Side-by-side with an "original" release, especially 2002's Control, a bit of life just seems to be missing in this resurrection.

When things work, Moolchan sounds confident taking on new influences and playing around with them until they fit within her playful vision. Mostly, though, Highway Hypnosis is frustrating in that it feels more like a collection of potentially good but unfinished ideas that lack the focus and imagination needed to make them work.

Fun, but also forgettable, Power Chords marks a not-so-bold transition for an artist who's on track to reinvent his sound.

Graceful optimism suits him well, though in exploring this new phase, he struggles to properly articulate how his past behavior ultimately shaped his present.

Stay Dangerous is an off-the-cuff chronicle of an artist who's gotten too big - at least in his mind--for his own good.

Bell House covers many musical facets, both old and new, but what it truly showcases is Shy Boys' growth and malleability as songwriters.

There are glimpses at what Alt-J may attempt in the future if they want to continue collaborating, and few would complain if that’s the case given the high points here, but at present, Reduxer is full of missteps from a band who seemingly can’t help themselves at this point.

There's a lack of authorship throughout that leaves a sense of disjointedness. Which is more about the album's overall design, because if taken in individual pieces, there's more than a handful of skillfully-written songs that could fit into any modern pop playlist.

Some of Wanderer is, frankly, quite dull, even if her irresolute darkness can still engulf your senses upon closer inspection. Marshall keeps us at a certain distance as if gazing into an incomplete photo book, leaving too many empty spaces to fill when there are so many other stories to tell.

On Queen, Nicki spends a lot of time ordering beheadings--which are fun, but get old quick--rather than showing us why she is and should be queen. Here's to hoping the next album gives us a more earnest, more raw glimpse of the head that wears the crown.

Berdan does tap into a powerful subject matter--an exercise in looking at the past to improve his moral character--except that he juxtaposes it with stifling, and undercooked, sheets of noise. It's a step back for a duo who were inching closer toward their definitive statement.

The entirety of Redemption sounds as morose as his parched rhymes, with an effective backdrop of bleak bass drones and minimal synth lines, but not as much when he attempts to slow down his delivery. Stick for his soul-bearing lessons, even if he treads on familiar and worn-down musical paths.

It’s difficult not to see how this album, in an attempt to appeal to a much wider audience, won’t end up splitting their fanbase. It won’t alienate anyone who wants a fine pop album, but it may disappoint those who had come to expect something more interesting than that from the trio.

They rekindle some of that fiery passion with The Doomed, a stunning example of grand, orchestral rock with some majestic touches. But for every explosive, curtain-closing exit there's the lifeless anthem.

It's not the first time a band of this stature chooses to find their confidence by taking it slow. But neither is it too daring or too unhinged; in fact, sans the slower, more methodical tempos, many of the songs still fall under their common pairing of doo-wop chord progressions and piercing guitars. So much of your appreciation for Tranquility may depend on how much you can stomach Turner's interpretative dance.

It's when Bridges merges a pop-oriented approach over a modern R&B groove where his creative diffidence shows.

The album quickly loses itself into a tasteless, gimmicky wormhole of hideous sounds that grate the ears. Superorganism are onto something here, but as it stands, their erratically-paced scheme is a passable novelty.

If Moaning could unshackle their melodic sound and avoid building their walls of sound so high on their second record, they will be another certified gem in the Sub Pop crown.

Boarding House Reach isn’t the easiest of listens, and at times sounds like an over-excited White has just pressed 'record' and let his absurdity run amok. However, its strong moments just about outnumber the less appealing ones, and White’s own creative juices are still being harvested in abundance.

The first two tracks (two of the three singles from the album) are irritatingly underwhelming, and only Carrion (the third of the aforementioned singles) conveys any of the urgency and compactness required to really grab a listeners' attention.

It also formalizes some of the sensual spontaneity of Woman, as he puts forth a lavish, spotless output that also suffers from some seriously tasteless lyrical choices. On Blood, Rhye's fixation with style does get the best of him.

FRIGS half-convincingly communicate their agitation over piercing shards of noise. The band are at their best when the rhythm section takes charge.

Craft is an artist who values songcraft intensely, structuring his stanzas carefully but with an exuberant self-assuredness. The result of his work in the case of Full Circle Nightmare is a precession of songs that wear out their welcome in a brisk fashion.

Violence may make you roll your eyes as much as tap your feet, but when everything comes together, Editors manage to sound like a genuinely exciting prospect for the first time in years.

