Whereas Xen had the odd, satisfyingly familiar beat pattern, Mutant is even more punk. It dives headlong into an emotional abyss and proceeds with a rhyme or reason that's up to listeners to determine.

They still show no interest in doing things the easy way, and we couldn't be happier about that.

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.

Here, he ratchets that up another notch, attacking familiar concepts (wantonly commercial rappers, his complicated relationship with his mother, the push and pull of celebrity) with seasoned vigour.

With production duties primarily hot potatoed between Hagler and Kenny Beats, the beats and feel are consistent and strong while not getting in the way of Staples’ flow, which is elastic and modern without losing an inch of his clarity and bluntness.

The Ecstatic begins with the Middle Eastern/rock-music-influenced Supermagic and doesn't let up on the sound clashes until the very end. Production by Madlib, Oh No, J Dilla, and Mr. Flash (yes, the Ed Banger Records Mr. Flash) keeps The Ecstatic's instrumental canvas as multi-textured and eclectic as they come.

At times the Crosby, Stills & Nash-­inspired harmony bits come off slightly overbaked, but if Oldham is angling for a summery feel-good sound that will go down well with Americana fans without alienating his sad sack indie rock fans, I’d say he knocked it out of the park.

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

Besides turning out impeccable vocal, guitar and banjo performances, he infuses each song with a timeless minimalism undoubtedly developed through years of propping up others.

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

At last, everything Escovedo does well is represented on a single disc.

The album favours a downtempo pace, and Smith’s superstar potential is apparent on close-to-final song Tomorrow. But it’s the mid-album entry The One, with its swirling string arrangements and ambiguous tension between defiant lyrics and aching delivery, that suggests Smith’s ascent is far from over.

Things mostly stay low-key and subtle, with Ejstes's guitar growing righteously wild just once, on En Dag På Sjön, one of several instrumentals.

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.

They save overt prettiness for the music.

What's disappointing if you're a fan is that the man has his tropes -- both melodic and lyrical -- and stubbornly sticks to 'em.

While there are still plenty of swooshing sounds and heady instrumentation, it’s refreshing to see that Sigur Rós can do more than create aural landscapes.

Back To Black is just a darkly rockin' good time, which will hopefully spark a new trend away from R&B's sickening slickification.

Focused, domestic, deep in thought. It's as anti-complacent as pop music gets.

While some of her melodies could be a bit more defined, she's a nuanced enough performer to captivate at the most self-indulgent of times.

At a time when many musicians seem eager to gain currency from identity politics and sociopolitical events, Mangy Love satisfies by being rooted in a nuanced observer’s perspective.

The hype has reached a dangerous level. Which makes it oh so sweet that Sore delivers.

Somewhat self-indulgent, it's remarkably listenable considering some of the "instruments" used.

It’s rock ’n’ roll for 2019, though the band calls it simply pub rock. Either way, it’ll get a mosh going.

These are personal, contemporary story songs that centre on DeMent's signature plain delivery, the gospel-soul horn arrangements and the occasional wailed vocal

There's a more visceral quality that will help win over those that have been on the fence in the past.

His tendency to cram a million ideas into every song gets toned down, too, but fans of that aesthetic shouldn’t worry; the songs are as intricate and delightfully off-kilter as ever.

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.

Despite the limited tools, he evokes everything from jazz and doom metal to techno and classical music, often simultaneously.

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

Conveying so much harrowing detail in such a brief time is no small feat – one reason why his music lingers long after the album ends.

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.

hat mix of worldly and familiar references, moods and textures ensures that The Magic Whip buzzes with urgency, even at its most serene and existential (or when Albarn rehashes his banal reservations about modern times).

While these new recordings aren't that different from the original versions, their stripped-down arrangements highlight the strong songwriting, not to mention the musicianship of everyone involved.

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.

Andy Shauf’s new songs are fictional but feel oh so real, especially if you live in Toronto and even more especially if you live in Parkdale and frequent Skyline, the diner where most of the Toronto-based musician’s new album takes place. ... There are new melodic and rhythmic risks taken.

Rather than merely rehashing sounds of yesteryear, Speedy Ortiz add modern rock ’n’ roll strokes to their take on fuzzy noise pop.

What sets Yuck apart is their excellent songwriting. It takes hooks to pull off songs like these, even if they're buried under piles of grunge, and Yuck have hooks in scores.

Along with this requisite silliness come beautiful melodies (See The Leaves), exploding rock-out sections (The Ego's Last Stand) and catchy, laid-back guitar melodies (Silver Trembling Hands).

Countless acts have shamelessly imitated the Velvet Underground, but DeMarco has come up with a new tweak to that formula, coming closer to a lighthearted Modern Lovers feel without sacrificing the edginess and darkness of the VU.

Plenty of boldface names are assisting here, but with the exception of Kendrick Lamar, who continues his streak of scenery-chewing guest verses on Nosetalgia, they stay out of the way.

Le Bon's pop sensibilities are much more pronounced, yet they don't dilute any of her wonderful weirdness.

