The title track does a better job of establishing focus; it is easy country blues supporting Parr’s meditations.

Overall, the album is a mixed bag, but it’s worth persisting with for its moments of beauty and always fun energy.

Liam Gallagher John Squire might have been the next best thing, but as long as they avoid challenging each other or whatever feels most comfortable to them, middling releases like this one are the unavoidable outcome.

Predictably, there are some excellent sad songs to be found here. Just as predictably, though, when the whole thing sounds essentially the same, the impact is blunted. If Lytle decides to make another Grandaddy album after this, let’s hope he’s at least partially in the mood for something a little more rocking.

Daniel’s “brand-new old-fashioned” version of Real Estate is totally workable but is also a reminder that the old-fashioned stuff was better.

For an album that promised to show us the real Jennifer Lopez straight from the heart, it struggles to stand on its own two feet. This Is Me…Now ultimately loses itself in its self-indulgent proclamations of heart and the supposedly greatest love story never told.

They end up sounding sort of like Against Me! home demos where a really good bassist just happened to be on hand.

Wolfe is as uncompromising a poet as she has ever been on She Reaches Out to She Reaches Out to She, and while her disparate choices of canvas give us a bumpy ride, it’s one worth taking in good faith.

As a long-time lead vocalist and lead guitarist with an established style, J Mascis can’t seem to escape himself. Unplugged or not, What Do We Do Now epitomizes this cul-de-sac.

This record is easy to listen to, forget, and confuse with something else.

Isn’t It Now? summarizes some of their best attributes. It also shines a harsh light on their self-circumscribed limits.

Troye Sivan’s Something to Give Each Other offers pop music enthusiasts a much-needed reprieve from the more emo offerings of Olivia Rodrigo or Billie Eilish. But the record falls short of its own standards, set high by the success of its predecessor and lost in its own ecstasy and provocative imagination.

If Yard evinces any steps forward for Slow Pulp, they are baby steps. There is an argument to be made, though, for being consistently good rather than only intermittently great.

Despite its open orchestration and more experimental bent, it is Modern Nature’s least interesting release.

The best parts of Midnight Rose are scattered throughout, which thankfully diminishes the impact of its weaker moments.

Strange Disciple finds Nation of Language’s devotion to their craft and the acts that inspired them admirably intact, even dogged. It is probably their most listenable album from start to finish. Still, it leaves the sense that, cool as they are, a bold new turn may be coming due.

Playing Robots Into Heaven is ultimately a flawed but, at times, interesting and worthwhile foray for Blake into more beat-led, dancefloor-friendly music.

In conclusion, half an album here marks some of Lydon’s best work in decades and a half that should have never left band practice.

One of the issues with Euphoria is that it’s very pretty, almost oppressively so. The beats and the synths are rounded and smooth like baby-proofing edge guards. The vocals are fetching, as Georgia has a delightful voice. However, she has chosen to sing most of these songs in a demure, modest delivery. So, even though the title promises euphoria, it rarely reaches that high of a peak.

What Matters Most ends up being a mixed bag. Musically, this is a strong record. .... As much as I like Ben Folds, though, hearing him come back with a new pair of songs about women who are borderline crazy is disheartening, and it casts a pall over the rest of the album. Some longtime fans might not have that same visceral reaction, and they’ll probably enjoy What Matters Most more than I did.

Not everything lands with equal force, but what does land reminds you of the treasure that Graham Nash has been and continues to be in the ongoing narrative of rock music.

My Soft Machine unfolds respectably, proficiently, even likable, yet not particularly memorably.

Angry and disturbing lyrics of this caliber would signify liberation for any other female artist. But it’s never been more evident than it is on Gag Order that Kesha is not a free woman. This makes it all the more difficult to enjoy Gag Order for what it is when there’s a blaring undercurrent that’s hard to ignore.

Fantasy is, in many ways, comfort listening; the layers of these songs form the sonic equivalent of a warm blanket. Yet this warmth, after all of M83’s successes in refining their style, wanes more quickly than it has in the past.

Their sense of surprise was exchanged for maddeningly consistent predictability. We are left with Songs of Surrender, a quadruple album that sounds exactly how you think it would.

If How to Replace It proves anything, it’s that dEUS remain as restless on matters of genre as they ever have.

All the pieces are there, and many fit together quite well, but the sum of the parts is not delivering what was promised.

The inclusion of trans rapper Rahrah Gabor on “Closure” is a fun and exciting change of pace but is still a small interlude on a record that is otherwise without features. Likewise, from its production choices, lyrical and thematic content, and overall aesthetic, Raven is less a bold artistic statement than its author might wish to convey. Despite its flaws, Raven is still a worthwhile listen.

