There's enough here to satiate fans--"I Don't Like Who I Was Then" is as good as their best work--but there's an underlying sense that for the first time, the Wonder Years have missed the mark.

GLUE will appeal to fans of '90s alternative rock who are looking for more, but will continue to alienate Boston Manor's longtime pop-punk-loving fans.

While highlight "The Glass" is an undisputedly heartbreaking acoustic-tinged ditty about living the rest of your life in someone's absence, the mid-LP tracks unfortunately do little more than fill obligatory spots on the Foo Fighters spectrum.

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.

It's a shame to find Grizzly Bear spinning their wheels.

A touch of '80s-style production, including occasional saxophone-as-emotional-beat, at times threatens to nudge things into a satirical mash-up of Dire Straits/Bruce Hornsby hits, but they ride the right side of that precipice.

The production is on point and the rhyme patterns are above average, but there's a distinct lack of cohesion.

A raucous centrepiece it is not. A soundtrack for a nightcap alone though? Absolutely.

These songs feel ripped from sets you'll most likely never see, as the technical skill of Villalobos conspicuously reminds the listener of the less boring record it could have been.

Gone are the crushing riffs and transitions, replaced with subdued progressions. It's a real blight on much of the record, unable to keep the listener enthralled or interested.

Though not nearly as essential as their first two albums, Long Live finds Atreyu reaching higher than they have in almost a decade.

Though the production lags at times, Wiley's performance overall is still a fitting conclusion to his groundbreaking journey in music.

Carved into Stone is a bit hard to warm up to, but it finds the band reaching out and, in doing so, writing their catchiest material since they snapped our fingers and necks so many moons ago.

The record packs familiar Function trademarks--industrial themes, hissing white noise, acid loops and retro rhythms--but the ideas fall short of reinvigorating the legacy established after Sandwell Disctrict's full-length, Feed Forward, landed in 2010.

Although the album doesn't repeat a verse-chorus-verse-chorus-breakdown formula, it also lacks distinct or memorable riffs.

While the artistry is evident in his picks, Moodymann's execution here could've use a more deft hand.

Where their last record, Black Masses, sped, this record swings.

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."

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

Kadavar attempt to create something that is both memorable and cool here, but despite all its hooks and melodies, Berlin ultimately falls short.

Wrangled lacks ambition.

Wall of Eyes is an album of background music, a cinematic compilation that feels like a collection of songs that just weren’t good enough to be on its predecessor. It’s too jammy, too undercooked, too unedited — an overextended comedown without the requisite high.

Clarity, her debut album, falls short of capturing the breadth of Petras's rarity, excluding a few crystalline moments.

As the ninth addition to the Wilco canon, Star Wars is a vessel for a few impressive tunes, another respectable--if just a little uninspired--step for a band that continues to unapologetically evolve

Likewise checks all the boxes of a "good" album, but it's also a bit boring. It's too much a showcase of Quinlan's lyrical acumen, which is incisive, but the record doesn't strike a visceral chord.

While the band's attempts to recapture their old glory have typically felt like attempts to give fans what they've wanted from them--and the idea that of a bunch of old white men tying their authenticity to their black cultural forbears feels something like an ugly metaphor for this mess of a year--this is the Stones making music for themselves.

The result is a listening experience that demonstrates a capacity for intimacy, but more often acts as an intermission or interruption to an otherwise steady pace.

The result is flat and congealed, lacking danger.

Lyrically, Newman continues to play games that amuse him, but the logical and narrative backflips might be too much this time.

The drums are unquestionably positioned as the star and as a result, Harmonic feels much more like a jam session crossed with a vanity project than a genuine album.

It's opulent and immaculately composed but lacks the strong perspective that's usually central to FJM's work.

Analog Fluids of Sonic Black Holes does not always work, but in the moments where it does, it is bound to sit in your stomach for a long time.

Doris isn't the classic many anticipated, but it is a strong, uncompromised debut from a very talented young rapper. For now, that's enough.

There is also a vibrato-drenched version of "Moon River" that seems more of an afterthought than a statement, but even that hangs in the air quite well. There is some pretty astonishing virtuosity as well as clear thought, and that's what sets this record and Orcutt apart from the excesses of technique. The man makes music as well as notes.

This is a forward-looking release by a group still searching for reverence.

