All four members have referred to I'm With You as a creative rebirth. That might be a stretch. But judging by the flashes of promise, one might be waiting just around the corner.

Stakee’s pensive, emotional songs sit snugly with lite-drama television series like Sons of Anarchy and Californication, as well as video games like NFL Madden 12. It’s not necessarily a bad thing (as that’s what pays these days), but without any other musical or lyrical distinction, Alberta Cross’ music works best paired with something else.

Lovesick Blues is more a collection of great moments than great songs, although there are a few of those as well.

All things considered, Andy Warhol’s Dream stands as promising first effort for an aggressively intelligent wunderkind climbing the shoulders of giants, but it’s also a wearyingly wasted one that betrays a troubling self-satisfaction.

Endless Wonder has a lot of great songs, but they aren’t among the best of what Say Hi has to offer.

Xiu Xiu’s esoteric lyrics and challenging, textured sounds are part of what make them so singular as a group, but can also be overdone. OH NO’s moving moments of catharsis and uplifting hope are muted by how exhaustingly over-the-top the rest of the album feels.

They're not throwaways, but the entire EP isn't essential.

The further the band gets from their genre’s standard tropes, the more their dynamic lyricism and detail-oriented instrumentation get highlighted, resulting in a few breathtaking songs. But when packaged into Forward Motion Godyssey as a whole, the pacing is slightly off, making for a shaky rollercoaster ride of sounds that don’t always reach its thrilling peak. The ones that do, though, are exhilarating.

Randell and Hassett are a formidable musical team, certainly, with both skill and vision to spare. They proved that on Passerby. Sculptor, on the other hand, seems like it’s searching for the right path forward, with both glimmers of hope and rough patches.

He isn’t mellowing with age, but serving up more Cure, as you’ve come to expect.

I still prefer Bell X1 with just an acoustic guitar and piano, but Bloodless Coup is, at the least, guaranteed to grow your Best of Bell X1 playlist.

In terms of pure songwriting, Suckers have emerged with surprising (and, at times, frustrating) discipline.

There's much to be said for any band that can cover so much sonic territory in 12 tracks and 45 minutes. But next time, Woods should aim for enough sound to fill one dusty, neglected '60s LP-not an entire cratefull.

Ultimately, this new take on The Psychedelic Swamp mainly serves as a means of sharing Dr. Dog’s backstory and really nothing more.

Born To Sing is absolutely not all bad, but by the end of the album and rolling tally of excuses, the slack stack measures tall.

The artistic liberty of neglecting to ease anyone in to a new incarnation of the same band is wholly admirable. The result, however, is pretty uneven.

While the duo borrows a bit too obviously from its influences at times, the album’s detailed production and stylistic shifts reward multiple listens, resulting in a pop album with surprising depth.

It’s an impressive start, and As Long As I Have You is stronger in its first half than its second.

Perhaps Blumberg didn’t know at the start that the Hebronix release would lead to a split from his band, but most of the six songs on Unreal catch him in the mood to say goodbye.

Throughout Ruinism, Lapalux programs his beats with an eye towards gradual rewards, and having no vocals to enhance their accessibility makes them a bit impenetrable at first, just as the fearsome journey towards death doesn’t offer instant answers.

Ffor all its textural beauty, Glide too often does what the title suggests, with songs that float by without really sticking.

The problem with More Light is the problem with any given Primal Scream record: too much variety. And the problem with that problem is it can also work for them as a strength. But on More Light, it can get hard to see any kind of cohesion beyond compilation.

Late Riser, a record that for all its big-hearted energy and infectious songs still can’t escape the temptation to over-produce.

Tennessee Pusher suggests that--for Old Crow Medicine Show--thoughtful evolution might be less vital than intelligent design and the re-creation of the band’s traditionalist roots.

It's hard to discern their true mission, but Nightingale is best when it traffics in the modest pleasures of a memorable melody or a pointed lyric.

Spooky Action, the bulk of which was written and recorded in Loewenstein’s home studio in the fall and winter of 2016, arrives some 15 years after his solo debut, At Sixes and Sevens, and offers glimmers of his various musical sensibilities.

