Vibes! is a disco-dappled, funk-fuelled electro-pop record. Each successive track brings a new and increasingly surprising 80s or 90s influence.

Where O was direct, raw and sober--cold and real in its confessional heartbreak--MFFF is aimlessly wistful and therefore more difficult to connect with.

He has a slightly Bob Dylanesque nasal whine on some songs, but at other times he slips into a soft Harry Nilsson croon, and fills his lyrics with vivid imagery and storytelling.

While several other songs get overly-orchestral. Sometimes the strings work really well, though, like on Lonely Desolation, fuelled by plucked violin.

Both emcees are incredibly versatile, switching up speed, style and tone, playing off each other one minute, one-upping each other the next.

What stands out more than the production is how consistently solid the album is, and how effective the lyrics and songwriting.

Nothing here is going to become a live-show staple, but after an underwhelming covers album earlier this year, fans will be pretty happy with this solid collection of original works.

Moments of softness and even warmth make Ghersi’s debut album a more varied, mature and easier listen than last year’s unforgiving &&&&& mixtape.

It’s a remarkably consistent dance album in a singles-based genre that usually fails when it comes to full-lengths.

Closer Oh Bummer, sung by drummer Greg Saunier, is a straightforward moody rock song--at least for the first three minutes, after which a striking doomsday-meets-Thriller breakdown erupts, reminding diehard fans that the band members are still weirdos but also keeping fair-weather listeners at a distance.

The quietness is also the project’s greatest weakness. At times, it leaves the album feeling incomplete or intrusive, as if we’re peeking in mid-thought.

Influenced by both the horrors of war and the looming threat of a nearby active volcano, A U R O R A is every bit as terrifying and brutal as those inspirations suggest, but also oddly hypnotic and contemplative.

The backup vocals that seem de rigueur on all Cohen albums are often unnecessary here and at their worst distracting when sung overtop the main attraction.

Kiesza’s so much better when she reels back her impressively ranging vocals to buttery.

With some exceptions, the songs truly take flight when Kindness cedes the mic to others, like Robyn or Kelela, whose voices add depth and suggestiveness--with an ease that eludes Bainbridge himself--elevating the album’s bland lovelorn sentiment.

For all the psychedelic brilliance, though, there is just as much noisy, self-impressed jamming that could have used editing.

The album swells, twists and turns, but rather than feeling helplessly meandering--a pitfall of the genre--it has an organic pacing that naturally starts and ends with each song.

No One Is Lost is the best kind of pop music: the universal made intimate (and vice-versa), one note at a time.

Most impressive is how the band synthesizes diverse instruments and rhythms without appropriating or grasping for novelty.

Irglová’s sophomore release, Muna (Icelandic for “to remember”), still has a delicate, emotive touch, though the overly sombre approach to her cinematic folk tunes makes for a somewhat unvaried listen over 51 minutes.

A natural progression from the delicately beautiful and strangely funky shoegazer dance pop of his last album, Swim.

The more steeped Hozier gets in Southern influence the better: slow, hymnal Work Song disguises a love ballad as a spiritual to blissful effect, a perfect showcase for his rich, resonant alto.

You’re Dead! is experimental and often ambient, but has so much attention to detail and raw talent (Herbie Hancock, Angel Deradoorian, Kendrick Lamar) that it could never be background music.

It’s their most accessible release in ages. The Melvins hit the riff-heavy heights of their foundational 90s records while freewheeling into plenty of experimentation (like chimes and accordions on The Bunk Up) and straight-up curiosities.

Understandably, he’s lost a little youthful edge: there’s no defiant Mr. Cab Driver, for example. But the songs hold up.

As a songwriter, singer, guitarist and bandleader, he’s self-assured, masterful and working from his own plain.

The constant dynamic shifts between intimate verses and extroverted choruses become a bit repetitive.

This album belongs chained up in the vaults.

Once you get past the air-horn headache that is opener Art Official Cage, the album settles into a pleasant rhythm that plays up His Purpleness’s knack for whispery weightlessness and deep grooves.

They’re perfectly produced but less captivating than the moments of emotional specificity.

The skittering electro-jazz rhythms, classical melodic complexity and mind-bending liquid acid funk are so unique that the closest comparisons you can make are to other Aphex Twin albums.