While the narrative correctly serves to examine our relationship with machines, and the execution feels as precise as something purely from the world of artificial intelligence, A Separation of Being struggles to find a sonic identity, which might make this a polarizing listen.

The album starts off relatively strong, with hard-hitting choruses in "Narrow Mouth" and upbeat, catchy verse lines in "Magnolia," but lose momentum quickly thereafter.

You can't help but wish he'd leaned into the dive bar clatter and freewheeling wildness that always feels just at the periphery of his music. As it is, And the Wind acts as a solid addition to your deep-summer-backyard-beer-drinking soundtrack — sometimes that's all you need.

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

Heaven Is for Quitters follows no pattern except that of disconnect, so while many of the tracks work as they are, it's far from a cohesive album.

The Next Day is a good latter-day Bowie record, worthy of at least a few listens, but since it's so evocative of his earlier, better work there's little reason not to put on Scary Monsters or Heroes instead.

With so many of its songs employing fade-outs, Siberia also has this palpably unplanned feeling, which doesn't always pay off.

The genre is wide, but Stapleton's Room is so narrow and old-fashioned that, despite its quality songwriting, it feels stifling at times.

It's a logical continuation of 2007's slick Cassadaga (less so 2011's rock-inclined The People's Key) — but given the renaissance Oberst has enjoyed with his side-projects in recent years, it doesn't quite live up to Bright Eyes' lofty name.

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.

It's exciting to see artists try and change and evolve their sound, so while it doesn't always work here, Seth Bogart definitely shows enough promise to make one wonder what future non-Hunx recordings from Bogart will sound like.

While this release really doesn't break any boundaries, it's beautiful and doesn't demand much more than good feelings. In these times, that's no small thing.

Goldenheart functions as a hypnotic aural distraction, but little more.

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

It's not an entirely off-putting mix, but it's only after a few songs that one starts to get a handle on what Branan's up to.

Rubinos's major folly on Una Rosa seems to be her desire to push her craft forward and to challenge herself. And while that may be the main ingredient for truly groundbreaking music, she forgot to draw up a blueprint beforehand.

Molina once seemed poised to become a reliable purveyor of sticky throwback pop. But absent the visceral thrill of his early work, or anything new or profound to say about grief and heartache, Kill the Lights offers little more than the sum of its influences.

While Savage Mode II is by no means a lacklustre album, it may not be the exact product their fans hoped for.

Ultimately, beatmaker Tommy "TBHits" Brown outshines the veterans, co-producing two of the record's more engaging tracks--"Better Off" and "Goodnight n Go"--which are inexplicably relegated to the end of the record. Those songs manage to accomplish what the rest of the album attempts: bringing a new fire to pop-R&B's familiar formulas.

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

Though wholly pleasant to listen to, The Wilderness occasionally dips into background music territory. And while it features some of Explosions' most exploratory music to date, the record is dragged down by passages that, despite the astro-nautical theme of the track titles, occasionally fail to reach the stratospheric heights Explosions are known for.

While Container doesn't sound like he's challenged himself creatively on his most recent album, listeners who have yet to hear his indistinguishable, ear-splitting sound will find some auditory excitement.

For a band that's spun fanciful yarns from the farthest reaches of time and space and the inner recesses of their own minds, this grounded perspective could be another interesting change of direction. But for now, it feels more like a retreat.

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

Information is a decent effort that unfortunately doesn't quite bite as hard as it should.

It's noble to see Iron & Wine trying to take his songs into a different direction, but it's a shame that he lacks the confidence to allow these great songs to show off their personality without the help of inane studio glossiness.

Thank Your Lucky Stars is definitely a treat--we shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, as another new Beach House album is always welcome--but arriving so soon after Depression Cherry, it is bound to get lost in the shadow of its predecessor because frankly, it isn't nearly as compelling.

While Eight Gates seems mostly germinal and is not the ideal introduction to Molina's work, fans will likely forgive the album's inchoateness and simply appreciate another dollop of the artist's distinct melancholia — nine tunes that underscore his attunement to suffering, inconsequence, and the brutality of the corporeal world.

The Sun's Tirade is pleasant, but it's not timeless.

All A Man Should Do is the band's first album in three years and could do with more of the tenacity that has made them crowd favourites, and less of the self-pity.

Wistful and introverted themes abut against a handful of more fraught moments, where the memories turn from monochromatic to colourful clusters, like autumnal avalanches of melody.