The record would be better served to ditch a majority of its so-so offerings and stick to its successes--those that show Barnes as willing to channel his creativity into a focused direction.

Atmospheric and evocative, Gold In A Brass Age is as easy an entry point to Gray as it a continuation of an impressive career for already-established fan. It’s an album that demands a listen in full, rather than piecemeal or on shuffle, allowing the whole mood to permeate.

He manages to allude heavily to other artists without losing his own idiosyncrasies. Chief among them is his syncopated jive-cadence delivery.

It’s apparent even now, though, that the group is still growing and refusing to choose any one path. An inventive, varied record made in this way can succeed, but there needs to be something holding it all together, and Forgiveness is void of any such spine

Martin is no longer writing songs for kids, but Arts & Leisure is educational, earnest and wry in equal bursts.

While I never needed to hear the T-Pain Auto-Tune vocal effect in Chichewa, the beats and hooks on this collaboration between Malawian singer Esau Mwamwaya and London-based DJ/producer duo Radioclit are inventive enough to forgive the occasional overindulgence.

It's quite hard to get a grasp on Tha Carter IV; in its relentlessly schizophrenic assault, you might end up falling in-and-out of love several times.

Lame lyrics aside, Sugar demonstrates Dead Confederate's natural talent for grunge atmospherics, but they could use some songwriting workshops before tackling their third effort.

What once made Banhart such a strange bird--roaming from jazz to folk to indie pop, often within a single song, as on the impossibly catchy 'Chin Chin & Muck Muck'--now seems almost mainstream, as if the rest of the pop world has not only caught up with him, but left him in its dust.

Ultimately, A Man I’d Rather Be (Part II) is best suited to those who may be aware of Jansch’s formidable reputation, and ready to begin some intensive album acquisition. Given the evidence provided by what’s heard here, that effort is certainly well warranted.

Like it not, Talib Kweli's place in hip hop has become something like Yo La Tengo's place in indie rock-a solid, moderately predictable journeyman who serves the musically leftish center with skill and charm, even if the frontier is now situated elsewhere.

The problem with Macy Gray's comeback album is that, on it, she talks too much about her comeback album.

At 42 minutes, Reasons begins to drag a bit, and it may not bring Klein the attention she enjoyed with her former band, but it is a sonically captivating and promising first effort that reveals itself a little more with each listen.

If his latest album doesn’t quite rise to the level of Bring the Family or Slow Turning, well, that’s a high bar, and Hiatt is not the same person as he was in his mid-30s. But the past is past, and The Eclipse Sessions is strong enough to make an impression of its own.

Yours, Dreamily is far from a bad record; it’s just not as punchy as fans would hope it would be.

The songwriting is another matter. Where debut album Hometowns was saturated with specific references to Alberta, with little cinematic details that helped to flesh out the songs, Departing relies too frequently on stock winter imagery and generic love laments.

Artificial Heart is an enjoyable, albeit off-kilter album that is probably better as individual songs rather than as a complete piece.

Despite the heavy-handed intents, the album is surprisingly accessible overall. The arrangements generally maintain a pastoral pastiche, an uptempo feel that’s both compelling and catchy. Indeed, the shimmer that illuminates the vast majority of the material is generally elegiac.

As a coming-out party, Island Universe is an effective offering, rightfully confident in its demonstrations of range.

The listenability and creativity of Dre’s grand scheme almost save Compton from itself, but it’s the final song of the album that brings down the house.

It is surely no coincidence that Sling’s best songs are the ones written solely by Cottrill, while a handful of her six co-writes with Antonoff—“Bambi,” “Partridge,” “Little Changes”—never quite take shape, instead spending a few minutes as an unmemorable mush of baroque studio-pop. ... Which brings us back to “Blouse” and another song credited only to Cottrill, “Just for Today.” Because of their relative lack of adornment, these are the tracks that stand out on Sling.

There’s nothing to suggest in Hotspot that Pet Shop Boys are running low on inspiration. The album’s highs are high enough to further prove that the duo has had the most consistent career of any of their synth-pop peers.

