There's plenty to enjoy here, but very little to get worked up about.

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.

It’s not surprising, then, that a number of the tunes on Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!! sound familiar. Besides the ones that sound like rewrites of Iggy Pop and Leonard Cohen rewrites, Cave and crew aren’t above recycling their own work--'More News From Nowhere' is just a riff on 'Deanna.'

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.

The biggest glitch is the production - the myriad elements sound cramped for space.... Too bad, cuz Butler's lyrics, which replace coming-of-age angst with poetic explorations of global anxiety, politics and an excoriation of celebrity culture, put Funeral to shame.

[Disc two] makes clear the fact that R.E.M. never could get back to the top of the mountain for most of their career

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

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

The problem is that Earl’s stream of consciousness style does not lend itself to easy listening. Off-kilter drum loops and piano chords bury the lyrics on Red Water and Peanut, creating an unfriendly sonic experience reminiscent of listening to a song with cheap earphones in a noisy room. Listeners will only be able to appreciate Earl’s poetry once they devote every ounce of their focus to hearing it.

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.

Though minimalist, it's not all austere.

Shaking The Habitual is full of thrillingly percussive highs and brilliantly deranged vocals, but overall its anti-pop move is more typical than radical.

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.

His guttural howl on The Shrine/An Argument is the only moment when Helplessness Blues snaps out of its preciousness and hints that this genre can be more than a soundtrack to brunch.

Too few of the two dozen half-developed tracks here do justice to Smith's talent as a songwriter.

When they do get adventurous and experimental, they execute it with such smoothness that even those moments of danger and excitement sound muted and safe. It's a solid disc, but you can't shake a sense that the Budos Band is capable of more.

Plant's voice is noticeably lower than his salad-days falsetto, and Jimmy Page's guitar sounds slicker than before, but for the most part this is the Zeppelin of yore.

Unfortunately, the grand concept appears to have been a bit too ambitious for the 24-year-old Newsom and her associates to pull off, since what she plucks and sings in her little-girl-lost warble never seems entirely integrated with the hovering orchestral parts that sound like bleed-over from a symphony rehearsal in the room next door.

The record is full of earnest female backup vocals and frequent reminders (like wind chimes all over the place) that the music is homemade. Yet like a lot of modern folk, the songwriting sometimes gets lost in the shuffle.

The remix supposedly reflects how the band always wanted the album to sound, but it’s hard to tell what O’Brien did. It’s definitely cleaner, louder and more polished, but not dramatically different.

It's not the best album of Spoon's career, but it's far from a misstep.

While the production is tight, it’s not going to cause rival producers to sell their samplers and look for jobs in air conditioning repair.

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.

If David Browne's Sonic Youth bio was to be believed, Swans, who emerged from the same noise-filled no wave scene in New York's early 80s as Thurston Moore, had a rotating cast of nasty-tempered psychotic rockers, with multi-instrumentalist Michael Gira at its centre. Listening to Swans' new album, the first in 14 years, you get the sense that some of that malevolence remains.

Throughout, his rhymes hit the mark, whether he’s painting a bleak picture of the Detroit streets, battling his own demons (loneliness, molly, more molly) or rapping at length about drug-dealing without glorifying it Rick Ross-style.

This is one of his best albums in many years, although that's not exactly a ringing endorsement.

Thankfully, there are just enough flashes of brilliance to save it, even if much of the album comes across as a really expensive demo.

Each woman's distinct singing and songwriting style is front and centre, but their voices blend beautifully.

Lots of bands pillage from the pop music canon; few do it with the aplomb of the Horrors.

Working with a forward-looking crew of producers, musicians and writers, including Madlib, the Roots, Sa-Ra Creative Partners and Karriem Riggins, was a wise move; they do a decent job on the funky New Amerykah, a throwback to the black power sound and consciousness-raising themes of the 70s.

While the minimal production and closely miked vocals on her debut emphasized the pop hooks and her fragile voice, Li and producer Bjorn Yttling (Peter, Bjorn & John) give listeners a more all-encompassing, if familiar, sound on Wounded Rhymes, nestling her vocals amidst girl-group harmonies, psych organ and shambolic percussion.

New wave influences are also apparent, specifically when the vocals channel Lene Lovich or Ric Ocasek. These vocal quirks don't always work, and a couple of songs don't hold up to the album's best, but this is a fun introduction nevertheless.

Sometimes abruptly but always skilfully, these rhythms drag and push the record to its limit on the existential moaning of the album’s closer, God?

More about lyrical swagger than emotional substance, LiveLoveA$AP is a solid intro to someone who could be an enduring figure in the years ahead.

Here True Widow dispel some of the pot-smoky fog, putting across a crisper, tighter, discernibly quicker sound.

The record has a strong holiday flavour, so if you’re the type who gets nauseated by reindeer talk in March, maybe wait till December to play this.

They can still rage, summoning plenty of singalong anger on Donny Of The Decks and Things To Say To Friendly Policemen. But their targets feel more academic.

Instrumentally, Primrose Green is an engaging listen, but Walker the singer only comes through a few times.

Andorra feels downhearted, often recalling Elliott Smith; even on 'She's The One,' a collabo with Junior Boys's Jeremy Greenspan, it sounds like she's a real drag.

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.

The result is akin to bottling one of their energetic live shows, and it makes for a thrilling, if not altogether bump-free ride.

Nine Types Of Light is mostly mellow, slow jams and funky, upbeat love songs.

Whatever is driving her interest in self-identity is obscured by overwrought conceptualism and confused by a push to sound more slickly commercial.

