Aside from a couple of visceral rockers like the title track and Better Than You, Cause is dominated by mid-tempo blues jams.

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.

Bizarre lyrics, wooze-inducing dissonance and overly elaborate embellishments maintain Friedberger's genius-of-pretension title.

At times his vocals sound too distant in the mix and overpowered by guitars (No Device), but singing any more forcefully would undermine the peculiar comfort that most of the record maintains.

Even though not every twisted move they make on Third pays dividends, considering the stakes, consciously fucking with their formula is a bold gamble for which they should be saluted.

The tunes are peppy and driving, the performances and production polished to a fault, and the lyrics simultaneously celebratory and wistful.

The album’s emphasis on repetition occasionally sounds too self-conscious, but it’s a rare excess in an otherwise restrained--if not necessarily subtle--collection of ballads.

There's not enough doo-wop or doom on much of the material, and their willingness to get far too goofy with the lyrics and delivery gives the sense that they're not taking the project seriously.

This is fairly arm's-length music--more about beat and texture than emotional confessionals.

It may not be the best introduction to the band, but it's a must-have for hardcore fans of Conor Oberst's vocal discordance and stripped-down musical tantrums.

It's lacking the melancholic darkness that added substance to Strange Geometry.

Sounding closer to their more earnest Smash days, the songs are snappy to-the-point SoCal punk, albeit with a more polished sheen.

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.

[It] treads a fine line between charming and cringe-worthy.

The rewards are there--it just takes some work.

Basically, if London Bridge doesn't make you want to rip your ears off, you'll enjoy almost 80 per cent of the album.

If you haven't encountered Jenkinson's strange world of jazz-fusion-hardcore before, this is a decent starting point, and if you're more into the jazz funk than the digital hardcore, this is one of his less abrasive outings.

The more nuanced approach is less immediate but stands up better to repeated listens.

No doubt they know to bury weaker material; the last few songs are less memorable.

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

While Alone is a big ol’ mishmash of varying quality, it is, for the time being, the closest any of us will get to Cuomo’s former songwriting charm.

It might be an imperfect stepping stone, but the staircase he's climbing here shows great promise.

The L.A./Paris musician has a voice reminiscent of Owen Pallett’s and tends toward cutesy (see aforementioned Gallop). But these cloying idiosyncrasies are stirring on darker songs like Canter Canter and the title track.

It's a bold move to pick up the scraps from the floor, finish them up and declare them worth hearing, even if they don't fit tidily on any previous (or future) albums. Song by song you could be forgiven for asking "Is this the same band?"

If they were a little less self-conscious about their style and more comfortable with being just a good pop band, they'd have a great album in them.

Gucci spews absurd, nihilistic imagery that demands attention, while Waka's penchant for repetition and siren-call ad libs can be magnetic.

Although Young's compositions on Chrome Dreams II aren't quite up to the quality planned for the first volume, the 10 songs at least have some of the shape and gravity if not the epic dimension of his classics written decades ago.

At times, these preoccupations feel clumsy in their topicality, and it's hard to tell whether GOF's unthinkably long history as a Band That Has Things To Say makes this more or less forgivable.

Coaster’s not exemplary, but it’s definitely a quality late-career entry in NOFX’s increasingly uniform catalogue.

Despite Azalea’s nimble delivery sometimes lapsing into the mechanical, there are moments on The New Classic when she sounds ready for prime time.

He’s managed to inject this compact collection of eight tunes with more than a whiff of 90s alt-radio nostalgia, but the songs are hummable enough to rebuff anyone inclined toward cynical eye-rolling.

The slick production values and mighty arena-filling guitar and drum sounds will jolt fans of the New York City band's charming lo-fi debut.

The unexpected bit is that there are a couple of tracks where the Junkies appear to be making a move from their brooding ballad comfort zone toward brooding bluesy shuffles that very nearly get funky.

At 36 tracks, Ghosts is as impressively ambitious as it is uneven and stunted.

It's dizzying, and you'll want off at times, but you'll likely ask to ride again.

