Influential they sure were, for better or worse, but right now, as heroically, monumentally crazed and unconventional they may be, Royal Trux are more a curio than compelling.

This Land might not be a huge success. Some parts of the 16-song album are cheesy ("Feeling Like a Million"), too lyrically aggressive ("This Land"), or lacking innovation ("Low Down Rolling Stone"). However, few guitarists can consistently play notes this high, and do so with such quality. Clark Jr. can really rip a solo—that's his appeal to listeners—and a few more of those guitar extensions would have done This Land better.

A couple tracks break from the tired formula and show Methyl Ethel can actually create something unique and entertaining.

Helium sounds like the morning after, fighting off an omnipresent haze as the day slowly forms.

Unlikely to be turning on any new fans, this will no doubt please those who have followed King since her earliest appearance on Nas' Street's Disciple, yet there's really not enough here to grab onto to really move the soul and demand repeated listens.

This album is, surprisingly, a steady, droning psychedelic experience.

Assume Form is surely a shift toward a more optimistic Blake, but occasionally at the cost of song quality and his expected moments of spicy originality. It's a good, sometimes excellent, yet quite uneven record.

This is a rootsy album of pedal steel guitars, orchestral flourishes, and rather sweet songs of a happy life. When an artist has given us soundtracks to our youth and failings, we afford them an enormous amount of goodwill and do not begrudge their good fortune. Natural Rebel is not without it's shine.

Though occasionally the layering becomes cluttered and the tracks spin out a little, there are enough euphoric come downs to keep it from becoming grating.

Johnson's fourth solo album, A Wonderful Beast, is a lethargic attempt at a slowcore dance album.

While there are instances of dynamism within individual tracks, as a whole, the album can get a little tiresome as the same palette of sounds are deployed to address the same feelings of despondency.

Only the most diehard Bauhaus collectors need The Bela Session in their shrine.

It is for those who look to music not as a way to diversify their cultural conquests, but rather those who need to hear the validation of their basic humanity from a voice who understands their pains. For those individuals, this album might just be the refreshing break from the privileging of the aesthetic over the material that is desperately needed today. Otherwise, the album traffics too heavily in platitudes and generic alt-rock formulas.

The end result can feel trying and bland, but it can also be as meditative as he apparently finds Sweden.

Out of Touch is a harmless, conventional record that is awash in an understated charm that's a little too subtle to warrant repeated plays.

Ultimately the uninspired songwriting renders European Heartbreak incapable of being a worthwhile investment of your listening time. [Aug - Oct 2018, p.75]

With Animals does successfully create a cohesive mood, but it is not one of great substance. [Aug - Oct 2018, p.78]

The Diet's overall mood is scattered, littered with contributions from countless session musicians. These details eventually weigh down The Diet, and it wears down into a sluggish affair.

The sum total is a modest success punctured by stumbles, reinflated by longer strides. The foundations have been reinforced, variation is creeping in, and all is well.

It doesn't quite get there, though when much of the noise drops away, leaving only a couple of pure notes, "Best of Times (Worst of All)" comes awfully close.

Unfortunately there are too many strikeouts for the album as a whole to achieve a winning score.

It's doubtful Marauder will win Interpol any new fans and may even leave existing fans somewhat disappointed, but if you work at it, you can find some redeeming qualities since a sub-par Interpol is still better than most.

For the second record in a row, Death Cab for Cutie are treading water, splashing about in the faded sound of glories past.

ShadowParty is a solid record teeming with musical explorations held together with catchy beats that entertains a little more with each listen.

What it lacks in real energy and excitement is more than made up for with a deep sense of place and atmosphere which truly consumes the listener.

The rich harmonies and sharp production isn't sustained throughout the album's 11 tracks. Several tracks not only step backwards from the mod rock but step back in time to mimic the slow tempo sunshiny pop of early '60s boy bands, but lack the freshness of their heritage.

His voice remains as compelling and as seductive as ever, but the music is unrecognizable, moving firmly into the territory of smooth jams and synthetic beats.

