One Life Stand is a worthwhile album peppered with lackluster songs, and not vice-versa. With Hot Chip, you tolerate inconsistency for occasional moments of bliss.

Duffy has a uniquely girlish voice, like Joey Lauren Adams doing an impression of a Bond Girl, and her quirks get the best of her during the album's slower moments, where her vibrato sounds forced and faded. When the tempo picks up, though, Endlessly sounds like a proper sophomore effort: mature, confident, and wider in scope than its predecessor.

Call It Love, her fourth album, was a chance for the Seattle native to move further into synthpop substance, but the beautiful, luminescent prisms she resides in often fail to reach emotional ground.

Turner leaves behind considerable wreckage with Positive Songs--in ways both cathartic and clumsy. And as usual, he goes down swinging.

It all works in context.

Revolution Radio is a loud, energized power-pop album in moody punk clothing. It sounds pretty goddamn radiant when it’s playing and leaves little impression when it isn’t.

THEESatisfaction's zoned songwriting won't earn any retrospection, but it's wonderfully reassuring that they made an album like awE naturalE--it's living proof that unique statements can still be made in those old, unstylish indie-hop tenants.

Every instrument can be heard and enjoyed throughout, giving the album a sense of authenticity and modern relevance. At the same time, though, the lyrical weakness of Downtown Rockers feels like filler in itself.

It’s 14 minutes shorter than its predecessor, and it’s light on the warbled, bursting electronics that defined Half-Light’s hazy tales of queer romance. It feels quiet and intimate even when it’s roaring.

Given the variety of approaches employed within, just about everyone scrolling through these 11 tracks should find an addled anthem easy to love... even as the album itself remains frustratingly difficult to like.

As with many of the bands they take after, Hoops don’t offer a ton of variation from track to track. It’s the subtle shifts that keep Routines interesting.

This is music that is nearly impossible to dislike and is a fair recommendation for almost anyone seeking tranquility or quiet music for contemplation. Still, we should expect more from the Eno brothers, who are both iconic musicians in their own right and have left their impression on both the mainstream and experimental worlds forever.

There are truly transcendent moments on Shadow People, they’re just nestled in among the ones that never quite lift off. Add it all up and The Limiñanas remain a very cool band, which is a perfectly fine thing to be.

The record is perfectly pleasant, one that tries so hard to soundtrack that feeling of being in nature, maybe stopping to admire the view on a hike in the mountains, but it lacks the lyrical or musical immediacy to truly stand out among the handful of other albums (particularly those in his own back catalogue) that aim to do the exact same.

Granted, Brass doesn’t exactly qualify as real rock, indie or otherwise. Still, there’s passion that’s gleaned from British Sea Power’s attempt at something bolder, a sweeping sound that literally echoes from the rafters.

When he strips everything else away and zeroes in on penning a purely gorgeous song, you can hear the spark that has made him one of the most consistent and creative mainstream artists of the past 25 years. It’s still in there, sometimes you just have to travel through Hyperspace to find it.

Ruby Red is free to sprawl and amble, joyous in its own sense of creative possibility.

Songs like "Traveling" and "Robin" attempt to capture the same magic of Cape Dory but feel a bit out of place amongst all the displays of emotional angst elsewhere.

Booker T. is more a frontman than a bandleader here, which makes Potato Hole sound less like a solo album and more like a band project.

If Social Cues isn’t a bad album by any stretch; it’s nonetheless, in the band’s discography, surprisingly generic.

His voice proves his best instrument, which doesn’t make him any different from other earnest strummers out there. It does, however, invest these songs with a distinctively twilit poignancy.

The album is overly-produced and as gaudy as a paisley shirt, sure, but it’s also immensely compelling, inventive and fascinatingly unhinged, all while still maintaining a tight control and an understanding of how to reign it all in to create an actual song from the mire of noise.

A handful of songs here are as inspired as anything he has done in at least 30 years. But for an artist who has experienced enough of the American Dream to know where the truth is and where the lies are becoming more seductive, it’s a shame he didn’t have something more interesting to say about it all.

