It’s a good comeback for De La Soul, and there’s plenty to really enjoy here, but there are too many occasions where tracks loiter for too long, not outstaying their welcome as such, just not doing a great deal with it.

FRIGS half-convincingly communicate their agitation over piercing shards of noise. The band are at their best when the rhythm section takes charge.

She’s made an album for embracing yourself, your past and whatever lies ahead, and having fun while doing so. Her music doesn’t sound like the future. Even better, it sounds like the present.

Three tracks and two genre-shifts in, it’s a wonder how well the pieces fit together. Vu’s voice is a connecting thread, a honeyed contralto as distorted and disconnected as her affect, doubled onto itself and pulsing with uncertainty.

By utilizing a synth-based soundtrack just as organic, emotional, and unadulterated as Welsh’s voice and lyrics, Impersonator successfully matches man with machine and gives each an equally powerful, equally human voice.

Bromst is an excellent followup to a slightly more-excellent debut, and proof that Deacon isn't going anywhere.

Kehlani replaces any hint of controlled pop presence with a lowkey, gloomy vibe that doesn’t suit her strengths at all. Her raspy voice is now placed upon liquid synth bass and irritating trap production, leaving her songwriting to be the record’s only strength.

In a way, we’re witnessing the rest of the evolution that began on "Son," as Molina experimented with the ways the human voice could be manipulated electronically, as an instrument.

Each track sounds as fresh and as punchy as the last, and it is instantly infectious.

The weaknesses are outweighed by the strengths considerably, and so shouldn’t detract from another impressive collection; how a band can keep producing music of relative significance in such a conveyor belt fashion is truly mystifying.

Everything Ever Written even ends with a pleasant curveball, the gorgeous Utopia, an illuminating reverie that poignantly illustrates the measures people take to adapt to their surroundings in spite of the final outcome.

It’s a summer record if ever there was one--with even the opening track being named Sun’s Out. It’s a great introduction to the record, where a punchy snare, an uncomplicated bassline and a heat-warped guitar lick combine so easily that it takes a few of Drew Auschermann’s lyrics to be delivered before you even realize they’re there.

What It Means To Be Left-Handed is amply adorned with Pierce's distinctive improvisatory drum stylings, with each rim hit and snare taking on a melodic spirit of its own, whilst never intruding. His kit-work is a baffling contradiction of smooth and jagged, providing a solid backdrop whilst playfully interacting with dense acoustic guitar textures or washy post-rock atmospheres.

BBNG have always been fluent and sonically articulate, but enlisting the talents of suitable vocalists to thicken their smokescreen strengthens their suit.

This album is a great one, and proof that the band are able and willing to develop and grow their music.

An unfair degree of skepticism can surround a band like The Hives for firing in all cylinders well into their forties, but there's no denying their commitment and passion to staying in character on and off the stage.

They've never let us down before, and they don't here, as frustrating as it is to hear the band fall just short of crafting something incredible. All the songs stand up, but the album loses steam and focus and begins to drag by the end of its 65 minute running time.

Despite the moments where you feel like you're having a bad trip, there's a deranged brilliance on Castlemania that's difficult to ignore.

The problem is that Ishibashi isn't idiosyncratic enough to make this a memorable record... That said, he gets it so right on Manchester it's unbelievable.

The welsh trio have taken their time to reach this point, but with The Big Roar they have taken their opportunity with great style, producing what I think is a mature, clever and exceptionally listenable record from start to finish--and that's a mighty thing.

After 35 minutes filled with one kinetic power-chord to the next with the littlest variation, Typhoons spreads itself too thin.

Most of Ambulance tends to cast a shadow on their most riotous tendencies, but there are still surprises to be found; the more sanguine Blair Dagger almost sounds out of place with its salacious tremolo strains, though it also highlights the band at their most playfully engaged.

While it seemingly ends in the same place it starts (Bognanno singing on loop “I don’t know what I wanted” isn’t really a positive ending), this is Bully’s best project yet, lacing all of their marvelous qualities into a candid and catchy molotov cocktail.

Fullbrook mottles sonic accouterments throughout with graceful finesse, though sometimes at the expense of songs that dissolve into a foggy blur.

The material is strong but rarely achieves greatness.

Its searing synths and chopped vocals can feel unjustified as a whole, but the songcraft is strong and the style supports some of its best moments.

More so than Wounded Rhymes or Youth Novels, I Never Learn is a record for a radio-loving crowd who wouldn’t have a problem with the lack of variety in content matter or the relative sameness in sound and composition.

Object 47 is proof that Wire’s edge remains as sharp as ever.