While half the fun is spotting the differences between the original and the remake, Where Have You Been All My Life? is also an excellent intro to Villagers, a summary of five years in one album.

The more conventional pop/rock tracks detract from his eccentric impulses and feel like compromises.

The album could've been distinctive but instead lacks depth or the transporting quality of her imaginative lyrics.

Tarantino's habit of including interludes of dialogue is especially distracting here, and it's hard to get around the discomfort of white actors casually throwing around the n-word. Morricone and Tarantino super-fans will enjoy it, but it's an uneven listen for the rest of us.

Most of its 10 songs last just two or three minutes. It's too good to be a mixtape and too short to be an album, raising the stakes even higher for the album proper.

It's early morning or late-night music, and more than capturing a specific place and aimless time, A New Place 2 Drown is a soundtrack for a slowed-down pace of life.

Amidst the crushing avant-metal, we also get nods to classic rock, elegant instrumental work, searing lyrics and atmospheric keyboards.

Although there's cosmic energy in the music's upward trajectory, it comes from a decidedly earthbound live-off-the-floor approach rather than meticulously sculpted production.

It's devoid of merriment and singalongs, and there's something refreshing--if not reassuring--about having a soundtrack for indulging your inner Scrooge.

Even with quick, dense and precisely rhythmic flows, his rapping is like verbal dancing. Its joyous and romantic moments make the album feel more like a thematic refinement than a musical one.

Daniel Lopatin's newest Oneohtrix Point Never album is one of the more unique, powerful recordings to come out this year. It's uncomfortable but distinctly compelling.

It's a holiday album that actually leaves you wanting more.

It's a mind-bogglingly superb testament to an artist at peak power.

A Folk Set Apart isn't where you'd go to contextualize McCombs, but it exhibits his dynamism.

The dynamics seem tired: boom leads to bliss and back to boom again. It's more of the same harsh, ambient wallpaper (peeling) stuff.

The murky production sucks out some of the dynamics, but a few extra-spirited tracks push above the rest.

Bub's knack for whimsical, 8-bit bleep-bloop electronic is apparent, and in addition to a few purrs or meows here and there, her magic shines in the arrangements.

It's experimental and improvisational but familiar. When she puts her psychedelic soul spin on the trappy drums of today (what she calls trap&B), it's the sound of an artist embracing change and all the new possibilities and complications that go with it.

It's consistently uplifting and bright, and its best moments feature powerful orchestral sweeps, a surprisingly adept disco hook and even some gospel. But the lyrics are often so cringe-worthy that A Head Full Of Dreams comes off like that one friend of yours who's so positive you want to punch him.

Yet for a singer/songwriter who has one of the most emotive voices on the charts and mesmerizes live, the album lacks a certain swagger, thanks to super-slick pop production.

There's an enigmatic quality to his rapid-fire narratives, which bounce between composed and freestyle. And yet Bleeds is also clearly one of his most dynamic, intimate and humble artistic efforts, revealing more with every listen.

A few tunes are forgettable (Baby Rocking Medley, Hobo's Lullaby), but for the most part the album is full of gorgeous harmonies and refreshingly sparse instrumentation.

The amoebic versions of Nirvana songs sound only unfinished and strange. If the goal was to render Cobain an artsy oddball more than a rock god with a Midas touch, then mission accomplished.

Product is Sophie's debut LP, collecting four previously released singles plus four new ones in a concise introduction to a producer who has quickly crafted a style and perspective all his own.

The songs are not so much about love as the memory of love and, accordingly, there's a chasm between her aggressive vocal runs and the cautiously generalist lyrics, especially on the maudlin latter half.

The acerbic kiss-off Love Yourself feels like an honest stab at subverting the standard breakup ballad, but elsewhere his lyrics are overly concerned with righteousness and keeping things PG-rated.

Whereas Xen had the odd, satisfyingly familiar beat pattern, Mutant is even more punk. It dives headlong into an emotional abyss and proceeds with a rhyme or reason that's up to listeners to determine.

Despite coming in at 19 tracks, the album lacks a searing song like Politically Correct, which Jeezy released free during his involvement in the recent Million Man March. He's come a long way, but we may have to wait until the next term to see his full political potential.

If Country Agenda had a chorale of voices on each tune, the contrast would allow Bleeker's to stand out more.

You find yourself wishing for even one bonus track reuniting some of J Dilla's alumni artists over an unreleased beat.

The result is a collection of upbeat indie rock songs that brings out the very best in both players.