Love & War starts off quite strong. ... The back half of the album with “selfie” and his Timbaland collabs is pure chaff, the kind of filler that a major label artist can afford to get away with.

Girlpool’s trajectory from Before the World Was Big to What Chaos Is Imaginary proves how an album can be many things: a meticulously cohesive monologue delivered by multiple voices, or a notebook stuffed full of intriguing yet somewhat dispersed ideas. What Chaos falls into the latter category, though its title includes a self-referential wink that implies the band both perceives and embraces the work’s disarray.

Poetry has always been another tool in his box, but here more than ever, it seems that the lyrics serve as an instrument, not to be separated from the rest of the music, and helping to create a seamless but showy overall sound.

At four tracks and 18 minutes, Beak & Claw is over long before it starts to make any kind of sense--and the end result is as confounding as it is fascinating.

Push and Shove is still a welcome return, even if it's a tad exhausting.

With Is 4 Lovers, they not only prove that they can stretch without compromising, but also that intimacy and discovery can still be rockin’ AF.

Midlake’s latest LP is a nice addition to their already impressive arsenal, but it would benefit from a more detailed kind of excavation.

Reign of Terror plays like a band with original ideas who got stuck in quicksand.

The rest of the album slides downhill, a mix of inoffensive and unremarkable power-pop with the occasional slow jam to break the wistful monotony-the perfect soundtrack to cruising the streets of Seattle in your 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee.

Sonik Kicks stays right at that line, but teeters just enough to keep it from realizing the artistic success that it approaches.

While Bridges is certainly far from falling on his face, there’s nothing that really raises him above the droves of artists currently mining the sounds of ‘80s and ‘90s R&B either.

Too many of Hold Time’s tracks fail to leave an impression, blending into one another.

The biggest and most welcome surprise is that As You Were is not only a cohesive, fluid record, but shows that at age 45, “our kid” isn’t ready to go away just yet.

Change is good and expected from new, learning artists, but lacking a distinguishable characteristic to cling to makes the trajectory for a band like Childhood hazier than the kaleidoscopic jams they started out with.

It's a heady and abstract album that feels more like it should be studied than enjoyed.

Even if the tracks sometimes come off as a parade of pop stars whose music has little to do with one another, Harris still manages to create a cohesive fusion that transcends genre. After all, at the end of the day, pop isn’t supposed to be that deep.

There’s plenty of violent syncopation and propeller double kick on ...Of The Dark Light, but it’s the meaty, crawling half time grooves that really make the album crushing.

Heidecker still struggles to escape from the grip of his own humor. His inability to set himself free of his comedy sometimes undermines his darkest lyrics’ gravity, but in a year so defined by life crumbling to pieces, there are worse things than laughing amid the wreckage.

There needs to be a balance of reflection, inspiration and originality or things will come off stale and forced. Try as Danzig might, he never does find that equilibrium.

Distant Populations is actually heavier in spots than its predecessor, with more driving grooves, more riffs, and mushroom-cloud explosions. Still, after being set up by Interiors, it’s hard not to feel like something’s missing—namely, Capone.

Triage is full of fun, catchy melodies that waste no time grabbing your attention. Fans of 2010s indie pop bands like Foster the People will eat this by the spoonful. Webb is an Aussie pop prince and a keen producer, and this album, even if it occasionally slips into lyrical drab, sounds like the career-honoring record he needed to make.

Accompanied by wife Sharon, Finn sounds like he's having a legitimately good time, even if the slow shapeshifters presented here generally don't hang in the loftier heights of his classic work. Still, as an odd one-off romp, it's strangely fulfilling.

CRAWLER, especially, reads like a love album—a demonstration of the hard work and self-reflection required to be the most loving version of yourself. Talbot’s integrity could be felt on every beat. But TANGK boils love down so much it’s not clear if there’s anything there at all.

While the album at times requires careful attention to fully attach to, it's modestly flavored with a warmth and ease that naturally rings true.

The rebelliousness and playfulness promised and hoped for are glaringly absent and the listener is, unfortunately, left with a collection of songs that wouldn't sound out of place coming from the speakers of your local Starbucks.

