The Tourist is a good record, and this newest iteration of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah sounds very promising. The Tourist reflects the transition from a quintet to a solo project.

Had the fish-minded emcee trimmed some fat, Fish Outta Water could have been the album we were all craving from the 2na.

A serviceable debut, it has some interesting ideas, though it won’t change the game.

This is a collection of eight and nine-out-of-10 rock songs that come together to make a six-out-of-10 album experience.

Songs is solid when it sticks to what it knows best, the crisp beats, playful bass wobbles and shuddering tempo. His commercial experimentations are still hit and miss, enough hit to make these departures worthwhile, but also enough miss to make you wonder if Rusko is out of his comfort zone when he branches out.

It may not quite match up to their best work—which is, for my money, The Ghost of Fashion—but it’s a sure sign that they’re on their way back to that high-watermark.

Above the City also sounds worryingly familiar in places, sometimes brazenly so. Yet where it shines it radiates “Pop Deluxe”, even if it’s not always Club 8’s “Pop Deluxe”.

On King, O.A.R. play with even more radio-friendly structures, a move guaranteed to alienate some fans while gaining plenty of others.

Freak Out!, for all its fun, is the sound of a serious rock band that could stand to take itself just a tad more seriously.

Obits are good at what they do, especially with the volume pumped up loud, but on the whole I think I’d rather just give Kick Out the Jams one more spin.

When the Going Gets Dark seems stuck in a rut precisely because it is an album about being stuck in a rut.

Ultimately, something about this album feels a bit slight.

For better or worse, it seems like Mice Parade would rather not do things the easy way.

The closest Morlix gets to criticism is his poppy anti-gun rant, “Bang Bang Bang”, that notes the problems of too many bullets flying without really identifying why or what needs to be done. Sure, music should not be propaganda, but it needs to offer some insight.

[It] doesn't mean there's anything bad here, just an absence of anything new. To evoke another obvious comparison (and obvious Earle reference point), there's something of the late Springsteen syndrome.

Even though Finn has earned his place in contemporary Beatlesque pop, FOMO feels regressive, almost like the work of a rookie. And it's not as if this rookie has struck out, it just sounds like he ticked off ten foul balls in a row.

Their care in assembling their lush, provocative sonic palate means that the chemically altered or simply slow-witted should find Dreamed as warm and comforting as a fuzzy pillow.

Allowing themselves the creative freedom to explore a wider variety of sonic textures and moods will give AlunaGeorge the outlet that their ambition deserves, but such self-actualization cannot be found here.

The album is filled with strong pop-punk turns, offset by a handful of regrettable ballads.

As an artist, he’s always lived and died by the principle that the whole should be greater than the sum of its parts. High Hopes, by contrast, is precisely as good as its best material and as bad as its worst, nothing more and nothing less.

No, the elements Lanterns on the Lake are using are not new or novel ones, yet something fresh is still at work here.

Sadly, more than stomping around old ground was hoped for from this tinnitus-inducing power trio.

The 11-song, one hour set is packed with all the hits from those classic first three records. However, as you would also assume for a band taking the stage well after midnight, the energy isn't always there for the entire set.

Four (Acts of Love is a bit like a love affair that didn’t quite live up to its potential.

Their approach is too fragile. Even as High Places grow up, seeing darker realms, leaving behind youthful nostalgia, they are not yet able to reach the top.

Comparisons to the Smith Westerns (“Be My Prism”) and Yuck (“Dust”) may be inevitable, but the Jacuzzi Boys retain enough of their previous humor and urgency (“Rubble”, “Hotline”) to stand on their own.

Pocket Symphony is downright somnolent, like Talkie Walkie on Quaaludes.

It's clear that even though these tracks are outtakes, Zomby knows how to cater to his fans and give them exactly what they want.