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.

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

Calla deal in that dark romantic narcissism guys like Nick Cave and Tom Waits are known to wallow in on record after record.

At her best, Sumie evokes the poeticism of Joni paired with the headiness of Mazzy Star. But given the songs’ lack of variation in tone and tempo, an EP might have offered a more focused introduction.

New wave, soul and house beats make this his most genre-bending album yet.

Without shattering any paradigms, they’ve assembled a very listenable collection of songs that’d be a welcome addition to a Starbucks summer playlist.

Too bad clunky lyrics hold things back at times.

As the title suggests, the band is evolving gradually rather than in dramatic swells.

There are worse artists to jack than David Byrne and company, but after all the breathless hype, you'd expect something a little more innovative.

It's an accomplished record for singer Adam Levine and his faceless group, even if the whole affair sometimes sounds clinical in its approach.

The production is restrained, leaving plenty of space for Staples's rich vocals, although some songs feel a bit too clean and reserved. It's all very pleasant but lacks the fire and passion we want from her.

At times, this sense of vulnerability in the music can grow stagnant and forgettable, but it’s usually pleasurable in the moment.

There's nothing especially memorable on offer, and a lyrical artlessness becomes obvious as the album continues.

Kings of Leon often seem torn between their stadium rawk impulses and their hip underground aspirations.

It's nice that he's managed to keep things tasteful, but instead of quiet intensity, it comes across more as overly cautious and timid – not exactly what he was aiming for.

When the punk, doo-wop, early R&B and psych influences come together, the high points are strong enough that you can easily forgive the lack of focus.

This pretty solid record shouldn't disappoint existing fans. However, it's more pleasant than mind-blowing, and you notice the pretty sounds more than the songs themselves.

The best rhymes come courtesy of Kendrick Lamar on Solo Dolo, Pt. II, and the worst are from Too Short on the album’s weakest link, Girls.

No matter how sobering Hypercaffium Spazzinate gets, Descendents keep things light by playing these wistful, grown-ass songs like teenagers.

When they stop aiming for catchiness and instead get real about relationships, LYTD sparkles.

Musically it’s a gloriously tacky mix of dance pop and hair metal, and we mean that in the best way possible....The only problem is that he doesn’t go far enough, likely the result of the label trying to tone down his flamboyance.

Burton deserves some of the blame for the album's shortcomings as well, even if his creative engineering is the high point. He gives us some gorgeously layered textures and swirling atmospherics, but then backs those up with tepid and forgettable beats.

For all its unexpected sounds and catchy choruses, Emotion falters in its lyrical blandness.

It might be too overwrought for many, but for those of us who like drama, this is a fine introduction.

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.

It's so soft-focus as to rarely assert itself or command attention, but fuzz-pop Free The Skull brings to mind Pink Mountaintops, boogie rocker Slow Down Low has a blissful pulse, and Thieves gets terrific mileage out of a hypnotically repetitive riff.

On MTMTMK, the duo moves through a range of global sounds, from Congolese kwassa kwassa to reggaeton to electro house.

Though there’s some absolutely gorgeous production that recalls the lush sound and synthscapes of 80s rock, the songwriting is weighed down by clichés.

Moving further away from sugar-coated post-Idol fare, Clarkson steps up with more rockers and a few ballads that, while not all destined to be radio hits, are all convincing and emotionally bare.

There is some filler here and there, but the record is fun and catchy.

Like his debut album, the sequel suffers and shines due to inconsistency. Cudi's strong creative streak leads him to follow through on every idea that crosses his mind, resulting in brilliantly unique moments and lots of stoner stumbles.

Sonically, Demons has a lot in common with Renmin Park, although this disc feels a bit more produced. It's a touching tribute, to be sure, but we wish they'd left a few more of the rough edges in this time.

Once you’ve finished playing Name That Influence, it becomes just a nice mid-tempo indie pop record with catchy guitar hooks.

It's actually startlingly dark, and understandably so – drummer Paul Hester took his own life only two years ago, and the tragedy definitely shades Neil Finn's songwriting on Time.

Echoes sounds pretty business-as-usual.

