They return to remind us that there's still one side of dance rock they haven't tried: rock. On Four, Bloc Party turn up their amps and tune down their guitars.

Anyone who’s followed Wu-Tang throughout this millennium knows that the Clan’s DJ Mathematics is the proper heir to RZA’s Wu production throne, and his new compilation only reinforces this....One issue: at least half of the album is recycled.

It's all deliberate gazes, chins down and forced smiles, like being at your best on your worst days.

As sex-filled as Trigga is, typical bedroom R&B is no longer such a turn-on.... Nevertheless, Trigga is smooth and singable, with its share of gems.

There are some glimmers of pop gold.... But those moments are overshadowed by dated cheeseball synth presets, uninspired choruses, goofy samples and clunky rhythm programming.

PB and J also don’t lose their mass appeal here.

Going for immediate and real, Young ends up with a disc that resembles a tentative early demo for what could have been a decent (albeit strange) Crazy Horse album.

The hooks are in short supply, and the production, as on "Flashover," overstuffed and claustrophobic. That cat photo almost saves the day, but not quite.

TPC keep their songs taut and mostly under three minutes, so Elephant Shell whips by in a charging whirl of indie rock urgency but skips on substance.

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

Recorded in various New York studios, it has a live, intimate feel despite its overdubs.

Sadly, this is a posthumous offering that sounds half-finished and, considering they must have known this would be their final statement, like a missed opportunity.

It's not exactly a fun listen, but fans will eat it up.

Move Like This doesn't so much rebuild the Cars' old engine as take the classic model for a cruise in the country.

At times the album feels just a bit too airy, but it finds its footing when Jessie Stein's ghostly falsetto blends with the band's unique orchestral-psychedelic instrumentation more directly.

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

As endearing as Jorge Garcia's face is, shining warmly from the cover of Weezer's eighth release, the timely pop reference to a Lost character is the perfect symbol for a band on a continued downward spiral into meme-based gimmickry and music with zero staying power.

The more introspective moments show songwriting potential that's worth getting excited about, but at times the disc coasts along too comfortably to be truly remarkable.

The album is surprisingly full of acoustic sounds and wistful balladry reminiscent of her 90s material, but it also plugs into a load of dark, restless and weird club rhythms with help from a coterie of in-demand producers.

Throwback factor aside, there is a lot of shameless fun on offer, though little imagination. But what they lack in originality they make up for in hooks and enthusiasm.

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.

It’s ambitious for a debut, and for the most part Miranda is able to keep up.

It might have fewer surprises and off-kilter oddities than we’d hoped for, but it definitely won’t kill your buzz.

As accessible as most of it is, though, the band can’t seem to resist throwing strange electronic sounds and off-kilter ideas into the mix, which helps offset some of their blander tendencies.

The result is a very quiet record (possibly reflecting her admittedly timid nature--stage fright was once a big problem for her), but one that rewards a close listen.

At first, the minimalist acoustic guitar and Canning’s murmured vocals sound almost nonchalant, but his deft playing and nuanced arrangements elevate tracks like However Long and Bullied Days.

The band can still come up with strong hooks, and some of the 80s guitar rock references hit their mark, but the results are sabotaged by singer Julian Casablancas, who sounds like he’s conserving all his energy and passion for his next solo record.

The Past We Leave Behind is lovingly crafted but too vague to live up to its title.

Relapse isn't their best work by far, but if you listen to it next to their genuinely great albums like Psalm 69 or The Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Taste, it stands up better than the cranky metal/industrial establishment--who've been dissing it mercilessly--would have you believe.

The results are sometimes sharp, as on mischievous New York City and Here We Go Again, with their mirrored melodies reinterpreted on flute and sax. Other times, his lyrical directness relies on clichés--reminding us that love sometimes sounds quite ordinary.

Dos!, the aptly named second part of the trilogy, is relieved of the weight of expectation and, though it was recorded at the same time as the first, sounds less strained.

It's enjoyable enough, but the potency of Merritt's wit is gradually sapped by one wheezy, sluggish melody too many.