No No No's a pleasantly nostalgic experience, but ultimately it feels insubstantial.

Mood is the driving force, making it function best as background music, if occasionally forgettable.

The songs on Elaenia sound closer to psychedelic jazz and post-rock, and feel more like improvised jam sessions than carefully sequenced electronic music. It's a risky strategy, but the gamble pays off big.

Art Angels is a major victory for deep weird.

To this day, Dylan regards the studio as an artifact-making machine and not a magical chamber freezing definitive versions of his songs. The Bootleg Series has bolstered this opinion before but never presented his creative process so nakedly. For any music fan, this is pure treasure.

Ritter draws liberally from the well of himself, others and the Bible, and it's a fun ride.

Hanson artfully pits his airy vocals and kaleidoscopic harmonies (there's a pronounced Kinks vibe) against thick, sludgy guitar riffs and crashing drums.

Li's productions tend toward a functional minimalism that works well for DJ singles but to some ears might lack the dynamics expected from albums. If you can get past that, though, Under The Same Sky holds together as a compelling exploration of a theme.

A solid offering that could have been improved by swapping some of the remixes for the originals.

Despite two-thirds of the album taking risks by adding everything from saxophone to opera, the final handful of songs feel like filler. Still, Evermore: The Art Of Duality largely delivers.

Though minimalist, it's not all austere.

Fuzz do one thing--creepy, heavy fuzz rock--but do it really well.

There's relative lack of confrontational left turns and endurance-testing meltdowns, which might divide long-time fans over whether this is Wolf Eyes' most boring album or their most "mature."

It's a near-constant barrage of fist-pumpers built to fight back the sunrise, from the opening pummel of Throwaways to the Replacements-indebted pop power of closer Dirty Lights.

Half Moon Run's embracing of bands they love (Radiohead, large swaths of Montreal's breakout mid-00s scene) make much of Sun Leads Me On sound familiar. But it's not so bad to be visited by old friends.

Sequels rarely outdo the original, and despite The Game naming Kendrick Lamar his successor years ago, The Documentary 2 and 2.5 prove he's far from over.

Sequels rarely outdo the original, and despite The Game naming Kendrick Lamar his successor years ago, The Documentary 2 and 2.5 prove he's far from over.

Their imperfections blare through your speakers, as do the clanging discofied hi-hats, nervy guitar lines and jagged, boy/girl shouted vocals. And yet it satisfies in a way similar to seeing the final pages of your fanzine come spitting through a photocopier.

Impressively, the album was recorded in a day, and it swells with atmosphere.

Bernard Sumner's rhymes are still a bit cutesy and obvious, but, as ever, the same old quibbles take a backseat when the pop is this solid.

This time around he's found his soul. It's in his phrasing, his rhythms, the occasional Hammond organ punctuation and sultry balladry.

Newsom's working with a darker palette of colours here, and in all respects--her ideas, musicianship and vocals--is evidently a master.

Practically every bar the 21-year-old spits is full of fiery indignation, aimed not just at exposing (and undermining) entrenched social hierarchies, but at the insecurities that might also hold her back.

Listening is like slowly sinking into a warm bath, then gradually adding rose petals, bubbles, arsenic. But Majical Cloudz never let you drown.

In terms of brightness and accessibility, the album feels like an extension of their breakout record, 2008's Microcastle. Yet it's clear the band has matured in the intervening years--and they're better for it.

The hype has reached a dangerous level. Which makes it oh so sweet that Sore delivers.

This is music to lose yourself in.

The most poignant moments involve simple memories.

Shannon Shaw's heart-in-throat vocals and the Clams' joyous abandon take hold right away and rip breezily but dramatically through 13 lovely new songs.

The results are indisputably unique, but the project often feels more like a collection of intriguing experiments than a proper album.

Things mostly stay low-key and subtle, with Ejstes's guitar growing righteously wild just once, on En Dag På Sjön, one of several instrumentals.

The Agent Intellect is a multi-layered, emotive powerhouse of a record.

It's the ballads--a side of her repertoire that had taken a back seat to forgettable chart-chasers--that show Jackson's at her vocal and songwriting best.

A contemplative but intense listen.

RUFF is Born Ruffians’ strongest album to date. With gritty atmospherics that closely resemble their magnetic live show, the album is less polished and slick than 2013’s Birthmarks.

The production’s grittier qualities suggest heavy emotions lie beneath his sardonic facade, but the sense that Grant feels liberated in middle age is what comes across most strongly.

