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.

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

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.