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.

If you’re not up on that stuff, Microcastle may seem like a more impressive creative breakthrough than it actually is, which could explain the gushy reviews.

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

Throughout, on both killers and filler, the singer sounds like she’s having so much fun.

A little rough around the edges, the album is pleasantly calm while simultaneously tapping into anxieties in its lyrics.

There's still nothing particularly radio-friendly here and plenty of weirdness to go around, but more than ever the free jazz influences and pulsating drones seem designed to serve the song and not just enhance the listener's physical sensations.

it’s unfair to expect him to suddenly modernize now. He does, however, explore some unexpectedly psychedelic terrain here, which he handles impressively.

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.

It's eminently clear these producers know exactly when to assert themselves and when to stay out of the soul legend's way to achieve the most captivating results possible.

In some ways the change in direction makes you feel closer to him than ever – especially if you can digest Impossible Soul, a 25-minute dissection of failed love at the end of this already lofty 75-minute charmer.

A perfect balancing act.

It's not particularly deep, but it's energetic, buoyant, fun and more than a little infectious.

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

A full three years later, Sound & Color avoids the sophomore slump by packing a sense of purpose into its 12 sleek yet gritty soul tracks.

Pretty much every track is a head-turner.

A huge part of her appeal is how authentically she manages to channel the intensity of adolescent angst, which makes lines that should be cringe-inducing feel too real to critique.

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.

Hegarty sounds more in control of his remarkable voice than ever before, and this new restraint suits him. When you’ve got this much emotive power at your fingertips, it’s wise to reel it in a bit.

Bloodsports is exactly what a Suede fan wants, and it also sounds remarkably less dated than anything their old rivals Oasis are up to these days.

The greatest strength of the album is that you don’t think of the original artists while Ndegeocello is singing. Some will feel she’s been reckless with beloved jams, others will fall in love with them all over again, and many will discover a new side of them even if they’ve heard the original a million times.

Have We Met is another new departure, yet it still has that familiar strange storytelling swagger that’s at the heart of Destroyer.

He projects a charismatic mix of youthful playfulness, cheeky confidence and naked vulnerability that would seem wasted on fun dance pop except that he does it so perfectly.

It turns out that while he’s been working on these absurdly long stoner dance tracks, he’s also been holed up in the studio with vocalist Christabelle working on this amazing album of more concise material.

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.

There's an enigmatic quality to his rapid-fire narratives, which bounce between composed and freestyle. And yet Bleeds is also clearly one of his most dynamic, intimate and humble artistic efforts, revealing more with every listen.

It's never clear where these songs are going, but the result always satisfies.

A far cry from the piano-tinkling heard in formulaic modern pop, Krug’s ivories are often filmic (Barbarian), or musical-theatre enough to evoke Hugh Jackman or Julie Andrews singing amidst a mountainscape (November 2011).

It's not quite perfect: his voice is the star of the show but is occasionally buried under the clever beats and production. But that's a small complaint about someone who's looking more and more like one of the most exciting artists to emerge this year.

At 18 tracks, Honest doesn’t feel bloated. Future takes his time on slow, sensitive jams.... But for every tender ballad, there’s a classic Future banger in which he yelps the hook over and over, lest you forget it, on top of harsh beats.

If Kill For Love doesn't make you a Chromatics believer, nothing will.

Make no mistake--that Jersey (GA's home state) vibe still lurks in the corners. It's just that his writing style is more distinctive here. It's also the sound of a band pushing itself while capitalizing on its strengths.

It's easily one of the most beautiful, subdued folk records of the year.

Gorgeous fuzz guitar leads and glam rock glitter dominate, offset by soft layered harmonies and dreamy textures.

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.

What makes this work so beautifully is that the sound is completely unique and modern and yet couldn't be confused for anyone else.

Comeback of the year.

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.

Because The Night, a Bruce Springsteen co-write whose lyrics she penned for Fred Smith before they were married, still holds special power, especially this remastered version.

The deeply personal and overtly political are indivisible on Give My Love To London, an album that is harrowing in its bluntness and beautiful in its subtleties.

A Treasure is a snapshot of an era when Young's then-label, Geffen, went to war with him for not representing himself in a commercially viable way.

Bondy's third record isn't drastically different from its two predecessors, 2007's American Hearts and 2009's grossly overlooked When The Devil's Loose.

The hour-long LP often plays out like an experimental 80s fever dream, but it’s still anchored by The Weeknd’s broody sonic DNA.

It’s satisfying enough to nod off to, even if it confirms suspicions that the band peaked at Pentastar.

Sometimes the vocals are uncomfortable (that goes away after a couple of listens), and sometimes, like on Caribou or Rabbit, they're crystal clear and beautiful. The instrumentation is just as amorphous.

Always good for a spirited rock song, he infuses Patty Don't You Put Me Down with narrative wit and charge that recalls contemporary Bob Dylan. We're all lucky that Thompson is on fire these days.

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.