Joyride feels like an album that has had anything adventurous about it focussed-grouped away and its hints at conceptual ambition are quickly abandoned after the opening two tracks for run-of-the-mill R&B. Tinashe is a good singer and a great performer, with the looks and work-ethic to be a star, but she sounds bored on this album.

Whilst tracks like "Butterflies" and "High Horse" offer the best of what Musgraves can do in terms of balancing her obvious charm against a certain steely underbelly that has served her so well so far in her career, all too often, Golden Hour delivers a lackluster vibe and a feeling that Musgraves has become too infatuated with the pop side of her artistry and is beginning to forget about the things that made her so interesting and worth investing in in the first place.

To be certain, plenty of Lost Friends tracks loudly testify to the charm that earned Middle Kids a record deal in the first place. ... More often, though, Lost Friends lacks the risk of "Edge of Town" and "Never Start." To be certain, though, Middle Kids' natural songwriting talents still rear their heads; isolating any one song on Lost Friends reaps solid rewards.

Elton John has always has a country streak to his songs, and most of the choices on this compilation fit this repurposing like a hand in glove.

Revamp is a mixed bag. Several of the artists here take chances with the tunes, and at times are wildly successful. ... When things are bad, however, they are bad.

Is it funny? If you're a 15-year-old boy, you'll love it as there's enough toilet humor here to stun an Ox. Will it be funny after the first listen? Well, the jury is out. But probably not.

The conviction that has defined her career so far is nowhere to be seen here and, whilst the reason for this change is still unclear, the result is a record of missed opportunities and inexcusable shortcomings. [Mar - May 208, p.54]

Beautiful Things isn't the flashiest, and it sags along the way, but it comes with enough soul to carry the quiet moments. [Mar-May 2018, p.60]

The music has some commercial cross-over potential that most people can't help but like, with various electric guitars and electronic keyboards arranged into pleasing and polished pop-rock. But these pleasant tunes don't have enough sharp dynamics to give them an edge and so end up as mostly fluff without so much substance.

I Don't Run isn't a bad record, or a regression, nor is it the continued ascent the band had hinted at. Instead, it's a meandering detour through chill, lo-fi, and sometimes flat songs.

Eels have always shied away from the mainstream, and followed their self-indulgent tendencies. But while The Deconstruction gets off to an energetic start with tracks that rock and inspire, ultimately there's too many tracks that don't rock, so it falls a bit short of what Eels are capable of.

New Material is certainly not more than the sum of its parts, which causes problems for a band that thrives on the whole, rather than moments of individual magic. It leaves much of New Material ambling by.

Despite all the bluster, there's not a lot actually happening on this album. Its songs are collages of ideas that sound great in 10-second chunks but refuse to settle, shifting from fiery riffs to spoken word passages to jazz piano detours. At first, this restlessness has a mad-scientist charm to it but it quickly becomes tiresome.

While the shift to a kinder and gentler sound doesn't live up to the spectacular music of past efforts, you can't fault the band for trying something new to broaden their appeal. And even with a few shortcomings, Violence still has enough alluring music to make it a worthwhile endeavor.

Whilst there are flashes of intriguing and exciting music on here, these moments aren't enough to convince anyone listening that the project is a complete success.

Ultimately, there's too much of it and not enough of the tracks here are anything other than mediocre, indie singer/songwriter tunes that are as easily discarded as they appear to be easily written and produced.

Three of the 16 tracks are spoken word, self-help messages, which match the rest of the album's rather cloying lyrical content. Every motivational buzzword is used repeatedly until you're almost praying for a bit of My Chemical Romance style, teenage nihilism to creep in, just to break up the monotony.

Record is solid, without a bad song on it, though with that said, aside from "Queen," "Guitar," and "Go," not much really stands out.

From the forgettable country rock of "So High" to the dispensable interlude that is "Sleep," Drift proves to be a tiring exercise in desperately finding something, anything, to grasp on to.