With some exceptions, the songs truly take flight when Kindness cedes the mic to others, like Robyn or Kelela, whose voices add depth and suggestiveness--with an ease that eludes Bainbridge himself--elevating the album’s bland lovelorn sentiment.

Henry Wagons’s debut solo album is a slim but interesting collection of duets that are--like his work with his band Wagons--rootsy, genre-jumping and occasionally psychedelic and hard-rocking.

The amount of fatigue and cynicism baked into 14th album Innocence Reaches is not just a bummer; it's verging on ominous.

The 25-year-old Earle may have the false front teeth to show for his hard livin’, but he hasn’t yet figured out how to translate it into unique, memorable songs.

There’s something bewitching about this free-form section of Testing, but there’s still that feeling Rocky's stylistic adventurousness--however appealing--is overwhelming lyrics and flows that aren't as ambitious as the production.

It’s high-quality pop, but also highly disposable.

At 18 tracks, Starboy delivers some pop gems, but its last third falters with a string of schmaltzy ballads eventually rescued by the Daft Punk-assisted closer, an enjoyable bit of retro lite-funk that wouldn’t have sounded out of place on Random Access Memories.

2 Chainz likes to offset the raunchy with the heartfelt, but when the tone shifts to earnestly autobiographical, he sounds derivative.

The appeal is easy to hear, but ultimately X undermines emotional rawness with slick production and lyrical goop that feels calculated and bland.

Scattered and uneven, but not without its charms.

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.

Though not nearly as stunning as its predecessor, Infestissumam still has excellent moments, many courtesy of the rhythm section.

While there are occasional flashes of brilliance on this 10th studio album, the missteps far outnumber the bright points.

It's devoid of merriment and singalongs, and there's something refreshing--if not reassuring--about having a soundtrack for indulging your inner Scrooge.

It's quickly evident on We Are The Night that the Chemical Brothers are making a serious go at being contemporary.... They pull it off relatively well for the most part.

Asiatisch mixes repetitive industrial noises, poetry samples, Asian synth motifs and vaguely menacing atmospherics into tepid, listless and melodically bland soundscapes that serve the concept more successfully than they do the listener.

Excellent lyrics can’t save the record from the unnecessary length of some songs; Flesh sacrifices some of its immediacy and impact in tracks that can drift away from the point.

Although All Of Me shares that record's [The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill] fervour, it lacks its cohesiveness due to a few forgettable pop turns.

Too bad that so many of the instrumental tracks are pleasant but forgettable downtempo jams that dilute the impact of the highlights.

Gaga has wrenched herself away from dance-pop to focus on the country and classic rock influences that have always been present in her music, albeit gussied up like a coked-out drag queen stumbling out of a bar at 4 am.

Their beats and rhymes reflect none of the punchliney fun they used to have.

A handful of songs, like 'Things I'll Do,' find Northern State at their zenith, perfect storms of concept, beat and lyrical cleverness. Others are catchy but inane. Enough are just insipid.

It's apparent Nelson doesn't share Adams's enthusiasm for the Fleetwood Mac and Grateful Dead numbers, but he's at home with Gram Parsons's $1,000 Wedding and Leonard Cohen's well-covered Hallelujah.

While this is an atmospheric record, it's also upbeat and poppy enough to encourage dancing or at least vigorous head-nodding.

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

This time Karl Hyde and Rick Smith team up with a revolving cast of dance producers (Appleblim, Al Tourettes, High Contrast), hoping one of the many approaches to rock-meets-techno will again produce a bankable hit. Surprise! That doesn't happen.

A likeable, though inconsistent, record.

An album that vacillates between raucous and refined without losing sight of the dance floor.

The biggest problem beyond the recycled rhymes is the production. There are lots of beatsmiths on hand here, but none even come close to doing what the Neptunes did for them on their proper albums.

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

These tunes tend to meander and often feel like they should be going somewhere we never get to. But a lot of it is very lovely.

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

Overall, the gangsta bravado and rabble-rousing sound uninspired and too familiar.

His greatest strength is his storytelling: lyrics are never expected or trite, not annoyingly inscrutable but just obscure enough to be intriguing.