As Perfume Genius, American singer/songwriter Mike Hadreas has become synonymous with dark and emotionally heavy piano dirges that are as vulnerable as they are elegant. His third album contains many such songs, but also ratchets up the drama with help from co-producer Adrian Utley of Portishead.

Each song unfolds unhurriedly--the type of music that makes you dance into a state of cathartic calm rather than frenzy.

A chameleon with an endless stream of alter egos and the vocal chops to pull them all off.

Things gets off to a pleasant, somewhat meek start, but bongo-touched Clearer soon stands out for its forceful, head-turning melodies.

It’s nice to see Aiko atypically solo (Common provides the only rap feature), but more variety would be welcome.

Overall, it could use more joyous highs to balance out the lows. But still, his classical piano chops mean there’s never a dull moment--even with eight-and 10-minute tracks.

The departure of founding member guitarist/bassist Gwil Sainsbury hasn’t left them uninspired.

Sparkling arpeggios and sublime atmospherics undercut the loneliness and desperation in MacLean and Whang’s singing (the latter’s is the stronger of the two’s), giving tension to the confident and frequently beautiful production.

It’s satisfying enough to nod off to, even if it confirms suspicions that the band peaked at Pentastar.

It’s a sad irony that just as Earle has hit his stylistic stride--beautiful, pedal-steel-soaked country and poppier soul--he’s writing fewer tracks that’ll floor you.

Sebastien Grainger’s vocals show the benefit of spending the last few years touring with quieter bands, and listen closely for the subtle analog synth touches Jesse Keeler’s added behind his trademark wall-of-fuzz-bass sound.

The songs are excellent in their own right, but when they’re all lined up, Interpol start seeming like a one-trick pony.

While there are occasional flashes of brilliance on this 10th studio album, the missteps far outnumber the bright points.

Canada’s answer to the Fab Four, Sloan, are still charming after 23 years together.

Their third full-length is an 11-song collection of sincere, shimmering pop songs with golden hooks and unexpected hits of razor-sharp effects.

It’s refreshing to hear O sing so delicately--a contrast to the over-the-top persona of her slick main gig--we wish she’d let the heartbreak linger a few moments longer.

On his seventh studio album, however, he’s reinvigorated, dipping a toe into some of rap’s newer stylistic trends.

Throw in some elegant, economical strings arranged by Owen Pallett and touches of harmonica, vibraphone and sax and you’ve got the best 32 minutes of music you’ll hear anytime soon.

The result sounds like a stack of old 70s records your nerdiest music snob friend discovered in a dusty record store.

They have yet to capture the spontaneity of their live performances on record (leave that to recent doc The Ballad Of Shovels And Rope), but their sophomore effort certainly gets closer, even as it shows off the duo’s newfound musical breadth.

A master class in School of Iommi doom metal.

Emotionally, this album doesn’t live up to the principals’ own recent projects, but it’s an energetic, feel-good summer listen--in traditional New Pornographer’s style.

Cold Specks’s anticipated follow-up to her excellent gospel-indebted folk-soul debut, I Predict A Graceful Expulsion, is a much louder, much more rock ’n’ roll, much more experimental experience; fuzz and feedback and unexpected elements (like synths on Let Loose The Dogs) constantly make things more interesting.

As always, these include gorgeous guitar playing and pristinely arranged harmonies, and the gospel-inflected moments are especially effective.

Wiz has never shied away from top-40-baiting tunes many rappers eschew, and he’s crafted a few more on Blacc Hollywood with varying degrees of success.

Burial and the late DJ Rashad’s contributions are predictably strong, and Jessy Lanza’s two appearances stand out for successfully combining traditional songcraft with forward-thinking sonic exploration.

It works as an homage but also as a reminder that specific eras, places, styles and sounds can live on as a state of mind.

The songs just have a bit more sonic depth and shine, and the new orchestral embellishments are so unobtrusive you barely notice them.

While their eighth album doesn’t take any major left turns, it brims with life, ideas and energy.

O’Connor’s impassioned delivery elevates the most middling melodies and predictable rhymes.

After a while, the microscopic detail underscoring each turn of phrase, delivered with such delicate poise and precise drama, is suffocating.

His latest--entirely produced by long-time collaborator No I.D.--reveals an enlivened emcee, the same forceful voice who gave us classic albums such as Be and Like Water For Chocolate.