It’s as though Dacus’s best parts have been filtered through a focus group--just imagine what it could have been with the patina scraped off.

Like their past work, subpar filler holds the album back. It’s worth joining them for the climb, just know that it’s going to be an uneven ascent.

Repetition is considered their weakest strength, which isn't true at all--they introduce shrill synth textures and dub elements with a good understanding of technique. It does add the slightest variation to their acerbic post-punk, all rendered with a cheerful stance even if there’s an apparent loss of rage. Still, this party feels less exciting than the night before.

The nostalgia lacks anything close to the authenticity that Thunder, Lightning, Strike achieved, and the sound of the 2018 version of The Go! Team struggles to get anywhere far from persistent annoyance.

Ruins is an affecting, comforting listen, but not one that will imprint itself too vividly in the memory.

Ultimately, Marble Skies is a hopscotch of metamorphosizing sounds that can be rewarding for the most part, but only if you can muster the energy to make it so.

Palm do stand out from their contemporaries on Rock Island, especially since they equally embrace and rile against indie rock as a conservative movement. Their nonconformist aesthetic is imbued with an independent spirit, even if the sources they pull from prevents them from really taking off.

Wrong Creatures is an impeccably produced record that will undoubtedly appeal to any devout Black Rebel Motorcycle Club listener. Every charging, hard rock guitar and squelching feedback strikes with a sharpness that does not come at the price of distortion. Still, the marked contrasts in Creatures give the impression that Black Rebel Motorcycle Club were aiming for a sweeping, meticulously-layered force of Be Here Now-like proportions.

Much of the album’s electro-lite flavoring does provide some hummable moments, but as the cringingly tricked out Mexican Fender and stomping chants of La Mancha Screwjob suggest, they’re most likely to suffer a slow and gradual death at your local Forever 21.

The third LP from Jessie Ware sees her bring her diva mode to the forefront of her sound, but the lack of the scarcity and minimalism that saw her emerge at the turn of the decade results in the finished product lacking the effectiveness of her earlier work.

Hints of regularity are often dropped before being snatched away from you in vaudevillian style. There’s an awful lot to be admired about Clementine’s approach, but it’s certainly not an easy listen.

Charging power-pop anthems like I’m So Free and Dear Life agree with his current stature as an elder statesman who can try to keep it cool, except that when he veers into strummy gloss pop (Up All Night, Square One) it makes him sound out of touch.

There’s the promise of another knockout. One that, unfortunately, takes the liberty of reshaping past half-baked ideas without really adding much flair to Clark’s otherwise intriguing exploration of fame and femininity.

At times it’s as if the band is still trying to figure out the right temperament to base off of for the extent of a full-length album. The result is an uneven pairing of drive and control, and the latter tends to push them towards worn-out novelty with greater force.

His lack of nuance from a lyrical standpoint is startling, to the point where it confuses one into thinking that it’s profound since everything else is so carefully considered. It comes from a genuine place, sure, but his overly labored Reagan-era balladry rekindles a musical period that still sounds entirely dated.

He has created such a strong, affecting soundscape that for the most part of the record it is uncomfortable to listen to. Whether that is by design or not, Ejimiwe has administered a macabre marriage of sound and speak that are made for each other.

For a band where constructing songs into rocket-fueled crescendos is their biggest strength, too often does A Black Mile to the Surface fail to take advantage of any momentum it builds, often taking the wrong fork on an ascent to a splendid finale.

Something to Tell You doesn’t attempt anything new and keeps it safe, though, and when your best track is yet another sanitized extract of Tango in the Night, well, that’s not saying much.

At times it can be strikingly absurdist, the benefit of a frontman who knows how to insert humor naturally into the dourest of settings. But Higgs also loses sight of his own lyrical virtuosity when keeping with the band’s regurgitated precision-playing. Everything Everything continue to convey their bottomless ideas effortlessly, chained to the rhythm, even if their dizzying dance is beginning to show signs of fatigue.

The difficulty here is that each volume is a separate entry, the band’s maiden two-album release a mere showcase of multiple outlets as opposed to something consistent or whole, making what should be a milestone for the band more of a missed opportunity. With that said, listen to it, anyway. There’s still at least one very good album here.

It’s their weakest album by far. But there are segments of radiant brilliance that will make you wonder what could have been. Going forward, the band needs to regain their balance and find that grounded perspective while reaching for the stars again.