Current fans may appreciate these saccharine sounds, but others will find them a little much. Still, the highlights make this album worth recommending to those with a penchant for breakup music.

The record's best moments aim low rather than loud, with spacious, skittery beats that let loose Rihanna's Caribbean cadence.

Wading through almost an hour of smoky-voiced lonely-heart ballads like You Only Call Me When You're Drunk, Late Night Partner and Until Tomorrow Then is a yawn-inducing exercise that makes you question whether Harcourt's really this sad or if he's just putting on a lugubrious front.

Sure, your tweenage little sister will probably love this album, but I’m sorry, if she was even partially aware of hiphop and R&B music for the last decade or so, she’d know how much pilfered production and recycled rap is crafted here.

There’s not much new here, but Springsteen has always traded on a maudlin permanent nostalgia that only works because it’s so fucking earnest that it blasts through our attempts to be cynical about it.

Consistent, yes, but not the king yet.

While the best moments prove the country queen is still at the top of her game, missteps like spoken word breaks add unneeded cheese, and Pure & Simple isn't all that thematically diverse.

While it’s not a bad debut, it’s nothing special either.

Choosing to record only songs by women is an intriguing twist. It might actually have made for a great comeback album if Moorer had dug a little deeper for more appropriate material.

Too often it feels as if they’re all going through the motions, opting to play it safe, while Oberst himself seems bored and uninterested.

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

If you can't stand top-40 contemporary dance pop, don't bother (and consider not leaving your house for the next couple of years). Listen to Contrast with an open mind, though, and you hear a kid with real talent.

Most of the tracks sound pretty familiar, though, with just enough new tricks to avoid feeling like a complete rerun.

The songs aren’t as lyrically cheesy as Kroeger and Co., not as overtly retro as the Sheepdogs, more fun than Theory of a Deadman and most interesting – by far--when harnessing prog rock, as on The Giant. Too bad the latter only happens once.

A few verses drag out too long, but Drew’s storytelling remains firmly in the foreground.

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.

The production sometimes eclipses the songwriting.

Wilco drummer Glenn Kotche and Jim O’Rourke bassist Darin Gray needed three years to create, during breaks in their schedules, the unhurried dream-like expedition that is their fourth full-length album.

Taylor isn't pushing the limits of pop so much as flattening and stretching them out until they evaporate into nothingness. He creates a dreamy mood, but you may not be awake by the end.

There's something genuinely refreshing about smiley-faced singer/songwriter Rosie Thomas's straightforwardness.

She manages to cut through generic themes to inject darker predilections with hard-sung vocals that sound downright masochistic at times.

KRS-One's wordplay remains clever and topical, especially on the anti-Auto-Tune anthem Robot, while his sanctimoniousness has been toned down to more tolerable levels. Black Moon’s Buckshot is a comfortable pairing and, although his street-savvy sound may not have aged as well as some of his Duck Down Records brethren’s, he still finds a familiar dynamic when rapping alongside old cohorts.

The tunes remain pleasantly unhurried, lush and laid-back but fail to stimulate. His small, fragile voice now seems slightly whiny and affected.

Too bad clunky lyrics hold things back at times.

It comes off like a neutered reprise of the band's decades-old spirit.

Unfortunately, singer Gary Lightbody can't resist playing it safe. He slides comfortably back into the stadium-size ballads and mushy MOR formulas that scored on their million-seller, Final Straw.

The Ween/Animal Collective/early-Beck thing works on Don’t Go Phantom and You Cried Me, but you have to stomach Jookabox’s tendency to chipmunkify their voices. Still, both tracks are enjoyably balanced.

The experimentation pays off.

Fans of the Mary Chain's Suicide-meets-Shangri-Las hijinks will have an immediate connection to Sister Vanilla's sweetly sinister sound, particularly when Jim or William steps up to the microphone to add his droning vocals.

Melt doesn't sound fractured because of a glut of geographical references but because of its pieced-together nature.

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.

The more conventionally New Age tracks that dominate the first half are the weakest. Things start to get interesting on Tethered In Dark, when the acoustic guitar arpeggios and synths lock together into hypnotic loops.