Tape Recorder is an apt name for its unvarnished sophomore LP, which resembles a demo.

The Worm's Heart is a curiously pointless release and coming so soon after the first version does it no favors at all.

While it shows flashes of brilliance it also exposes Toledo's early shortcomings as a songwriter. Filled with angst and the genuine spunk of Toledo's frantic guitars, Twin Fantasy is also erratic and inconsistent.

Furman's outright ramshackle approach has lost its charm as his songs have become messy and overbearing. These songs are fun but confusing. They lack the allure of the straight-talking, catchy riffs which made his name.

Numan allows his compositions some room to breathe by occasionally slowing the tempo while the mood morphs from murky to majestic as he lets his Berlin-era Bowie influence seep in. His glassy futuristic voice is as crystalline as ever and fits snuggly within the slick production.

There Is No Love in Fluorescent Light is an album on rails, sticking solidly to the tracks with never a thought of deviation. It's also a route we've travelled many times by now. Yes, it looks familiar, but it'll still get you there in the end.

Deradoorian's demands on Eternal Recurrence are likely too heavy for any casual listeners, but appeals as an abstract expression without any longing to connect.

For all its personality and heart, Wide Open is just too breezy in its consistency to be a certified gem.

Haiku From Zero is fine filler for a late-night dance party, but we can't fathom reaching for this album as often as those prior-too much of it borders on forgettable

This is farm from Berman's best work, but sequencing aside, there is enough here to suggest that he's still got something left in the tank. [Jul - Sep 2017, p.59]

It'll be of concern to Queens purists that Villains pulls from sounds that expired a decade ago and beyond. Dwelling on better times of a bygone era is a fundamental pillar of escapism, but it's disconcerting when one of the most uncompromising, forward-thinking bands in the rock pantheon leans so heavily on what worked in the past that they forget that the onus is on them to innovate.

Catchy melodies abound, but there is too much insistence on melody, and not enough on thoughtful instrumentation or profundity, for this album to rise as a pop classic.

The album is custom made for summer parties and long drives, just do not expect more out of multiple listens.

Ultimately, More Fast Songs About the Apocalypse is a decent and fiery auditory excursion.

Arcade Fire are a great band, spurning a generation of indie listeners and have influenced countless groups. Which is what makes listening to Everything Now that much more painful. This is the band as a shell of themselves, an uninspiring slog of half-baked ideas following a "trying-by-not-trying" attitude.

Marela's exploration and experimentation as an artist will be key in sustaining what is hopefully a long career for this talent. However, it yields a follow-up release slightly less impressive than its predecessor.

The Jealous Machines, in contrast [to Born on a Gangster Star], strikes less of a balance. It's wordier, with no strictly instrumental tracks, and its conceptual bent is more instrumental to the essence of the LP.

While intended as a love letter to their longtime fans, this 23rd LP from the Japanese rockers feels more like an optimal entry point for newcomers.

We want the glory of Nowhere and parts of Going Blank Again. It is apparent that this is what Ride are aiming for but it's going to take more than what Weather Diaries has to offer.

Only occasionally on a track like "Ternary" does Haley manage to land deeper cuts with a drifting, introspective piece that winds down and starts up again, hinting at dancefloor potential before stepping back at the last moment. It works; there's just not enough of it elsewhere on Iteration.

The experiments don't come off, while the pop style disappears under endless repetition. That isn't to say it's not lovely and engaging for while-it is-but too much of a good thing is still too much.

While some of these experiments don't work--the riotous "Babushka-Yai Ya" is messy and, ultimately, skippable and "Euphoria" lacks any exultation--others cast Regan in a new light.

Ultimately You're Welcome is just another Wavves album, another collection of sugary anthems.

Musically there's little to get excited about, and little to draw complaint either.

Shake the Shudder is less of an improvement and more of a decline. But while there is nothing really special about it, there is nothing really that bad either, it's just disappointing.

Best Troubadour is a pleasant, warm-hearted experience.