Lust For Life may be a scattered, confusing record, but it's a beautiful ride--one worth repeated listens, even if Lana's intentions--like her enunciation--aren't always clear.

Some of Weather Diaries sounds a bit thin, as the album's vibrant singles come off as outdated recreations of old songs with some unnecessary polish. It isn’t short of ideas, though.

At once droll and melancholic, Cigarettes After Sex struggles to earn the aural beauty it desperately seeks.

Ooh La La sharpens that edge with a straight-up shot of soul rock revivalism followed by a chaser of electro-groove. Ditto is at her peak at these moments, where she finds a balance between creativity and sneering attitude, and it would have been great to see more of that, and less of the studio-slick professionalism of the album’s sound.

In Cold Blood follows and is excellent, with code-like vocals and a brass-funk cascade drenching a menacing chorus. Hit Me Like That Snare is alt-J flexing their nerdiness, and Deadcrush is great. The final three tracks of the record are painfully boring and terminally so.

A band who could easily lit up a faithful audience with tender and yearning emotions is failing to connect on spin, and beginning to show signs of exhaustion, lending themselves to a stately, unambitious format that’s consistent to a fault.

There is, however, a cleaner edge to this version of bedroom rock, but its Neapolitan mixing results in a less organic sound than you feel could have been achieved with a little less of a sharper edge.

Chastity Belt lose some of their past work’s more tunefully intricate contours in favor of a more streamlined approach that weakens their innate potency. Though Shapiro bares herself with affecting honesty, it appears as if the band hasn’t found a way to translate her more melancholy bearing without resorting to pleasant-sounding tedium.

If you really love the lounge vibe, you'll likely enjoy this trip. For everyone else though, keep your visit to Room 29 a short, selective one.

Iit’s hard to parse the logistics behind their songwriting, but there’s a tasteful equilibrium at hand even if each member brings out their own peculiarities.

The songs are consistently decent, even if they don’t have the edge and the energy of their Comfort sisters, but the vast majority are ultimately forgettable.

There is a lack of uniqueness in the overall concepts and sonics of the project.

One of the most frustrating releases of recent times. Tracks meander insipidly, crushed by the weight of a solipsistic “message” and the real moments of quality only serve as a reminder of what might have been.

JAMC’s reclaim for glory is expectedly uneven: it’s as carelessly abrasive and reverb-heavy as it should be, but it’s also mounted with a heavy number of throwaways that document different periods of their celebrated past without a clear notion of how they should move forward.

While Ainsworth is getting closer to making an impact with her sultry romanticism, she also hasn’t refused to give up that producers’ mentality that stifles her more spontaneous urges.

While Season High has its showstopping moments, as a whole it tries to cram in too many ideas into a variety of disjointed themes.

Rather than going for broke, Depeche Mode eked out a half-decent release that doesn't do either the theme or their abilities any justice. It may be called Spirit, but this album is sorely lacking in soul.

For an album steeped so much in coming to terms with loss and grief, with finding redemption, and with starting anew, it captures Surfer Blood doing something they haven't done in years, and that's have fun making music.

Saturday Night is a record that is almost misanthropic in its progression, and an intriguing insight into Tim Darcy the artist.

The themes explored throughout the record’s massive 130-minute runtime are remarkably current--for example the Orlando shootings and the Paris attacks--and it’s these moments where the album commands absolute attention. Not even Kozelek can command it entirely for 130 minutes, though.

Please Be Mine is a charming record that remains engaging and consistently pleasant, but you have to feel that there’s another gear in Molly Burch’s engine-room that could get the most out of her prodigious talent.

It’s an unfettered display of eighties-evoking posing that suits them perfectly well, but it also sounds like a step back after they’d already figured out how to match their compositional smarts with a clear message.

Dirty Projectors ultimately leaves one too puzzled to empathize with apart from letting out a false, mouth-gaping awe.

After a promising EP that hinted at many directions (not to mention that it was a succinct five tracks) Blue only amplifies their indecisiveness instead of pointing out their strengths as songwriters.

There are so many ideas in Heartworms that give substance to Mercer’s unremitting passion to create, and though he manages to enliven and push the project forward it more so blurs Mercer’s artistic and commercial ambitions.

Hang appears as an album of ambition that outdoes itself so spectacularly that it appears as a jazzed up, Disney-esque caricature of its own end product.

Carter’s default psyche is an afflicted one, and his lyrics commenting on the migrant crisis typically don't pull any punches. On the other hand, his first steps into a more ornate sound on Neon Rust is a welcome change.