It’s nice to see a seminal, hugely influential band given their dues (and then some) after the fact. But it’s equally disappointing to see them fall short of the hyperbolic over-hype.

It’s exceptionally diverse, especially for hard rock.

Caracal is consistently good but also feels manicured and safe.

The album would feel more complete if they’d included at least one nod to the warped pop music that made them famous.

Surrounded by blunt-force catharsis and brandishing some clever, caustic wordplay (like rhyming Lil Boosie with Susan Lucci), Blanco manages to be a pure delight as a rapper, even if he isn't calling himself one.

This means there are fewer musical surprises, though one comes when Martin Doherty takes over lead vocals for a song, seemingly out of nowhere. It makes Mayberry’s return to the mic even sweeter.

Some might prefer she stick with her usual skewering of gender roles, but that genuine anger lends a new seriousness and realness to even her silliest verses.

Occasionally Half Free can sound dense to the point of being vexing, but its vivid imagery and striking melodies keep Remy’s more self-indulgent tendencies grounded in a classic pop sensibility.

Some take a little while to hit their sweet spot, like the middling That’s Life, Tho (Almost Hate To Say). But when Vile hits those hazy, beautiful peaks, he reminds us that the untamed wilderness of modern Americana is still his backyard.

Holter confidently and impressively takes her music wherever she wants.

Whereas her last album had a gently psychedelic and live-off-the-floor feel, Honeymoon plays it safer with “cinematic” arrangements occasionally pumped up (but not excessively so) with modern drum sounds.

When Drake swoops in to pick up the thread, his clear, articulated voice is so much more animated than Future’s that the impact is jarring.... Occasionally the two conjure interesting spaces between underground murk and pop-star sheen (Live From The Gutter, Scholarships), and the tension, as they adapt to each other, is compelling.

Nichols's gravelly vocals are more immediate and heartfelt than ever, especially on the dark, ruefuI I Woke Up In New Orleans, about self-destructive alcoholism. Lighter subject matter works less well (the pleasant ditty I'm In Love With A Girl, the lacklustre Throwback No. 2) but has enough southern soul to keep things interesting.

Powers's vocals, which still possess his signature nasal tone, are more upfront and unflinching this time. Yet for all this newfound confidence and prowess, that special emotional punch of a Youth Lagoon song is missing.

The album makes every effort to showcase the band's deep back catalogue, and represents their second coming--it speaks to the new generation of fans they've gained. There are worse ways to be remembered.

The way Ought confront modern bleakness is understandably disaffected but ultimately moving and celebratory, in the idealistic tradition of punk.

Pagans In Vegas may not be the strongest entry in the Metric canon, but the juxtaposition of Emily Haines's robot-girl vocals and pointed lyrics with dark yet hooky melodies remains a winning combination.

Despite its relatively minimal instrumentation, virtually every song here crackles and hums with distorted, altered familiarity.

Turkey is erratic, disjointed and full of loose garage swagger--in other words, classic Krol.

Stuff might not be a true follow-up to 2013's Fade, but it's an excellent follow-up to Fakebook 15 years later.

Scott goes for spacey sounds, stoner vibes and vocal filters, but despite the eclecticism, he's too elusive and bland for Rodeo to amount to a stylistic--let alone a subversive--statement.

He is not to be dismissed--as a rapper, that is. k-os the pop singer though? Not good.

The record’s second half loses some immediacy, partly due to the hazy nine-minute epic Slow Death, but not enough to diminish the overall power.

As is Fidlar’s style, nearly all of the 14 songs are deceptively rollickin’, sounding more like a call to arms for bored suburban teenagers than the confessions of a 28-year-old man going through relapses.

The songs grow overly long at the end (the title track is a bit of a bore), though the album is consistently beautiful, if not always ear-catching.

Here twigs sounds even more poised and self-assured.

It's a downtempo album, especially its sleepier last third, but unlike its title suggests, it's not even a little depressing.

It's often a little too wacky and silly for its own good, but overall Personal Computer is a fun collection of weirdo funk pop.

The album is plagued by similarly banal lyrics about sex and drugs that make his playboy image feel all the more superficial.... More positively, the poppier musical strategy perfectly suits his boyish vocals, and he sounds more open and less pretentious than ever before.

There's little sonic variation, but that approach puts the focus where it should be: on the raw emotion of his singing.

While there's still mystery and misdirection on his new album, Poison Season is nakedly ambitious and utterly satisfying.