The record is not as dominating as Twain’s existing body of work, but it externalizes a beloved household name getting to know herself better.

While the record isn’t quite as varied as switching from country to rock to classical to jazz, enough traits are buried in each song to make it interesting.

Each instrumental, named after its place of origin, floats by languorously and begins to blur together into a gentle, placid paste not even three songs in. Each track is gorgeous, but they’re all also immeasurably passive, with only a few key differences between each to make them separate entities.

Under the Midnight Sun sits somewhere below their most essential albums while looking down on their more awkward moments.

Despite a more liberal use of string sections this time out, Funny sounds like another album made by the 1975.

Because the formula is so well-tested, Empire Central is at its most satisfying when avoiding Snarky Puppy’s full-group sound.

While the sense of concerted effort from Pixies rarely lets up, few of these songs make a lasting impression.

Sawayama’s vocal performances are mechanically flawless, a testament to her talent, though they fail to evoke the sublime responses that Sawayama can evoke. Overall, the sequence suffers from a lack of risk and is self-consciously conservative in terms of its execution—a bewildering anticlimax.

Obviously, Freewave Lucifer f<ck f^ck f>ck is not the sort of record that is going to appeal to a wide audience. Even among Of Montreal fans, it’s likely listeners who enjoyed the esoteric experimentation of albums like Paralytic Stalks and White Is Relic/Irrealis Mood will be fully into this one.

Ultimately, My Other People feels like the work of a band in progress that hasn’t entirely figured out how they operate as an ensemble.

The result is a mish-mash of commercially viable tracks and more whimsical excursions that her fans will cherish but might leave others feeling warm, then cold.

Special is such a disappointment because you can hear the better album she’s capable of – but she insists on digging her heels in to crank out one-size-fits-all empowerment jams that can’t be resonating with anyone beyond someone just getting back to the elliptical for the first time in a year.

The bad news is that The Other Side of Make-Believe suffers from a gaggle of forgettable material. The good news is that the record shows us all that Interpol are willing to try a few new tricks as they age.

It’s mainly miss. The limp steel guitar backing “Cold in the Summer” is too low-key to maintain any interest whatsoever; same with the forgettable strummed final track “Wind in My Blood”.

Yet by the end of Closure/Continuation, the main feeling that’s left behind is a sense of limbo. Wilson, Harrison, and Barbieri remain top-notch musicians, comfortable in songs that require technical proficiencies well above the average rock or pop musician. At its best, the album captures and rejuvenates the cerebral and melancholic mood that is Porcupine Tree’s signature. But in the end, the uncertainty innate to a title like Closure/Continuation hangs over the proceedings.

Sometimes their vocal melodies aren’t particularly strong. Yet those songs seem to be written to have the vocals at their center. Instead, they end up as tracks with really solid rhythmic backing, interesting guitar playing, and a sort of void where the song’s primary focus should be. The good moments here are worth lauding, but the trio could use a few more of them.

There are at least a handful of worthwhile inclusions here, and Shearwater’s overarching purpose is admirable. Regrettably, though, good intentions don’t necessarily equate to good execution. For the most part, The Great Awakening is a plodding creation whose occasionally fascinating nuances and continually astute insights are marred by persistent musical tedium and hollowness.

The problem with Headful of Sugar isn’t that it’s bad. It’s that if a band is going to tell people one more time that, “Nothing in this life is really free”, they’d better have a profound, distinctive way of doing it, and Headful of Sugar doesn’t quite get there.

Somehow, Arcade Fire have created an album that’s one half an exciting return to form and the other a continuation of their worst impulses.

Girlpool’s Forgiveness is ultimately a nimble record where the lesser tracks mostly breeze by while the good stuff stays with you.

A Bit of Previous explores a candid, though less thoughtful, space in which guitarist Stevie Jackson’s Neil Diamond pastiche (“Deathbed of My Dreams”) is happy to sit alongside a congregational ode to Ukraine (“If They’re Shooting at You”) and a Huey Lewis-esque synth bop (“Talk to Me Talk to Me”).

Fierce Bliss has a few breakthrough moments, but overall it steps back to familiar ground: too much thunder and not enough light.

At 15 songs (including two instrumentals), (watch my moves) may overstay its welcome, but its best moments entrance and enthrall, proving that Kurt Vile takes his time to set a mood and a groove and invites us in for a hang we can’t resist.

Cabello possesses the talent to transcend it all. It’s just a shame when she succumbs to phoning it in.