You Know You Like It is so imbued with the history of the genre it's chosen to recreate that it has no sense of individual identity.

Producer Joe Henry succeeds in putting a Lanois-lite polish on everything, adding a subtle but not overbearing gravitas to the songs that allows Crowell’s humor to slide through without clashing.

It’s a well-crafted album with variety, conviction, skill and Tunstall’s husky, muscular, soulful voice navigating seamlessly between singer-songwriter, pop and fuller-bodied rock. She’s consistent, and there’s nothing terrible here--it’s just not terribly exciting either.

Even with a few missteps, Tanton's put together a collection showing that he's capable of memorable work, and likely to produce more of it.

While Bernhard and his colleagues--bassist Lucia Turino, guitarist Cooper McBean and new recruit, touring drummer Stefan Amidon--are intent on conveying these tales of darkness and despair, their upbeat approach, flush with propulsive rhythms and distorted guitars, suggests a punk-like persona and a devil-may-care distinction, one that distracts and departs from any deeper meaning.

Beauty Queen Sister will please fans that already love Indigo Girls, but the repetitive nature of the album might struggle to bring in new listeners.

The Glowing Man is the most formless of these records--light on groove but long on drifting passages that require leviathan feats of patience to endure.

Even the more listenable songs on Brand New Abyss, such as “So There” and “The Woman You Want,” sound more like a successful regurgitation of past sounds and ideas than anything new. And while that’s not a bad thing, it’s not enough of a reason to spend time listening to the new album.

For Now I Am Winter plays like a cultural stereotype, conjuring all the obvious adjectives but none of the emotions. But Arnalds has a gift for making boredom sound beautiful.

At 14 tracks, it feels pretty indulgent--only amplifying the fact that excluding a few choice cuts, these songs aren’t really all that good.

All That Reckoning proves the Junkies still have insights to offer on our most pressing social issues--if only they’d commit more boldly to exploring their best ideas.

If this all sounds like a dog’s breakfast of sound, it is--the tunes themselves only occasionally work.

It’s interesting, but it’s never happy, sad, angry or romantic. It’s not even overly smug.

It tries too hard to pay homage to horrorcore tropes, like the chopped-up horror movie samples and heart-pounding bass, and sounds too polished as a result. It’s horrorcore for people who don’t want to listen to the real thing. Clipping. is an incredibly innovative and talented group, especially in creating entire worlds within their songs, but at their most inhibited, they come off as try-hard.

The contrasting approaches clash, but even Thin Mind’s strongest offerings feel recycled. Think of the record as comfort food for Wolf Parade fans, or as an introduction to the band for the uninitiated, and the unadorned craftsmanship grows palatable. It’s a fine record. It’s even modern. It just isn’t progress.

Raven in the Grave is consistently inconsistent, just like its makers.

The songs here are frequently gorgeous in their arrangement and production, but they’re not the kinds of tunes you’re likely to find stuck in your head. Rather, Weller’s 14th album is a striking display of his range as a writer and performer.

Bainbridge reaches past the boundaries he set on Change of Mind, making Otherness a rich, varied examination of love and loneliness. But sometimes that sparseness he likes means there’s just too little to grip.

They already ask us to follow them on a slow path colored by skipping, jazzy tunes like “Lessons” and deepened by the rich drones and humming strings of “The Workers of Art.” Trying to crack open a conversation about epistemology in the process is asking a lot of folks that might otherwise set this album running in the background.

Cloud Nothings plays like the sonic equivalent of a merry-go-round ride-all momentum and boundless energy. This ride is fun, of course, but only in small doses.

No matter what speed they’re going, though, Versing all the right tools and sounds and instincts. They’re a very promising band. They just need a little more time in the oven and a little more distance from their influences. That’s the kind of thing that comes with time, and Versing has plenty of that ahead.

Caught between preserving his sound and experimenting with new ones, David Crosby lacks a firm musical identity on this new album. Hopefully, he finds a way to incorporate modern elements into his songs more effectively.

El Pintor is ultimately more pleasurable than it is painful, enough of a distraction to recall how important Interpol seemed at one time and how they can still pull off the illusion of importance after all these years.