That's not to say Young Blood is bad, but mediocrity shouldn't attract attention so fast.

A Series of Shocks shoots for a different kind of looping hypnotism but lands slightly short.

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.

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.

Stetson does an admirable job finding ways to maintain a tone of persistent unease, but his compositional skills are tested by the film's reliance on abstract horror with occasional visceral shocks over any kind of concrete story or consistent character beats. Detached from the visuals it makes for a pretty bumpy ride.

Despite its "six years in the making" descriptor, Allegiance and Conviction feels more like an EP of collected experiments toward a new, more realized work. A satisfying stop along the way to the main attraction.

Reassemblage is compelling, sure, but perhaps only for those who have the patience or curiosity for an exploration of the sonic predecessors of electronica.

Richard remains a testament to boundary-pushing, genre bending and expectation-shattering art, though Second Line's tempered grandiosity ultimately leaves her ambition underserved.

Too often, they rely on imitation of their influences, rather than pushing the genre forward in a compelling way.

If you can get past the haughty lyrics on "Fickle Sun (ii)," for instance, then its minimalist piano notes will surely impress. And yet, even that song's musicianship sounds downright conventional compared to preceding tracks "Fickle Sun (i)" and opening track "The Ship," a 21-minute composition that begins with solemn synth moans like a distant vessel's horn.

It's all good, but none of it is great. Still, if this is merely the first taste of an eventual vault series of releases from Townes Van Zandt's musical archive, it's more than enough to make us hunger for more.

Like much of Willie's work these days, Band of Brothers might not bring many new fans into the fold, but it's sure to please those already there.

The album is slippery, but perhaps not in ways that are interesting enough to memorable, and definitely not as much as his previous work.

Rival Sons are a great band with a great sound; the only thing they're guilty of is doing what they do really well, but then exhausting it over and over again.

Untame the Tiger feels more like something that was worked away at as a healing distraction, put down and picked back up at irregular intervals. The album’s first half generates a positive charge that tapers off toward its conclusion, but Timony’s sly guitar magic is always there to provide a jolt of life.

It's evident that the two were having a good time recording Hokey Fright, and though the album isn't always successful, it's encouraging to see creative individuals ignore genre boundaries in order to bridge gaps.

What we get on Psychedelic Pill are stream-of-consciousness attempts ("Driftin' Back"), along with musings on the grim reality of old age ("Ramada Inn") and the regrets that come with it ("Walk Like A Giant").

Apart from the uprated production, there's not a great deal to offer to listeners.

Stalley showcases eclectic strengths on this release, but focus certainly isn't one of them.

It's upbeat, fashionable and sounds great in the background when you're only half paying attention. Rather than seizing his moment in the spotlight, Parker sounds like he's just enjoying the journey.

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.

Civil Disobedience functions well as a single purpose stoner rock record, but fails to offer anything new or exciting.

If you're not familiar with Kinski, you may find yourself expecting vocals to kick in, but when they do on the next track, "Flight Risk," the skeezy, barfly style feels tossed off and has a cheapening effect on the song. Conversely, "Operation Negligee" features the most satisfying vocals on the album.

It will always be a pleasure to hear Ritter's songs, to spend some time in his warm, rich universe. But he needs a new band, badly.

Things Take Time, Take Time is an exceedingly nice-sounding record — but with almost no quotable zingers, it's hard not to shake the sense that something is missing, is missing.

Maybe it's the tedium of a career spanning nearly two decades, or a shred of complacency settling in after winning the highly coveted Mercury Prize in 2016, but Skepta seems subdued on Ignorance. A decent album, but not his best.

The influence of R&B is like a silky-smooth cloud over the proceedings, raining drops of liquid gold that permeate the music. Those looking for the energy of Da Trak Genius might be disappointed by the polish, but true footwork junkies will find shining moments worth drooling over

The album has all the material necessary for a great release; it's simply lacking in its arrangement and execution.

Sheff's lyrics, while typically verbose but economic, are more rambling here, but it's refreshing to hearing him cut loose.

On her fourth album, inventive and demented singer/songwriter/guitar hero Marnie Stern whips up a potent batch of quirky, invigorating and, at times, beautiful new material.

At its worst, the effect is soporific, but if you're looking for a comforting, cushiony soundscape, Cala is good company. It's when Regan opts for crisper, more invigorated sounds, though, that the album really shines.

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.