They write some good tunes, and they have some appropriately strident abuse for lyrics. But there’s not enough for an album.

Even at their blandest, and truthfully their dumbest, AC/DC make a compelling case why they're so good at this rock n' roll business. As it turns out, the secret is to stick to the formula until their dying day.

While it provokes some unpredictable moments, it's heartbreaking to listen to such tuneful moments of inspiration buried beneath towering stacks of old debris, and not the vintage kind.

Actress’s music always seemed like meticulously detailed sketches that came to life and immersed the listener, but while Ghettoville comes off as an interesting sketchbook of ideas, it rarely transcends that to become something greater.

Stuck in his salad days, the problem isn't so much what Wiley is doing, it's what everyone else has done in the interim.

Ultimately, it’s disappointing to see how The Menzingers are continuing an unremarkable plan of action when they should be challenging themselves even further.

It’s a familiar story to hear DIY bands frustratingly avoiding their past strengths once they secure some proper studio time; both records have a more “mature” sound than their lo-fi predecessors, but I find the songwriting largely forgettable.

Throughout, a spewing, pandering vitriol taints a band whose vivacity seems to be wearing thin.

Although the record’s themes are well-worn, her approach to sound remains pure.

It boasts some of the band's most emotionally charged material, but just like all their efforts, it requires bearing some stiff, docile guitar melodies to discover some of its finer points.

Wolf sometimes succeeds in emulating Kate Bush’s knack for combining the utterly bizarre with godlike musicianship, but sometimes he falls short.

When things work, Moolchan sounds confident taking on new influences and playing around with them until they fit within her playful vision. Mostly, though, Highway Hypnosis is frustrating in that it feels more like a collection of potentially good but unfinished ideas that lack the focus and imagination needed to make them work.

The album is the sort of ridiculous over-commitment to a style that is appealing and fun to hear, even if it's not great.

It sounds like good musicians doing a rush job, kind of like Blood on the Tracks without the spellbinding genius.

Barring a few notable tracks, this debut from Snaith under the Daphni name, fails to coalesce into anything resembling the creative designs of his previous records.

If only Jones would also add some color to his verbatim accounts to match his minimal pop songs, then we would have a real contender in our hands.

Most significant is how amazingly catchy the album is. Sure, it might be a bit vacuous lyrically, but Dent May sure can write hooks.

What Nights possesses in skillful precision and tight musicianship it lacks in songwriting polish, though it’s easy to dismiss when it hits you with its triumphant highs.

Don’t get me wrong, Album’s best songs (Lust for Life, Laura, and Hellhole Ratrace) are utterly essential, but take these out of the equation and there’s really very little to get excited about. Unless you count the band’s back-story, that is.

Infinite Arms isn’t nearly as charming nor nearly as emotive as the band’s other work. It’s an image of a band that’s exhausted their aesthetics to a point of sterility, and it’s going to take a lot of soul-searching and reinvention to figure out where to go next.

Serfs Up! feels effortless for the wrong reasons--though Fat White Family's sheen of coolness and atmospheric moods almost hides a lack of songcraft, it's best suited as background music.

Only a couple of the tracks really resonate, even with repeated spins.

She’s made some phenomenal music in her career and a handful of songs on The Tortured Poets Department are welcome additions to her canon. These are sadly outnumbered by bland filler and compromised by an overwhelming sense of stasis.

Bedroom is an album of dynamics and contrasts with its biggest asset its heart; chipped, cracked or broken, naivety is replaced by genuine emotion. Sometimes it’s boring and sometimes it’s endearing.

It’s their most consistent outing since their debut, but it’s never much better than average. BRMC is a decent rock band, and if all we expect from them is fuzzed out garage jams they don’t disappoint.

Strapped's thirty-something minutes of southern California rock doesn't turn the page on anything new, but is still a worthy listen. The album holds true to the band's striped-down signature sound from their last two albums, with a sprinkling of a few stand out tracks.

The direction they took this time around is more scattershot than usual, amplified with generosity, but hopefully these new ideas will guide them to a more focused and inventive pursuit.

Pt.1 was such an exciting deviation for Foals that it would be disappoitning if it proved just a mere detour on their way to producing empty, arena-sized rock. Here, they not only return to their formula, but ramp it up to dangerous levels. It’s brash, loud, and, ultimately, tiresome.