Taken individually, the songs are beefy enough to satisfy stoner-rock munchies, but as an album, Heart is hardly cohesive.

Too often, it's elevator-funk, waiting room disco.

A stopgap EP that simultaneously displays the best and worst of what ...Trail of Dead can do.

lectric Slave explores old forms with vigor, charting links in minutes that took years to develop.

It's an easy listen, a friendly collection of solid journeyman jams and a decent starting place for the uninitiated.

While Landes’ is lovely at best and boring at worst, the real disappointment here is the excitement caused by Foster’s production work, which, sadly, doesn’t quite deliver.

While it would be foolish to dismiss Monastic Living as simply unlistenable, its concept far outweighs its content.

Lookout Low is 60% run-of-the-mill jamming and 40% pure, scuzzy originality, but it rarely sparkles. Twin Peaks can always bounce back, though. These songs are sure to stun live. Don’t let one mediocre recording session get in the way of your plans to see them next time they’re in town. I for one will be there—I just won’t be pregaming with Lookout Low.

Where Schlagenheim felt serrated and sharp-edged and packed tight with grooves, Cavalcade feels brooding and explorative. It’s wordy and lyric-minded, with long, serpentine narratives that unfold like shape-shifting fruit roll-ups.

[The] spirited mischief is sorely missed elsewhere on Who Needs Who, as the album settles into a series of soggy, minor-key piano ruminations.

Die-hard fans will love it, but for everyone else, Everything Matters But No One Is Listening probably won’t matter much at all.

On Something To Tell You, HAIM tend not to over complicate things with their West Coast pop: something that mostly plays to their advantage, but at times leaves them playing it safe.

Master of My Make-Believe is by no means a disappointment, but it falls short of the expectation that has been gestating for the past four years.

Jackrabbit is still a potent and evocative listening experience, even if it strongly recalls memories of even more potent and evocative listening experiences by other bands.

While Encyclopedia has some redeeming moments, it ultimately mirrors this complex in its many wavelengths.

CHAMPION, taken as a whole, functions more successfully as painfully honest introspection, 10 tracks worth of the singer working through an endless parade of complex and conflicting emotions. There’s a bit of an identity crisis at play here, and that crisis knocks the record down a few pegs. But Briggs’ struggles through her anguish and isolation were clearly worth the effort, and CHAMPION is worth a listen.

Like Nilsson Schmilsson, Losst and Founnd flits restlessly from style to style, emphasizing the singer’s eclecticism and sense of humor. And while the songs are hardly as great as that 1971 masterpiece, nor the production as timeless, it is nice to hear Nilsson’s voice anew.

Still Striving isn’t groundbreaking, but it’s a solid record. Ferg has the chops to be considered one of his generation’s greats, but in terms of creative vision and originality, he’s still not quite there.

This recording feels more like a pleasant diversion rather than a necessity.

FIDLAR know the record’s subject matter has been a part of rock ‘n’ roll since long before they were born, but they seem content to put the same stamp others have on the situation.

There's a bit more rock 'n' roll and personality to what The Middle East is doing, and, despite the fact that these guys are a seven-piece ensemble, you get the sense that without Jones, the entire affair would completely fall apart; it's his vocals and distinctive songwriting style that gives the band its identity.

It’s a disappointment to hear the band retreat into their old shell on their latest, The Invisible Way.

There's a definite charm in the album's perky, quirky little tunes and retromania, but Spanish Moss and Total Loss is still lacking the power of a single, standout hit.

Over just 33 minutes, On My One simply meanders too much, too unfocused as it weaves in and out of multiple genres, never getting a solid footing in any of them.

While the band takes some sonic risks and shows continued versatility on songs like 'Alligator Pie (Cockadile),' the album is saddled with some of the same leaden production values that have dogged the latter half of the band’s recorded career.

The trouble isn’t with Turner’s songwriting overall--Tape Deck Heart has more than its fair share of strong songs. The trouble is the absence of the sort of fist-pumping anthem that earned Turner so many fans to begin with.

It’s far from terrible, but it’s equidistant from that and “worth a dozen more spins.”