The overall effect is pleasantly daydreamy, though the album quickly settles into one gear.

Take You High, Dance With Me and Nostalgic find her ceding the floor to a few grating drops, builds and chopped-up vocal samples as well as some trendy 80s synth rhythms. Those diversions aside, this is another Kelly Clarkson album that's all about maximizing her big steamroller of a voice.

All Day is a more complicated mix than Girl Talk's previous albums, with more to notice on repeat listens. And just like everything else he's done, it's an exhausting experience.

TNV’s latest rises above previous efforts thanks to anthemic No Time, No Hope, which might jog memories of a barely coherent Lou Reed.

There's no particular deficiency, but the new approach pushes the Brooklyn-based Athens, Georgia, band closer to the middle of the road than ever before.

Like many pop acts' full-lengths, this is an album of singles.

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

Considering it’s only 44 minutes long, MGMT’s self-titled third album feels much lengthier. This is partly due to the dense layers and constantly shifting textures, but it’s also a result of the abrasive digital distortion shrouding the psych-pop jams, making it a tiring listen even at its most melodic.

The production (thanks to Jim Diamond) also sounds more radio-ready, but the increased crispness makes the looseness of Maya Miller’s drums far more distracting than it used to be, and everything is far too cold.

This album feels firmly in the gutter, and that’s a positive for slurring Dylan-phile Hamilton Leithauser, who moans and wails throughout, ruminating about lost friends and lovers while the guitars pour reverb-drenched notes over his sepia moments.

Recorded mostly live off the floor, including some of the vocals, Paul’s Tomb has a power that the band’s previous albums lacked.

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

The moody minimalism is still present, but under the rich vocal treatment the band sounds more subordinate and self-effacing, at times to a fault.

The result is tunes that are pleasant more often than arresting, tailor-made for playing quietly in the kitchen.

One Love goes surprisingly deep, but an instrumental companion disc would’ve been a nice touch.

She almost always goes for the jugular, belting out Super Bowl Sunday-sized performances over the most laid-back of summer-afternoon soul clappers. Her voice overflows with emotion, and subtlety's in short supply.

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

Don’t expect any major changes to their 50-million-records-sold formula. Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe keep things grandiose with paddy retro synths, discotheque drum machines and downtrodden lyrics.

The 15 songs are relatively short by ambient standards, which makes the album feel like a collection of sketches.

While the rest of the band have proven they can write solid music, it's singer Geoff Rickly who presents the biggest problem, and that's mostly because the man simply cannot tone down his over-emoting.

Takes’ boldest move and its artistic centrepiece must be the mashing up of Aphex Twin’s positively scary To Cure A Weakling Child and Boy/Girl Song into a melodious lullaby.

Great sleepy Sunday-afternoon music, but it could have been more than that.

There's no denying Bronson is a supreme talent, but Mr. Wonderful feels more like a low-stakes failed experiment than a grand proclamation.

Legend's lounge-track sentimentality often spills into schmaltzed-out Streisand-on-Broadway territory.

It’s all very lush and fabulous, but also restrained and calculated to the point of coldness. If that’s intentional, they’ve pulled it off, but not necessarily to the album’s benefit.

It's a great album to trance out to, but not as memorable as we'd hoped.

Essentially, Evidence harkens back to 00s rap nostalgia without resorting to preachy tirades or regressive concepts, a respite during a time of sing-rap and hyper-aggressive flows.

Surprisingly, the least pop-based tracks stand out most.

There’s not a lot to get excited about, but it’s a catchy enough confection that should work well in gadget commercials, which was likely the whole point.

At times it feels like she's stuck in one gear, but her energy refreshingly and irresistibly recalls the un-cynical era of old-school breakbeat and hip-house.

The album is a fun novelty, but as with most tributes, there's not much to keep it in rotation.

Angelakos’s Hot Chip-meets-MGMT sound also works on I’ve Got Your Number. His distinctive vocals backfire only on the too-cutesy Cuddle Fuddle.

There are a few clunker lyrics--Grainger’s at his strongest when he’s singing about making love, not having sex--but overall it’s a worthy record from an artist who refuses to make the same one twice.

