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.

Tim McGraw's country-radio-friendly production weighs down the disc.... McKenna sounds best stripped down and rough around the edges. Both her voice and writing deserve more modest frames.

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.

El-P's progressive beats here are full of driving, distorted drum sounds and rough samples; futuristic b-boy shit that walks a fine line between funky and grating.

Ortega is more convincing when she leaves the music biz out.

It’s odd that he doesn’t mind how much he’s starting to sound like the Black Crowes. Still, overall quality remains high, making this a more solid listen than some White Stripes albums.

Ascent is still recognizably Six Organs of Admittance, but it's often hazier, heavier and trippier.

Unfortunately, it often veers dangerously close to a corny dystopian sci-fi movie soundtrack, which becomes a little less cute with each listen.

This time, the Mos Def/Common/Talib triumvirate contribution is expectedly solid. Saigon proves his debut's delay is criminal. Malik B shows how much he needs to be the permanent Prince Po to Thought's Pharoahe Monch. And Kamal, Hubbard and ?uestlove flesh out a series of sonically stunning numbers midway through.

They’ve topped up every track with so many hooks and contemporary indie rock clichés that their new songs sometimes go right past catchy into corny.

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

LaVette has little rapport with Hood, and her uneasiness interpreting his lyrics and the strange cover choices (Elton John's 'Talking Old Soldiers,' Willie Nelson's 'Somebody Pick Up My Pieces') comes through in every vocal performance.

Swanlights is curiously one-note, occasionally self-indulgent and fails to leave a strong impression. Or perhaps Hegarty's simply raised the bar impossibly high for himself.

Whether you take to Pratt's reedy, quavering vocals (think Vashti Bunyan or Joanna Newsom) is purely subjective, but the way she changes up her register to suit a song's vibe helps bring colour to a fairly flat palette (which only includes the odd dab of organ and clavinet).

The Dears' biggest coup with Gang Of Losers, though, is Lightburn's newfound ability to express his own sturm und drang through varied delivery rather than just a bloodcurdling caterwaul.

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.

There are some sweet la-la-la bits and a bit of cheery whistling, but nothing jarring or abrasive which might prevent listeners from lapsing into a deep sleep by the sixth track.

Emotionally, this album doesn’t live up to the principals’ own recent projects, but it’s an energetic, feel-good summer listen--in traditional New Pornographer’s style.

Sonically, Nothing's Real is in line with the gliding, easy-listening 80s pop that's back en vogue thanks to Blood Orange, Haim and La Roux.

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."

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

It’s a totally mellow set where flute often takes precedence over guitar. Thankfully, Ejstes’s tight arrangements leave little room for wankery, and none of the songs deal with flying dragons.

He seems caught in a place between wizened wild child and something kookier, but he’s apparently too content to go whole hog in either direction.

The straightforwardness of their songs recalls great indie pop bands of yesteryear like Beat Happening, but also causes some of their songs to blur together.

There’s a casual feel to this recording that generally works in its favour. Nothing sounds too laboured, and you get the feeling that they banged out the tunes quickly in an attempt to capture some live urgency. On the downside, the unpretentious approach often borders on unambitious.

A few flashes of brilliance, but no sustained heat.

His vulnerable warble is still intact, his lyrics remain tenderly existential (aside from, uh, Shave My Pussy), and the noisy bits just make the softer tunes all the more gutting.

Williams is more observational than personal throughout Blessed, looking upon her downtrodden characters with sympathy and compassion.

His more abstract, mellow songs don’t work as well, too often sounding like buildups to a big drop that never comes rather than completed tracks. But Greene has filled out Feel Infinite with just enough bangers to keep the momentum from lagging too much.

Things pick up toward the end with the slightly more upbeat run of Lost In Yesterday, Is It True and It Might Be Time. For the most part, though, Parker is a better producer than he is a songwriter.

It's time to move some units, so quirky's out and tunefulness is in.

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

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.

The uniformity of song structure, tone and tempo, though initially captivating, soon becomes monotonous.

Even though the production is immaculate, featuring amazing work by Lex Luger, and the guest list is impressive, the album falls flat. The problem: Ross takes himself too seriously.

A Church feels a little long, and getting through it requires a certain amount of emotional energy, but it's well worth the effort.

Many moments are reminiscent of big-room progressive tunes of the early 00s, which sound dated at times. Nevertheless, there are also plenty of undeniably pretty melodies, thick tones and pleasingly warm textures, not to mention impressive flashes of innovation and creativity.

They've succeeded at making a good big-dumb-rock record, but you get the sense they didn't mean for it to be quite this dumb.