Even with all its bright spots—sunshine and Shawn Mendes and summers that “last forever”—The Big Day still doesn’t do all that much, especially in the shadow of classics like Acid Rap and Coloring Book. The Big Day is one neverending dad joke.

What made their previous work so special was their ability to encompass the listener’s consciousness, looming over uncomfortable moments and allowing them to feel gratitude for the ensuing moments of relief. Ceremony lacks that control, and instead assumes the listener wants to be dragged around this disorienting hall of funhouse mirrors without looking into a mirror themselves.

The album won't rope in new listeners, but those who've loved him all these years will find plenty to sink their teeth into.

The Orb are deep in their own pocket here and welcome all to join them in their warm depths. Whether anyone will heed their call after all this time remains to be seen.

The Montreal duo of P-Thugg and Dave 1 write hypnotic, theatrical disco beats reminiscent of Miami's late-'70s/early-'80s blow scene.

Songs like “180 Days” and “The Party” are stand-outs, but some of the other tracks can blend together unobtrusively enough that they go scrolling by without commanding your full attention, not memorable enough to make a lasting impact. That could be a testament to their subtlety, though it’s more likely a sign of an artist with vast potential who is still growing into her talent.

200 Million Thousand falls somewhere between a riot and a soundtrack for a Sunday drive, too big for the garage but not quite ready for India, either.

Despite the pitfalls of Girl, the group do show an openness to experimentation that is far more promising than if they had just released a watered-down version of Earl Grey. But a more pop-focused sound doesn’t do them any favors either, and they don’t quite stick the landing.

Overall, the album is fairly easy listening.

Conrad Keely’s vocals remain scabby and untreated and there’s still a bit much sonic compression, but the relative rawness adds a subtle flair to this record.

5EPs is the first time this seemingly interminable project has felt completely approachable, rather than yet another informational overload in this swirling year. And though it highlights each performer’s unique strengths, it sometimes obscures the new members’ talents under tried-and-true Dirty Projectors sounds.

Even if the album sometimes feels thematically hollow, Utopia is still one of the most forward-thinking mainstream releases of the year. Scott is still pushing the boundaries of his psychedelic trap sound after ten years in the industry, and shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.

It's an uninspired ending to what is generally a sharp, full-bodied collection of tracks from what is now an equally sharp, full-bodied duo.

Though the band deserves props for pulling off fuzzy, exuberant three-minute romps ('Nothing to Hide') and ponderous, 11-minute space-folk wankery ('The Fireside') within the span of one album, the results are inconsistent.

With studio assistance from veteran producer John Agnello, NOTHING’s third album, Dance on the Blacktop, is sleek and hooky, refining the band’s approach without undermining that omnipresent distortion blare.

Sweet Heart is beguiling, warm and wise, but it begs for a good kick in the ribs.

It’s worth noting that the band’s emphasis on songcraft, on making a point, pays off in a way that not every track here does.

For an album with a swimming pool on its cover, it doesn’t exactly submerge you in its sonic layers. Rather, it’s a wade through the shallow water heading to the deep end of the pool.

Strapped isn't groundbreaking, especially by the standards The Soft Pack have set for themselves.

It’s an album that acts as if simply existing was success enough. Yes, it is successful in this light, but it could have still tried to be more.

13 Rivers may be the most hazardous crossing Thompson’s ever had to make, but it’s also one of the most telling.

With such fraught subject matter, the only dissonance seems to be from the lushness of the mostly acoustic arrangements and the actual life contained in the lyrics.

Album closer “Meant to Be” is maybe the best song on the album. It’s uptempo, for one thing, with electric guitars that circle and soar above a bed of synthesizers and a propulsive beat that help Tweedy’s melody take flight. It’s a reminder of how good Wilco can be at their best, even if that’s a standard the band doesn’t always reach on Cousin.

An unchallenging, unsurprising, and un-garage-y joy, but a joy nonetheless.

Despite the album’s lack of big splashes, it still lands like a trip to Florida in February. And at only eight-songs-long, it’s endlessly digestible. Snow, sleet and seasonal affective disorder may rage on, but Supervision is pure warmth.

