through Simon & Garfunkel, Crosby, Stills & Nash and even the Kingston Trio.

"I'll Fight for Your Life" makes up for its unremarkable melodies with a percussive synth pulse, while the charming "Head of the Horse" is a curveball ballad from a project that has always been better known for upbeat pop tunes. Beyond that, however, this album is a 50-minute slog.

There's no doubt that, technically speaking, Swollen Members are better now than they've ever been, but a decade-and-a-half in, they need to find new material.

Standout tracks "Chlorine" and "Round" start the album off strong, but the downside is that the rest of the album feels drawn out, with more valleys than peaks. If you're not actively listening to each track, it can feel like the album is a long interlude that fades into the background.

On the whole, the album suffers from a bout of dullness, with the majority of tracks mingling in a grey area, struggling to push through their apparent amalgamation and stand on their own.

Sleepwalkers has some very good songs, but often comes off as cheesy and predictable--if a melody sounds familiar, it's probably because Fallon has sung one just like it before.

From start to finish, the album is a mix of complete swamp-rock songs, only to be broken up by confusing, short bursts of instrumentation.

You can't fault µ-ZIQ for branching out of the staid EDM clichés that oversaturate the electronic music landscape, but unfortunately, Chewing Corners is a little too disorganised.

WALLS sounds safe and comfortable. The songs coast along with a mellow fluidity that serves to establish a decidedly mature, if complacent, sound.

It's an interesting concept for an album, but it falls a bit flat.

Moments of souled-out bliss are only temporary, pushed aside by jarring, more aggressive fare reportedly stemming from his interest in the music of Death Grips.... These louder tracks are done no favours by the process by which they were engineered: compressed and distorted in a fashion that leaves Tyler's vocals largely inaudible.

It isn't inherently bad, but it isn't great either.

Over ten tracks and 40 minutes, Post Tropical never picks up any steam, never comes to life. Mere gorgeousness is, it turns out, not quite enough to sustain a record.

The charm of the disconnected, breezy path that starts the album--seeming interludes punctuated by the odd story of a more solid, structured track--quickly wears thin when you realize said path meanders, the tracks mostly underdeveloped, only occasionally rolling into a bigger sound with tangible depth.

Beyond the overt gimmickry of the singles "Concrete" and "BLOODMONEY" (the latter sounds like she went rooting through Skrillex's trash), I Disagree is often surprisingly unchaotic.

It's a lack of originality that turns the sound stale rather quickly.

Walker is an exceptional blues artist at a time when there are few left, but on Hellfire, despite its volume, he comes off as frustratingly average.

Head Carrier sounds far more restrained and lifeless than it should be.

Wrangled lacks ambition.

The band maintain a proficiency at writing catchy riffs and intoxicating grooves, merging the likes of Sabbath with ZZ-Top, but the feeling of repetition, combined with a lack of impact like they used to have, may leave fans wanting.

While there are some standout cuts--most notably the Avalanches' Afro remake of "I'm a Cuckoo"--much of The Third Eye Centre should have remained on the cutting room floor.

Unlike their past efforts, though, Silver/Lead is sluggish when it needs to be spry and dull when it ought to be meditative.

Forever is essentially a pop record, but while there's no denying that some of these songs in isolation fulfill the catchy promise of that genre, there's just not enough to elevate this above being a decent debut and not much else.

Her move away from pop music on The Lonely, The Lonesome & The Gone signals a deeper understanding of the country, blues and soul genres, but there aren't enough ideas here to make it succeed.

Tempest is a mixed bag of ideas at best, many of which would be better served by someone like Tom Waits.

This album feels like they need to take another walk in the trees to reconnect with their namesake.

Musostics isn't an unpleasant listen by any means, but it doesn't have the same kind of warmth and charm as his pals' music.

Couple the simultaneously sparse and noisy production with the overall scant running time, and the album unfortunately fails to leave an impression, especially in an area of music that has become more and more saturated since the band's 2018 breakthrough.

The current release of the album otherwise known as Donda 2 — is a noticeably unfinished album. ... Not that the album is unfinished to the point it's entirely unsatisfying; there are clear winners here.

The lack of development and subtlety is a frequent problem for the album.

It's not time to write Porcelain Raft off, but Remiddi needs to bring more ideas to LP number three.

Wild Beasts have always been strong performers, but only when seemingly unaware; by tackling the trope of hubris-laden bro rockers, Boy King finds them becoming the butt of their own jokes, with little more than mindless dance tracks to show for it.

For a 13-track album, the majority is forgettable and doesn't live up to the colourful elements of Lewis's previous releases. The lack of energy on Caer leaves a longing for more originality and creativity he has once given us.

Nothing's going to change the fact that Hatebreed are the biggest hardcore band in the world, but this album doesn't do enough to win back those who got them there. Instead, it focuses too much on appealing to those who keep them there.

Weighing of the Heart plays out as the soundtrack to a forgotten '90s B movie; novel, but not great.

There's relatively no atmosphere and groove this time around, and many of the songs seem forced, as if he's tried to ensure this one goes mainstream.

The tracks begin to bleed together way before the halfway point of the album and there's not a single surprise to be had throughout.

Conscious is merely competent--never truly exciting.