The super-synthetic ethos of the album starts to rub against your skin; the band's retro dance-music collage feels less like innovative referencing and more like flat pastiche, and the simplistic little-girl lyrics add nothing.

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.

Unfortunately, the bass lines (all played by Mars Volta’s Juan Alderete) never quite capture the rubbery wobble of the era he’s trying to reference.

The lyrics are the album's strong suit, and for the first time ever Darnielle will be releasing them with the album, allowing for easy dissection.

Only their radical overhaul of Nine Inch Nails' Hand That Feeds shows any sign of creativity.

Too often, Jenkins's use of melody fails to create sticky songs in a pop sense, but it does offset his gruff baritone and stern messaging. ... Jenkins is at his best when taking everyday scenarios and cutting to their emotional core.

The tracks are long, grinding and relentlessly angry about the state of the world.

It’s softer, but it’s nice to see a band unafraid of mellowing.

Preoccupations don't fully hit their stride until album closer Fever, which sounds a bit like Heroes-era Bowie without coming across as derivative.

It’s full of the proggy rhythmic U-turns, complex structures and virtuoso playing for which the band’s known.

It’s a challenging album, one you might not put on often.

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

Unfortunately, the rest is incidental disco-lite dross, with a couple of bland bumpers and a little East-meets-West fusion thrown in for good measure. The three M.I.A. tracks would’ve made a solid EP.

There are a few jangly throwbacks for nostalgia’s sake interspersed throughout Accelerate, but they’re overshadowed by blustery guitar blather that shouts “anachronism” at every turn.

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.

It suffers from its uniformly dark tone and funereal tempos, and Ahearn’s attempts to sweeten things with an overly polished mix only makes a sad situation worse.

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

It sounds like fun was had in Dave Grohl's garage, but this good album could've been great had they spent more time songwriting prior to plugging in and cranking up.

Most of the songs, including the strong opening track, concern the duo's history as a couple and a band.

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

The more overtly rock moments give the album a bit too much of a 90s alternative feel, but that’s got to be expected from someone who came out of the slam poetry scene and previously worked with Trent Reznor.

A bunch of tunes seem built for radio (So What, Error), ballad Sorrow is overly dreary, and Skin Me borrows way too much from Nirvana. But the strength, emotion and new directions make this album a winner.

The result is dreamy to a fault, with song fragments submerged in extended instrumental intros and outros.

There are great production touches all over Beams, but unfortunately the songwriting is just okay, and the arrangements often bury the best sonic details.

Nothing terribly new or unexpected to report, just a more direct way of expressing not so adventurous ideas.

Many other songs retread themes of self-doubt and disillusionment, reaching previous levels of intimacy but without taking us anywhere new. Musically, Green does take C&C into somewhat unfamiliar, heavier territory.

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

Wrecking Ball could've been great but was derailed by unnecessary gimmicks.

The album is both challenging and rewarding. On songs like Fresh Laundry, Allie X’s vocals are often treated with high-gloss effects that steal the personality from her voice. It’s not until final track Learning In Public that you hear her unvarnished, which by then sounds jarring. It often feels like she’s doing too much with too much.

On the whole, the band’s country-leaning indie rock pulses along for 49 minutes at a decent clip.

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.

Maths + English is not without its gems.

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.

An anxious mood comes through clearly but doesn’t quite go anywhere, kind of like a protagonist who seems the same at the end of a book as at the beginning.

The co-founder of Godspeed You! Black Emperor still makes stumbling experimental rock but fails to improve on his previous work.

Hearing 2003’s Frank the first time around, I can’t say I was knocked out by Amy Winehouse’s supper club jazz singing, and the album hasn’t improved with age.

Isbell shows us his sensitive side in a collection of lightly strummed breakup ballads and weepy slow-dancers you'd expect to get from Ryan Adams. That's not an endorsement.

The lyrics are bizarre ("I'm DJ Khaled / I'm a daikon radish") and confrontational ("RapGenius.com is white devil sophistry / Urban Dictionary is for demons with college degrees") but also cohesive and purposeful.

Hit Reset, the Julie Ruin’s second album, is super-spunky.

The new textures suit singer Mark Sasso's gravelly voice and Days Into Years' historical themes, inspired in part by a visit to a World War I cemetery in France.

Sputtering, glitchy electronics and polyrhythmic drum patterns by Taylor Smith and Austin Tufts provide layers of ambience that seem a bit too soft and tepid in the face of her melancholy but intense musings, though they complement her high, airy, melodic vocals.

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.

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.