Lyrically, Major General can ride shotgun with Nicolay's most-famous band....Elsewhere, Major General's arrangements are ragged, or worse, distracting.

Girls in Peacetime Want to Dance is far from the best Belle & Sebastian album, and it signals more a distraction for their sound than an evolution. Still, just as everything is with them, that distraction is both pleasant and polite.

Yes, the hellfires still burn, and the hearts are still black, and the end is ever nigh. But this time the songs are infused with a contemporary heartache that sounds far closer to 2011 than to the 1931 Depression-era vibe the band typically evokes.

The performances here stick too closely to the source material to offer anything truly exciting or gripping.

By releasing these two projects at once, it seems as if Luna are overcompensating for a lack of new fully fledged songs.

As it turns out, Holy Ghost! haunts with more consistency under the sheets than on the dance floor.

When Le Bon and Cox take traditional approaches, they nail it, just as they did on both their most recent albums. When they venture into less familiar territory, though, they drive a bit too far off the rails, but graciously, the train never quite crashes.

It's the most Dears-like thing they've ever produced: an ambitious, insanely layered, eclectic (sometimes too eclectic) concept album about the thick, looming boundaries that separate Heaven from the Hell we call Earth.

Transfixiation is at its best, however, when a little restraint casts its own spooky shadows.

Until the Tide Creeps In isn’t that; nor is it a mawkish trip down memory lane. Instead, it’s an album of reconciliation, an opportunity for Jack and Lily to make sense of their youth spanning into their adulthood.

Noctourniquet is not the band's best effort, but it is pleasing and interesting.

These are songs written simply and genuinely, and in a city and a scene soaking in irony and image, they are a refreshing change.

The wavering focus keeps Cash Cabin Sessions, Vol. 3 from ranking among Snider’s best albums, but even his middling material is stronger than a lot of songwriters’ first-rate stuff. Even if the album doesn’t hold up in its entirety, the bright spots here are plenty worthy of attention.

Comedown Machine [is] reliably solid, mostly enjoyable, slightly disappointing for reasons that are difficult to articulate.

Clark's refusal to be pigeonholed as merely a great axman results in a diverse, sometimes confounding record that exhibits a still-evolving oeuvre while still showcasing the chops that got him to this point in his career.

Burnett's production is well-intentioned, but the vibe is a little too restrained, the burn a little too controlled.

While Cleopatra may seduce the faithful, it would be far better if next time The Lumineers are able to regain their groove.

This Is Not A Safe Place never quite finds its footing. The lyrics are a snapshot of the band’s current frame of mind—those recurring thoughts that fire when you turn in for the night. They’re deeply personal and never self-important, but also not particularly cohesive or thematic on the whole.

Overton Park best reps its city when it’s not trying so hard. While Lucero could’ve passed on the E Street saxes, Springsteen’s our-gang-versus-the-man mentality suits the band well.

With the majority of the songs maintaining a steady stride, Farrar shares his conviction with authority and insistence. Those are the qualities that allow Union to remain true to its common core.

Completely self-recorded and mastered, Blood of Man isn’t dressed up in studio effects—it’s as raw and real as the writing itself.

Kozelek’s lack of reservation here is something to be begrudgingly admired, as his willingness to make yet another album that is solely for himself and those obsessive fans who want all the gory details of his past. For the rest of the world, there’s not much here to make any real connection with.

Less socially conscious and significantly less dynamic than its peers (e.g. Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On, Donny Hathaway’s Everything Is Everything), Arthur Alexander doesn’t rise to their level of greatness. Nevertheless, a handful of very good performances, a half dozen excellent extra songs and above all, the strength of Alexander’s writing make this reissue an instructive reminder of the man’s terrific talent.

Manic is a rich and often confounding listen, an expansive album filled to the brim with the imagined worlds Halsey’s built for herself in the real one. It’s also sincerely, indefatigably Halsey: She puts her loves and ambitions on wholly earnest display, even if it doesn’t always make for the most consistent listen.

Lyrically, ON AN ON tells moody stories of loss and loneliness, without actually conveying very much emotion.