[Dead Silence] sounds exactly like what you'd expect from the maturing Mississauga pop-punk band: more middle-of-the-road radio-friendly guitar rock, with less punk energy and more classic rock than in their younger years.

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

While his tortured, guttural delivery comes off as the lunatic ramblings of an abusive boyfriend, the actual lyrical meat of The Last Romance rings with the uncomfortable, ugly truth of facing your hungover self in the mirror the morning after a one-night stand.

It should all work extremely well to break Lekman beyond his current fan base of bored Sufjan Stevens fans waiting for Pitchfork to tell them what to like next.

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

Indulging in a baroque concept that includes chanson, 60s French café swing and lush pop, he has no qualms about pushing the drama levels vocally. He warbles yearning lyrics on songs like La Banlieue, Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route), alongside swaying accordion waltzes such as The Penalty. Best served with croissants and café au lait.

Lyrically, Daniel is more vulnerable than on previous efforts--transference being a part of psychoanalysis--but not enough that he takes many new creative turns.

The album as a whole drags a little. But the softness of Kline’s vocals and the instrumentation anchoring her lyrics and stories make up for it.

Despite the flaws, you can't deny that Segall's got real talent, which would be wasted if he just stuck to the psych/garage throwback formula.

As if the synthesized strings and electronic dabbling weren't sad enough, [Spektor's] ascerbic voice has been all but lost in squishy couplets about making things better and needing to "know you."

Some songs feel just short of full-blown biting, like No Question, which is awfully reminiscent of the classic Breeders single Saints. Still, it feels hard to write them off as some kind of revivalist project. If anything, the band’s unshakeable determination to stay in their own lane seems like an ideological gesture. You can’t be cool if you’re worried about being cool.

Don’t count on hearing any lively back-and-forth exchanges, though, they’re clearly too respectful of each other to risk stepping on any toes in public.

Ultimately, Candylion is more annoying than entertaining.

Only about half of the songs captivate; the others could be used as sleep aids. This is frustrating, because the strong songs are fantastic. The lesser ones suffer from too much washed-out dreaminess.

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

The diversity leaves it without a consistent mood or conceptual through-line, however, and while Hogan's singing voice is, like the album, pleasant enough, it's not especially distinct or memorable.

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.

The album is missing an emotional, drawn-out, heartbreaking ballad, but inspirational anthems like Retreat! find her sassing as loud and proud as ever.

Galactic’s Ya-Ka-May works as a concept album, but its execution ranges from grating to tolerable.

This much material is exhausting to make your way through, the stretches between moments of genius way too long.

Georgia evokes a skittering, glazed-over slice of up-all-night club life on her moody, uneven debut.

Individually, the songs are absorbing, but when listened back to back, they begin to lose their magic.

Mangan's emotive voice is as assured as ever, and his socially conscious lyrics penetrate. Add in a stark, disillusioned tone and sluggish tempos and it makes for an overly serious listen.

Give A Glimpse Of What Yer Not is 45 new minutes of Mascis's solid-gold shredding, but there has never been less to hang it on. The hooks that bracket the bouts of soloing are almost instantly unmemorable and the chord structures uninspired.

Occasionally a lick of whimsical Irish poetry sneaks in (Earthly Pleasures), but lyrically O’Brien’s going for something more vague and profound.

If this were purely an experimental electronic album, we'd overlook the lack of hooks, but even as such it's not particularly impressive.

There are some great garage rock tunes, but too much filler to make for a great album. Maybe they should have trimmed a few of the 16 songs for a shorter but stronger work.