While the rhythms may seem like invitations to dance--or at least sway--the lyrics are almost uniformly bleak, making Pale Fire a late contender for saddest album of the year.

So even though Burnett has assembled a crack acoustic support unit to play the choice material he's selected from Gene Clark, Townes Van Zandt and the Everly Brothers, without that magical X factor you've got nothing but two good vocalists trying to stay out of each other's way.

Reign Of Terror still sounds like Sleigh Bells, but a more polite and conservative version.

The band's maturing on Kintsugi, which, if you remember the haircut and attitude of your 16-year-old self, is always a good thing.

Dark Bird Is Home sounds carefully constructed, and Matsson keeps things simple rather than making easy moves toward a grandeur that could bury his songcraft.

Despite a couple of interstitial tracks just past the halfway mark, RR7349 is more like a suite of discrete moods than a cycle of songs.

M.I.A. is good at circumventing dance music clichés, often through sheer polyrhythmic excess; it’s hard to stay still during effusive bangers like Y.A.L.A., Matangi and tribal-trap anthem Warriors. On the flip side, Matangi’s forays into left-field pop (Come Walk With Me, Lights) are blandly saccharine compared with // / Y /’s pure pop moments.

Too many of the tracks seem more like very good imitations of song types than like actual songs.

Terraplane's saving grace is that it's fun to listen to and full of swagger.

Ward's writing--though universal and singalongable--sometimes suffers from vagueness and clichéd rhymes. He should have a bit more faith in his audience, because Hope is most interesting when it strays a little from this formula.

It works best when the overpowering synth lines let up and make room for experimental noises and Iwanusa’s tender voice.

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.

Fans will be thrilled to know that, despite the replacement of main guitarist and co-songwriter Ben Moody, Evanescence's sophomore album is at least as unsubtle as its predecessor.

While Bun B's weathered voice and lyrical detail add weight to his words, there are a lot of predictable OG conventions on this overlong album.

The band's adventurous use of sampling and beats pays off when supporting Andy Maize's vocal on The Herd, but the alt-folk arrangements tend to get melodramatic on quieter songs like I'll Be There and the tremolo-piano-treated title track.

It's not a tasteful formula, but that doesn't mean it's not valid.

Latham's plaintive voice sounds like it's emanating from some romantically ruinous daydream. The effect suits the mood but makes his lyrics difficult to decipher, which is frustrating given his pointed message.

Often he's trying too hard to be cool, and it's unconvincing. When it does work, the band sounds surprisingly like Broken Social Scene, but with more cowbell.

The Polish-born, Brooklyn-based DJ, born Jakub Alexander, makes music that's as likely to induce sleep as a mild panic attack.

Real is a beefy record that plods and dances precariously close to the jam band divider.

It’s initially fun to play spot-the-references, but in the best moments the sounds are harder to pin down.

It works best when DiFranco points to contradictions within herself, and worst when her lyrics get preachy or black-and-white.

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.

On indie pop cut One True Love and the rollicking I Need An Angel, Wisenbaker’s gritty voice scuffs up Goodman’s buoyant one – a good thing, since she can sound static at times. That said, she’s sorely missed on the jangling track Nineties, in which Wisenbaker takes sole vocal duties but lacks the charisma to pull it off.

It’s rare to hate one half of an album so much while genuinely enjoying the other.

While occasionally generic, nothing on Shine On is as annoying as their breakthrough single, Are You Gonna Be My Girl.

Aside from flailing a bit at the end, the London group’s third full-length hits its mark.

At 19 tracks, LAX is bloated and uneven, more often than not marked by weak beats and uninspired appearances. The Game’s skill and wit alone save this from being a complete disaster.

The best moments are some of the strongest of Gibb’s career, but too much of the material lacks the hooks and pure pop sensibility to make this the truly great album we were hoping for.

Though its overall sound is depressing industrial indie rock with nods to Leonard Cohen, Marilyn Manson and Tool, Six’s varied instrumentation, catchy songs and emotional impact make for an interesting listen.