None of them are as immediately catchy or memorable, and perhaps that’s to be expected. But Petty and Co. are at ease and doing what they please.

Ab-Soul is still the third man up in the stacked TDE crew (behind Kendrick Lamar and Schoolboy Q), but this album establishes him as the group’s most reliable Swiss Army knife: deft in a wide variety of sonic and thematic situations.

In parts, this is the most melodic--and pretty--Shabazz Palaces have ever been.

The biggest problem is Morrissey himself, who sounds like he’s trying to be clever rather than actually demonstrating that infamously razor-sharp wit.

Jungle’s core members, childhood best friends Josh and Tom, make well-balanced dance tunes--lush, but with plenty of breathing space between slow builds and feverish climaxes.

Depression and personal battles still make up the lyrical content. But there are also spacious, cosmic moments, swaths of texture (Tim Bruton adds keyboard lines and Matt Rogalsky synth bass) and gentler fingerpicked and/or softly sung moments.

The laid-back riffs and grooves are balanced by big hooks and melodies that make the most of Jackson’s airy (and refreshingly unprocessed-sounding) voice.

Wine Dark Sea is a brilliantly track-listed album, stronger as a whole than broken into parts.

It gets tiring trying to figure out what Lew is saying (mostly, her vocals are mixed a touch too low), but the themes are hinted at in her sober delivery.

Unfortunately, what starts out as emotionally drenched bop-along pop eventually gets tiresome.

Calvi’s obviously got great pipes, but the EP would’ve been better if she’d made every cover unrecognizable.

While her straightforward songwriting certainly comes across as honest, it can feel a little hokey.

The lo-fi/hi-fi production values keep slickness at bay, resulting in something as warm, intimate and super-casual as an East Coast kitchen party.

By dispensing with typical pop structure in favour of improvisation and repetition, the pair achieve and maintain an openness and momentum that Someday World lacked. It feels alive.

Lyrics are reflective and well written--Watt is also a published author--but a middle-age malaise runs through these 10 tracks.

This is a top 40 pop record after all, and thus errs toward deafeningly loud vocals that occasionally obliterate some of the year’s smartest pop songwriting.

The music still branches off into proggy places, especially in the latter half, but nothing hits hard or is remotely memorable.

The five tracks amble and pulsate and plod along in a way that feels consistent with the band and the genre.

As sex-filled as Trigga is, typical bedroom R&B is no longer such a turn-on.... Nevertheless, Trigga is smooth and singable, with its share of gems.

The album wobbles between Timberlake-style sexy-time R&B, Bublé-light standards and flat attempts at sincere John Legend-type balladry.

EX is a proper album of all-new material--composed specifically for that iconic space--and features some of the best work of his career.

The appeal is easy to hear, but ultimately X undermines emotional rawness with slick production and lyrical goop that feels calculated and bland.

Despite the mainstream references, the album is a much more emotionally wrenching experience than anything on the actual pop charts.

Searching for depth in an emcee so obviously beholden to gimmicks is a fool’s errand, and if you give that up, you’re rewarded with low-stakes perfectly inoffensive jams.

Singer/lyricist George Mitchell sings clean and fairly melodically, but with convincing disaffection.

Dan Auerbach’s production helps shape that drama, but he’s accurately interpreting her vision rather than directing Del Rey, who suddenly seems completely in control of her brand.

The ambitious arrangements that separate this band from their moody contemporaries can actually make the album feel too emotionally intense for everyday listening.

An album that’s bogged down by a rapper--and production--stuck in the middle of the last decade.

It’s odd that he doesn’t mind how much he’s starting to sound like the Black Crowes. Still, overall quality remains high, making this a more solid listen than some White Stripes albums.

Its formulaic songwriting and middling, lite-pop arrangements seem more concerned with top 40 appeal than with maximizing the richness and openness of his voice.

Riveting, memorable, substantial stuff that’ll make you sit up and listen, and possibly wear you out by the 11th song.

The songs are old, and the album sounds really old.

The few folksier, guitar-plucked numbers, however, are a touch formulaic and over-familiar.

The album’s last bit kind of peters out, but what comes before it is amusing and fun.

On his latest release, his driving, hook-laden punk rock is as precise as always.