While the range of tangents explored makes it a more interesting album, its lack of incisiveness prevents Lemon Memory from being called a better record.

It’s impressive in small doses, but as Culture progresses you get a strong sense of deja vu, where each track upends the next with a petty familiarity that is just frustratingly repetitive.

Little Fictions is Elbow's weakest album since their second LP, Cast of Thousands. Despite the flaws, several tracks stand out among their strongest work.

What the lyrics lack (and they certainly aren’t bad by any stretch--simply not particularly strong), the vocals mask.

Ultimately, it’s disappointing to see how The Menzingers are continuing an unremarkable plan of action when they should be challenging themselves even further.

Alexis Krauss is still a potent vocal performer, though the same cannot be said for an album that stubbornly covers the entire contemporary pop gamut with an an irritating self-confidence. It ultimately sabotages their own efforts.

Devil Music sounds like a compilation of unpolished ideas taken from scrapped recording sessions, and though it highlights The Men at their best it also portrays them as lazy underachievers. And they’re too smart to be labeled as such.

It's too long, with too many tracks that go nowhere. But those songs that do work are some of their best in the last couple of decades.

This retro carnival is a trip, but it’s also a downright mess riddled with poor songwriting choices that are disguised as clever.

Aside from Billie Joe’s willingness to open up on more troubling personal issues, of which he only hints, the majority of Revolution Radio is all sheen and no spark.

The dangers of crafting intricate visual and musical landscapes, as is the tradition with Empire of the Sun, are exposed with Two Vines. Getting it right is so rewarding, but it's a daunting task to replicate such a vision on each track. When they fly, they soar. But when their artistic façade fractures, the cracks are just too glaring.

Regardless of its more sophisticated tone, the same cannot be said for the album’s rather callow lyrical content, which doesn’t just border on, but fully embraces, mawkish poetic cliches, which causes one to question if the band is truly willing to insert more of their own growth and experiences into adulthood. Which, in turn, reduces their return as nothing more than just a faithful look into the past.

We’ve heard enough from Slaves in their fledgling career thus far to know that their sound is always going to be abrasive, but with the exception of Spit It Out, the quirks that made Slaves as appetising a proposition as they were are nowhere near the forefront.

There is very little substance either musically or lyrically, and by the end of the album it feels like the album is already recycling ideas.

It is a solid and adept demonstration of his strengths as a dance producer and his ear for a hook. Roosevelt is intended to pacify the annual, somber, post-festival comedown. Every now and then, we just have to enjoy it simply for what it is, and not what it may lack.

Despite the wealth of glowing beats and rhymes, AIM would have benefitted from some unpredictability. Arulpragasam's sound is distinctive, but because she never establishes any kind of progression of ideas or strategically unites her songs around a theme, the album remains repetitive instead of cohesive.

The nine tracks on this record are nimble, charismatic, and ultimately make for an enjoyable if unspectacular listen.

Challenging and proudly disjointed, Innocence Reaches showcases a deranged songwriter whose fickle character knows no bounds.

Continually tedious and far too long for its own good, 25 25 is a almost hour-long endurance test that refuses to let itself out of the duo’s own heads.

It’s a good comeback for De La Soul, and there’s plenty to really enjoy here, but there are too many occasions where tracks loiter for too long, not outstaying their welcome as such, just not doing a great deal with it.

Sometimes, Kath will try to replicate the past with a house-oriented number like Frail, where Francis tries her best to replicate Glass’s contagious shrieking but without the same stage presence. In spite of this, Amnesty (I) isn’t afraid of glossing over its faults in hopes of trying out new things.

While the production on this album brings a multifaceted sonic support system into the picture, its own repetitive nature, along with that of Rashad’s lyricism, lead to exhaustive monotony.

The direction they took this time around is more scattershot than usual, amplified with generosity, but hopefully these new ideas will guide them to a more focused and inventive pursuit.

Whether Glory will have the same commercial and cultural impact remains to be seen, but for now, Britney fans can rejoice: part of her is indeed back.

The production on this album is bearable and more or less gets the job done, but is mostly composed of bothersome loops. This leaves the bulk of the work to the emcees. And quite frankly, some show up, and some most certainly do not.

With Runaway, MSTRKRFT find a balance between the antagonistic incursion and electro-funk wizardry, but asides from that standout, the record as a whole is a jarring affair.