He remains a confident and commanding rapper, full of agile double-time flows and verses that skip from biographical vignettes and life lessons to boasting. But, given he rarely has more than one verse per song, Diaspora gives us a fragmented window into his thoughts.

The musical motifs get a bit redundant, but its stylish minimalism brims with drama.

[The album] chugs and punches in a suitably heavy way without ever feeling essential.

Where the Monkeys come up short is in their compositions, which are beginning to sound formulaic.

Palmer seems intent on cramming as many ideas and textures into every song as she can, which is exciting at first but exhausting by the halfway point of an excessively long album.

For All We Know could make a stronger statement, but that doesn’t change the fact that Nao’s voice is one of the most exciting--and fun to listen to--in modern R&B.

4:44 is intimate, refined and mature--fascinating partly despite its flaws and partly because of them.

The Vampire Weekend crew, who met at Columbia University, have clearly heard enough soukous and highlife to cop a few guitar licks to cloak their orch-pop pretensions, but almost by accident, the way their chamber strings are played over jaunty grooves makes for an engaging concoction, at least for a few spins.

Ultimately, it’s Rubinos’s unflinching lyrics that linger long after Black Terry Cat ends.

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.

The production has a pristine, streamlined quality, with Grant’s vocals high in the mix, so the album’s blend of orchestral and squelchy electronic arrangements mirrors the clarity and grace with which he delivers his crude, self-lacerating ballads.

It's easy to get lost in the pleasant, euphoric drone, but at 47 minutes the album is more of a marathon than a sprint.

The gusto with which Springsteen delivers the many verses of Froggie Went A-Courtin' leaves me wondering if the millionaire everyman is simply unaware that his country is at war.

Pop music is never a purely cerebral exercise, and despite its intriguing concept, The Next Day is woefully short on anything to sing along to.

Sometimes the lack of definition and the deluge of words grow tedious, but in these songs, all lushly arranged, as is the entire album, the effect is nothing short of riveting.

Q might appear masked on the album cover, but his explicit tales of hardship, prosperity and loss hide nothing.

In beast mode, they conjure that rare mix of accessibility and contrarian, uncompromising power, helping More Faithful transcend its flatter fare.

Although Lay It Down is initially appealing because it has the super­ficial sound of Green’s classic Hi material, you soon discover that Green has nothing terribly deep to offer lyrically, and his vocals are locked on cruise control throughout.

The lyrics can get melodramatic (Verlaine Shot Rimbaud) and vulgar (Head), but there are gems here, too.

The brief tunes are sparse yet cinematic, tentative yet boldly inventive.

Like the elder statesmen, the teenage California quartet offer skewed good-time indie pop that won't change your life but will sound fantastic blasted from a front porch on a summer day.

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.

Public Strain is front-loaded with some of the more patience-testing tunes, but stick with it to discover some astonishing beauties.

Instead of knocking out another wall-shaking psych rock blast... Avatar comes off like a series of sedate recital pieces performed from sheet music while seated in the round.

Another artist might show signs of disappointment or uncertainty when faced with the notion that not much has changed in half a century, but on Medicine Songs, in the face of the unchanging nature of the oppression she’s expressed through her music, Buffy Sainte-Marie has chosen to be just as determined, unflinching and constant in her own art.

Too much of the record lacks that song's percussive drive; all the pretty singing and unhurried tempos start to blend into a tepid listen, and the experimental near-spoken-word turn on Strange is just, well, strange.

Blake's songs are built around a single typically melancholic lyric and melody that he works over, kind of like an R&B singer, while gradually switching stylistic gears.

The problem is that all this stuff sounds terribly dated already.

The dynamics seem tired: boom leads to bliss and back to boom again. It's more of the same harsh, ambient wallpaper (peeling) stuff.

Even though the songwriting's tight, the uniformly delicate touch of adult contemporary arrangements will leave you struggling to stay awake till the album's end.

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.

His latest, Love in Beats, is his most seamless collision yet. That harmony is thanks to the unified vision that comes with having two producers on the project: Omar and his brother Scratch Professor.

The latter half of WIXIW has enough to offset their plodding attempts to be experimental.

With summer so far away, this record’s only downside is that it lacks a hit song to help it last until July.

The quartet is at its best when hushed, autumnal and kaleidoscopic. Still, you can’t blame them for trying to push the envelope.

It's a disappointing underachievement.

Los Campesinos! are hyper-literate college kids out to make big statements from microcosmic situations, but the metaphors in the overly abstract lyrics often get away from Gareth and co-vocalist Aleks.

Where the album falters is in his overly ambitious and affected vocals, which fall on the waifish end of 80s new wave.

It didn't take long to turn the novel clank and grind of Kinshasa junkyard techno assault unit Konono No. 1 into an easy-to-use formula with enormous money-making potential.

An hour long, Reverie's an unusual mix of gentle, drifting and jarring.

All their hallmarks (choral crescendos, swooping melodies and stately horns) and a few curveballs (The xx-esque 4/4 beat on Yfirbor∂) are present, but the songs reach their emotional climax quickly.

Most of what Barnes throws together here doesn't get beyond annoying pastiche, and he still lacks the chops as a wordsmith to magically transform mediocre jams into memorable songs.

Ultimately rewarding for indie enthusiasts up for a challenge, Offend might leave more pedestrian listeners scratching their heads.

Most of Icky Thump's songs sound half-assed, with keyboard parts thrown in ad hoc, but at least they had the good sense to trim the piano bar balladry.

While the bouncy good-time foolery is charming enough in small doses, Islands' relentlessly giddy glee gets annoying awfully fast.

Casually clever lyrics, gloriously fuzzy guitar leads and that immediately identifiable off-kilter pop genius dominate.

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.

[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.