The album's psychedelic pop runs out of gas near the end in cringe-worthy Battersea Odyssey and Let The Wolves Howl At The Moon, but by then you're won over and wondering how you slept on this band for the past nine years.

More than a decade out from the band’s shift into electronic music and their reinvention as what at times seems to be a soundtrack band, it’s hard to tell if Mogwai have aged well or just sort of boringly mellowed.

By sticking mostly to introspective songwriting, the quintet ignores the strongest tool in its arsenal. It's no surprise that the most memorable tunes are the few where they let their fingers fly.

The Menzingers haven’t necessarily mastered the grown-up punk formula, but they’re certainly maturing with each new release.

Smith Westerns have proven themselves adept chameleons and excel in their new style. It’s just tough not to miss the old one.

Absent Fathers doesn't offer much in the way of answers--it's more a snapshot of a process.

While it fails to match their previous hit quotient, it's still a decent listen.

The album is overly long, but there's a straightforwardness to the live-and-loose party vibe that's hard to resist.

Fans of the Editors will certainly dig the dour pop 'Expectations,' while the album’s optimistic anthemic opener, 'Happy As Can Be,' offers the record’s most memorable moments.

When they slip up, it’s due to stupid lyrics or mainstream tendencies (like the beginning of the first single, 'Burial'). But they do create winning synth moments on 'Song For No One' and 'In Search Of.'

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.

It sounds like the producers are all competing to drum up the best variation on Ciara's patented Crunk N' B theme.

Setting a song called 'Livin' In The Future' to the tune of 'Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out' indicates that Springsteen's sense of humour may be returning, but the fact that Miami Steve didn't tell him 'Girls In Their Summer Clothes' sounds a little too much like 'The Kids Are Alright' suggests it's not quite back to the good old days yet.

People who like him, rejoice. Those who don't may continue to live without his music.

This is an endearing and eminently likeable listen.

Songs like Roll Up, Hopes And Dreams and The Race best showcase his self-assured charm.

Wasner’s vocals seem more confident and assertive now, as if she’s come of age. Still, there are moments on Shriek just yearning for a clever guitar melody or screeching solo.

Not surprisingly, the resulting cameo-plugged record sounds more like a G-Unit album than an Infamous one.

Frusciante's guitar work... almost single-handedly saves the project, but not quite.

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.

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.

Both are on point throughout, making Velocifero a solid album, maybe too solid. I wish they’d crack the mould a little.

Somewhere along the way he must have forgotten about that--there are a handful of collaborators--but the overall theme of gleeful self-indulgence remains.

It's perfect mellow background music, with just enough going on that it's still interesting when you pay attention.

There are moments where the restraint feels almost too determined, as though the abundance of care and attention to subtle detail also places a cap on the kind of impulsive energy essential to a rock-oriented band.

You might only remember the songs with words, but the rest of the album puts those moments in context.

It’s a nice record, just not a great one, though it seems like the kind of thing that’ll age gracefully.

On 4, she's still missing a real sense of vulnerability but steps out from behind the club jams with beautifully nuanced mid-tempo production.

Too often Bloc Party aim for an overly expansive epic Coldplay quality that compromises the focus of their songwriting.

Producer Ewan Pearson occasionally falters in connecting her vocals with the arrangements; there's a nice engagement on the slower, non-beat-driven tracks that you wish he'd mastered on the clubbier cuts.

Only brief, melancholy melodies give relief from the oppressive darkness.

The album is stylistically restless, jumping from power pop to 60s-inspired ballads, with dashes of disco, 80s dance music and klezmer squeezed in.

Artists who put out album sequels are often criticized for trying to capitalize on a classic work. No one will accuse G-Unit lieutenant Lloyd Banks of that with the second instalment of his uneven debut.

Fun, easy listen? Not so much. But Calder's vocals are too cheerfully bright and the sounds too pleasant for things ever to become a downer.

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

In his old glamcore days, Malin's affected voice might've been easier to overlook, but in this context, it can grow grating.

The disparate guest list means the record lacks some cohesion, but Big Boi--ambitious, effusive and still a remarkably lithe rapper--holds it all together.