If Never Let Me Go at least finds a musical footing, what really dooms it is the songwriting—or lack thereof. Molko uses the same stilted, broken phrasing in too many songs as if he is pausing mid-verse to try and think up a vocal hook.

There are some diamonds in the rough, and it’s seldom uninteresting, but just like a drunk cousin at a wedding, who can make you laugh and is a good lead, Broken Equipment can occasionally grate as it wears you out.

Warm Chris, Aldous Harding occasionally strikes gold but more often falls short of the rich textures and melodic immediacies of previous work.

If one were to disregard the heavy-handed preaching, they would find a prog jazz album that is, if not necessarily uneven in quality, uneven in temperament. It makes for an eclectic mix but could potentially wreak havoc on an unsuspecting listener just looking for another jubilant crossover release. Best to know where you stand first.

Franz Ferdinand’s potential is repeatedly hinted at rather than fully realized. If this career shortcut can give us any consolation, it’s that it’s better to show potential than to have none at all.

Bridwell has a very clear vision for his band and presents it well. His smart lyrics match his previous standards, and the group execute the album well, but it feels too much as if they’re standing in place.

Even if Lavigne intended to make something short and silly, it speaks to a larger mainstream conversation of the supposed limits surrounding women’s ability to remain interesting in pop culture. Love might indeed suck, but we know that Avril is capable of so much more.

Earthling is a grounded, earnest, weird, and sometimes corny album. It’s is a hodgepodge of inspiration, whims, and deep contemplation. It’s also a very uncalculated album – nothing is hidden or shielded in irony or convoluted symbolism. Earthling wears its earnestness on its sleeve and that is an underrated asset.

These songs are like travel diaries full of passing observations and attempts to make sense of them within a grander picture. The album carries a somber tone. Loneliness and a longing for something distant, perhaps warmth and affection, permeate these songs.

11:11 will placate Pinegrove’s dedicated fanbase. It’s unclear whether it will harvest many new ‘pinenuts’, but it turns our faces to the flora, and in 2022 that’s far more rewarding than emo’s usual nebulous yearning.

Vocals are delivered straight-forwardly, instrumental solos are kept to a minimum, and there’s a general sense of presenting things honestly in a documentary style. That fits the material which would most naturally be at home in a small-town church.

Fragments sounds too much like a victory lap to feel like a compelling artistic statement. There’s nothing wrong with being accessible, but Fragments just doesn’t bring enough new ideas to the table. The album represents a rare step back from one of the 21st century’s leading electronic luminaries.

It aims huge and comes up huge on occasion. Even if the result is a mixed bag, it’s rewarding to hear West expand his range and infuse his unique brand of techno with more droning and expansive qualities.

The performances stay low-key; this is easy work for these artists. The Willie Nelson Family makes sense to play on a chilly holiday night with your relatives around. It isn’t necessary listening, but it almost inevitably does what it sets out to do.

No, In Virus Times is not a fun album. Some of you may barely find it listenable. In this case, context is everything, and you don’t need to be neighbors with Mr. Ranaldo to understand what that context was. We all felt it and we’re all feeling the ripple effects of it still.

Nothing is disguised. However, that does mean there isn’t very much to dig through, and this isn’t necessarily an album that rewards repeat listening.

The sonics are enough to carry the Velveteers through the less-inspired tracks, and keeping the album under the 40-minute mark ensures that the listener won’t get bored. The trio’s songs are only there about half the time on Nightmare Daydream, however. That leaves the group with a solid first album that falls just short of being a true breakout.

The album ends up as a mildly effective collection of subgenre pastiches that only occasionally manages to rise above the recognition of each style.

She mostly sounds tired, and her voice seems wrapped in gauze. The record is grandiosely overproduced, so Ross often competes with walls of instrumentation and always loses.

The significant flaw of Music of the Spheres is that it spends a lot of effort telling us that humans have this capacity for love and goodness, sometimes in overly saccharine terms, without getting us to feel it.

At 16, Taylor Swift already seems too mature to be considered a child. It's to be hoped that when she finds both her place and her full grown voice, she's able to find an accomodation between the country tradition and her very obvious pop sensibilities, because Taylor Swift suggests she has much to offer.

If you decide to dive into the feature-film length collection of songs, you’ll find West firmly in the sonic palette of his post-TLOP run. There are messy, antagonistic productions akin that extend the Yeezus formula of pummeling listeners into submission. ... There’s a rare moment of humility in “24″, where West sings – shouts really – “we gon’ be okay” alongside a choir and over a discordant organ playing for an imagined too-hot summertime congregation. It’s as close to sublime as the messy, deeply flawed Donda gets.