While definitely an acquired taste, ultimately it's an auditory adventure worth taking that neither wow the listener nor will it disappoint. [Apr - Jun 2017, p.84]

What remains is a strong EP blown up into a flawed full-length. [Apr-Jun 2017, p.82]

The band seem more intent on rocking out and having a good time rather than impressing. [Apr-Jun 2017, p.78]

While sometimes the lyrics seems questionable when considered in the context of that art form, overall Americana is an enjoyable listen with a couple highlights any fan wouldn't want to miss. [Apr-Jun 2017, p.79]

Highlights like "Shake It On" and "Nights Out In the Jungle" introduce a fresh, Random Access Memories-ian electric disco vibe, but too many others--particularly the repetitive "Summer Girl"--feel like tired, recycled outtakes from the band's heyday.

Nothing really stands out, and the songs that do--the catchy "Short Elevated Period," as well as the two musical highlights of the album, "This Time" and "Sleep on the Wing"--don't leave enough of an impression to be overly impressed by.

Mental Illness remains more of the same, never quite hitting any peaks, and never missing a step either.

VOIDS is largely composed of lightly angsty guitar rock anthems and pseudo-emo ballads, with little instrumental sophistication to satisfy long-term fans.

The songs are undeniably likeable, their likability almost formulaic, yet still surprisingly retaining a fresh-faced charm.

Unkempt and heartfelt, Terrible Human Beings shows The Orwells have promise and is a fun joy ride while you're on it. You just may not feel compelled to repeat the ride very often.

It's a slow-grower, worth applying oneself too. If one can disregard the brashness, drop the record a few times, and get over the weird for weird's sake, it is possible to embrace the complexities buried beneath in this offering from a group of post-punk, avant-garde cobblers.

Even though there is plenty to love about this record, it is unlikely to inspire a whole lot of devotion.

The beat structures on the likes of "Reverse Faults." "Under," and "Incomplete Kisses" fail to match their vocal counterpart in aesthetic or sentiment. [Jan - Mar 2017, p.67]

If this had been an EP of a handful of tracks, it could have been stunning, but it's a record that frustrates and bores much more than it touches.

It just doesn't have the same personality that American Wrestlers' self-titled debut captured so well.

Wilson sounds overly smooth and croon-y on "We Stay Together," while on "Hole In My Soul" the group's cartoonish attempt at modern sounds is strung together with a sickly thread of saccharine.

Dripping in falsetto and awash in synths, their latest attempt is painfully lacking in the refreshingly hyperactive guitar riffs that made their debut so memorable.

Requiem for Hell doesn't engage this canon with an evolved musical lexicon and its familiarity leaves you flat footed.

Babes Never Die is by every means a solid, boisterous rock record, but their first one was all that and something more. Babes has fewer hooks, and less of the glimmering reverb we grew to love the last time around.

A stripped down album, Lanois' production is pristine and the contoured soundscapes here should be digested as a whole, rather than consumed as individual tracks.

The things the band does right on this album make it worth checking out, but hopefully next time around Warpaint will be able to keep the songwriting as consistently great throughout as the beginning and ending songs.

Much of the material is unmemorable, making this feel longer than the album's 46-minute running time.

The Tennessee boys that used to hang on your back, shouting in your ear with whiskey on their breath have grown up, and now preach wound-down wisdom with an arm around your shoulder. But the charm wears thin over the course of a full record.

All the flashes of brilliance on Dead Blue are instrumental and aesthetic. The cohesive mood is only brought down by the lackluster songs.

As ever, there is risk run by too many tracks and fatigue sets in while listening to AIM. The idea of taking any one of M.I.A.'s albums and trimming its excess to 12 of the most colorfully resonant offerings is tantalizing to imagine. The same goes for this one.

When the workers step into another room, suit up, and begin spray painting the boxes, the music takes on a more soothing, droning, electronic quality with distinctly ripping synths and chirping, muted background vocals. In short: the music finally becomes strong enough to make these unimaginably boring visuals watchable. Sadly that beautifully soundtracked spray painting sequence ends all too soon.