So instead of rehashing Cosmic Thing for an ill-fated comeback banking on nostalgia, guitarist Keith Strickland learned Pro Tools, bought some electro records and voila: the B-52’s have a contemporary dance-rock record. Startlingly, this works.

This is unabashedly a pop album, full of big melodies and simple metaphors, that adds just a bit of analog fuzz to her usually pristine sound.

The Sadies have proved themselves master instrumentalists at country and twang, and a fluid backup band able to execute any genre. Doe, who co-fronted seminal L.A. punks X, on the other hand, has a voice you could charitably call serviceable. Whether this collaboration needed to happen is debatable.

Throughout, the material is simultaneously current and nostalgic, recalling the optimism and discovery of the 60s and 70s, especially on Progress, sung by Jim James of My Morning Jacket.

Shields is not going to grab you, but it rewards patience.

Dreamy and hypnotic, alternating between sparse and lush, these tunes' tempos tend to stay down, and things can get pretty stagnant, but there's a great sense of ambience and mood.

His strength has always been his versatility: he combines old-school rap with a solid singing voice and an ability to play guitar and drums. Separating these elements is a curious strategy, though his verbal and instrumental talents still show up on both sides.

Each song spills over with a breathless, unhinged vigour that impresses... But taken all together, the band's refusal ever to let up on volume, bombast, group-shouted vocals, fast-strummed chords or smashing drums makes Celebration Rock an exhausting sonic assault in need of variety.

While some songs veer too far into slick pop territory, most are balanced.

Much of their bubbly futuristic synth music goes no deeper than what you’d hear in old TV Ontario science shows. Cute but disposable.

Chasing Yesterday breaks no new ground but does show more range than we normally expect from Noel Gallagher, possibly a result of his taking on production duties this time.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with sticking to a formula that works, and in Cowboy’s case, it’s pretty acoustic songs and (mostly) mellow vocals. But for a songwriter like DeMarco, who on previous albums has triumphed when trying something new, perhaps change is worth pursuing.

The only misfires include Brother, an old-tyme shanty à la the Decemberists whose Back On The Chain Gang-style background chants are an uncharacteristically tacky production choice. Still, The Wild is full of serviceable songs and outstanding playing, with Banwatt once again proving he’s one of the best drummers in the biz.

Meat And Bone finds Spencer at what is arguably his most Bowie-esque.

Taking cues from disco and synth-pop, TOPS are better suited to drifting and daydreaming than dancing.

There are missteps--Talib Kweli going through the motions on Get Your Way (Sex Is A Weapon), Ghostface's unfortunate pairing with Wiz Khalifa--but like the movie, the soundtrack is good, bombastic fun.

The more aggressive bangers are effective, though Bieber gets eclipsed by everything else going on in the tracks.

Once again Steve Albini-produced, their third effort doesn’t stray wildly from Matt’s laid-back vocals and the intertwining melodic guitar parts they’re now known for, but there is at least one effort to evolve.

The band's straightforward punk leanings give way to more angular, spacious, softer songwriting--and some welcome metal nods in the title track--partway through the 10-track album, but Paternoster's vocals never back off. That's where the power, hooks and originality come from, but they're a little relentless.

It's more about sound quality and songwriting than the calculated brand-building of his recent releases.

Iz and Bobby Avila (aka the Avila Brothers) produced and co-wrote the bulk of the tracks, and those are the most successful. It would have been smarter, though, to use them for the whole album, as the smattering of generic blues jams and guest showcases seem tacked on and out of place.

The Baltimore psych-experimental rock band's ninth begins in a youthful and joyous way, but the exuberance unravels into something close to obnoxious chaos.

A pretty decent melancholy pop album that deserves to be heard outside of dormitories and campus bars.

It's a better album than their last, and diehard fans should be satisfied, but it's not going to get the rest of us very excited.

You don't always know what cosmic tunnel Memory Tapes will drag you through, but you can always expect a metamorphosis.

My Guilty Pleasure is a very listenable album, with plenty of high points, but overall it tends to fade into the background a little too easily.