Unfortunately, Solar Power just isn’t palpable for anyone beyond Lorde’s existing fanbase or background noise for a mellow summer picnic.

As is, Solid Gold U-Roy has its heart in the right place; even if, as an unexpected epitaph, it doesn’t quite do justice to its namesake’s pioneering spirit.

The highs of Detour de Force are quite high, but they make the fall all the more noticeable. The album doesn’t so much dip in quality as drop off a cliff.

All ten songs run at the same midtempo pace, with mildly funky backing and steady trap rhythms. If there is a joy to be had, it’s in the unflappable nature of the songs resulting from Murphy’s tasteful, unencumbered production.

Taste of Love is a good album, but it’s too “good” and not enough “wow” for its own good. TWICE can do better.

While Spiral, like Psychic, includes moments of virtuosic integration – songcraft complemented by innovative sonics, innovative sonics contextualized by songcraft – there are other (and more) moments where the album seems to lack a unifying aesthetic.

On Blood, Juliana Hatfield has shown that she knows what all the buttons do, but in her voyage of discovery of The Wonderful World of Record Production, she’s forgotten to pack enough decent tunes.

A solid but unspectacular listen. It won’t knock you flat, and it probably won’t light up too many dancefloors, but for fans of early-aughts techno, there is plenty to love.

At certain points, Thorburn tries to add more gravity to the proceedings, but he needn’t have. The two more downbeat songs that close out Islomania sound a bit labored.

Many of these tracks don't even have much in the way of guitar riffs or interesting drum rhythms, even though studio aces like drummer Josh Freese and guitarist Robin Finck (both veterans of Nine Inch Nails) are doing excellent work with their playing throughout the album. Combined with Elfman's lack of vocal color, this makes the album sound like a buzzing, pounding collection of white noise punctuated by occasional bursts of interesting string themes or the odd downtempo track.

Some of the songs would fit well in the soundtrack of a film adaptation of an Irvine Welsh novel. Other songs would fit better in the soundtrack of a coming-of-age film. Still, for all its complexity, there’s no song you find yourself singing after you’ve listened to the album a couple of times.

I found each half of This Is Really Going to Hurt to be quite solid, but I couldn't quite get over how it sounds like the band are trying two separate things. It almost feels like two EPs, each with a different musical focus, shoved together.

If Whiteout is an imperfect album, it is one that also evinces Howard’s refusal to stay in a single musical lane.

Like the food from the region, not everyone has a taste for okra, bullfrogs, and crawdads. The ingredients may not sound appealing to the uninitiated and initially may be off-putting for those not from the area. But for those that are, there can be nothing more delicious than Cajun cooking. The same is true for White’s music. What makes it special depends on how open one is to his “haw haw haw” vocals and bubbling guitar sounds.

Does it succeed on its own terms? In the case of Van Weezer, the answer isn't clear. It's too patchy to be a Yes but far too tuneful and breezy to be a No.

More of a curiosity than a regular go-to record.

With Spaceman, Jonas proves that he has the ability to be audibly subversive and memorable, delivering sounds that could easily transport the pop fan to an imaginary dancefloor. It's just the words that still need some work.

"Family Farm" and "Heavy Covenant" are fun sing-a-longs that wouldn't have been out of place on the band's most popular records. As an album, though, Open Door Policy isn't very inspired.

In its best moments, she shows a real appreciation for the art of crafting a straight-up stupid song, an understanding of why "Milkshake" and "Hollaback Girl" endure over their moodier peers. However, in relentless pursuit of that dumb-genius sweet spot, Demidevil's worst moments wind up being just regular old stupid.

We Will Always Love You is less poignant when it's about "politicians calculated, in the tower insulated"—as Cherry raps on "Wherever You Go"—than when it's about that lonely signal bouncing around among the stars, anxious to reach a distant planet before its source self-destructs.

Book of Curses' brevity also works in its favor, at least for me. A 15-track, 40-minute album of music like this would've been a bit much, but at 26 minutes, the band's abrasive punk is quite listenable.

For the most part, the original album is not all that interesting and frequently can be lame with pretentious lyrics and generic jamming. There is nothing special for most listeners on the bonus disc.

This is a spotty effort at best, and the loosely-connected space theme ends up putting some of the album's weaker material in the spotlight instead of allowing it to be glossed over as just another album track.

Nobody Lives Here Anymore does little to move beyond Cut Worms' reliance on nostalgia, yet Clarke isn't interested in self-analysis. After all, it's a lot more convenient to look elsewhere.