While there are highlights, the album often feels very safe.

Youth Authority is a testament to the resilience of their energy, even as the band headbangs towards middle age. It's an energy that manifests itself sometimes in cringey nostalgia, other times in uninspired sentimentalism, but mostly it's anthemic and endearing.

At 50 minutes, there is the overriding feeling that the album outstays its welcome, with the blueprint lacking the dynamism for it to maintain its focus.

The lyrical themes in the album about living a quiet domestic life are aptly mature, but also a tad empty and lack much insight, literal to the point that you’d assume main songwriter Ben Bridwell was peering through a window during sessions to write about anything he could find.

Despite its moments of lucid release, Minor Victories mostly likes to loom in the shadows with hardly any form at all.

Stephan Babcock is a determined performer, and his bandmates are suitable harmonizers, but even at a tight 30-minutes the album’s lack of strong melodic direction quickly turns tiresome with its stilted, colorless sonic onslaught.

Lee’s music comes from a place that’s pure, completely at odds with his current urban environment, handled with loving precision; nevertheless, it also fails to resonate when he’s too wrapped up in his own insularity.

Weaves have written a good debut record that is unafraid to take chances, and to an extent, it signifies a band that will only get hungrier with time. There’s still in search mode, though, exceedingly pushing themselves to write clever pop songs that sometimes expose their calculated overconfidence.

There's plenty of material worth diving into on this album, but the results could have been much, much stronger.

White Hot Moon doesn’t really vary much from their last full-length Feast of Love, though it does showcase a still-promising band that’s one step closer to finding their true identity.

Brilliant Sanity is occasionally brilliant, but it could greatly benefit if it let go some of its sanity.

There are areas, in the likes of Instrument, where the creeping grooves are compelling and the tension is perfectly poised, but time and time again these moments are lost amongst reverb bursts and toxic swells that go past the point of creating a metronomic cue to something sinister, and instead appear vexatious in their oppression.

If it were not for Katy's distinctive voice--which she gloriously wields with an Aguilera-like ferocity during the last forty seconds or so of each track--Honey would not survive its own sweetness. At certain moments, however, the energies between Katy and the producers mesh just right, resulting in alchemic varieties of urban pop that glow brighter after each listen.

It tempers Frightened Rabbit’s invigorating merriment in an attempt to turn them into an inoffensive, poker-faced troupe.

The hastiness and outlandishness of the swerving soundscapes are the album’s strengths and it’s weaknesses, simultaneously keeping a listener enticed and running them ragged. Such zeal keeps Krohn’s final destination on the horizon, just out of reach.

The sound HÆLOS have refined is the perfect foil for truly spectacular things to happen, but with the exception of the album’s centerpiece, Oracle, Full Circle consistently gives the impression that the tools aren’t being used as efficiently as they could be.

If only she would’ve toned down the unnecessary sensual flourishes to cultivate more of what she does best: amiable, pleasant songs with outwardly simple, yet weighty underlying truths.

The whole of it is too calculated, even if they occasionally hit the mark with an obvious attention to craft which, to be fair, certainly counts for something.

The rest of the record, for all its flash, leaves us in some bland middle ground- lacking the impact and craft of great pop music, but too fleeting in its appeal to work as anything else.

That lack of restraint, of wanting to offer moments of merriment through straightforward movements, is not as revealing as it is expected, though Compassion is at its most gripping when it decides to go against the grain.

Frontman Max Bloom’s voice isn’t even that dissimilar from that of the man he replaced in 2013, but he’s lacking something that Blumberg clearly had in his arsenal to sharpen his band’s sound.

Victorious is premium Wolfmother in places, and pretty much abominable in others.

The Catastrophist is an odd record--an album that was probably more interesting to perform than to listen to.

Ultimate Care II doesn’t inspire one to peer closer into the musicality of everyday life; instead, you’ll constantly look at the time, wishing it’d sped up so you can move on with anything else.

The potential is there for this to be very good, but the fact that it’s so comprehensively safeguarded limits it hugely.

Hiperasia is an incoherent mess, sure, but a fun one, too, splattering all kinds of disparate, colorful sounds in the hopes that some of it will stick.

Remove the four or so songs that never seem to do more than bubble happily in an unambitious realm of chanted hooks and rehearsed quirkiness, and the result is an album fit for anyone with the slightest predisposition for fun.

All in all, Painting With feels just far too interpolated, and even familiar, to truly grasp, though through its failures it manages to somehow bring them one step closer to achieving those awe-inspiring moments of yore.

Hilton tries to be many things, oftentimes all at once, though sometimes it works.

Conrad’s strategic intentions get the best of him, swerving between unmemorable mid-tempo cuts and stodgy piano playing with the occasional flashes of unfulfilled brilliance.

All in all, Curve of the Earth comes across a little on the self-indulgent side, and although most bands evolve and move on from past successes, over-complicating things can lead to that band losing their sense of character and identity.

The problem with Hymns is that it chugs along with a series of stilted niceties that lack any kind of rhythm or emotion.

Daughter seem trapped within the confines of their influences.

His boyish sensibilities alongside his weary, romantic croon does grate, and especially so considering he’s taking a musical approach that automatically puts him in a more vulnerable place. But in trying to find his groove back, Maine’s insular stiffness fails to provide any plausible authenticity.

While these tracks may not have made the cut, some strong melodies and ideas make this release worth the listen.

Garden of Delete does manage to disturb despite its more frivolous moments.

La Di Da Di is full of very cool timbres and some incredible drumming, but its arrangements leave a lot to be desired.

There's a patchwork of pleasantness woven throughout.... By the time the closing tracks roll around, the album has fallen apart entirely. These instrumentals are complete afterthoughts and belong nowhere.

Good Sad Happy Bad ultimately comes across as frustratingly hollow, a hodgepodge of unvarnished ideas that don't amount to their true potential.

The downside is that both members of Team Beamwell are retreading well-worn paths that lead to nostalgic, rather than newfound, destinations.

Wildheart impresses in parts, and Miguel’s vocals are a thing to behold. For the most part, however, it’s a record that struggles to fully hold your attention.

It’s not to say that English Graffiti is musically incompetent, though their impulse to borrow eighties nostalgia is more akin to that of perusing your relative’s baby boomer collection instead of following your cool uncle’s guidance.

It can sound almost laborious in its structural directness mixed with its lyrical opacity.

It’s certainly one of the edgier twee recordings in recent years, almost an oxymoron in itself, one that falls short on its promise to channel its internal chaos with sprightly reminiscence.

While California Nights doesn’t offer a more sophisticated version of Best Coast so much as a blander one, the heightened ambition of the songwriting and production could be an important step forward for the band.

Kindred’s arrangements are a heap of disjointed sound fragments glued into a form that exists solely to support the glossy veneer.

For whatever faults lie within the grooves of Hexadic, the cards were at least interestingly dealt.

Kintsugi is unfortunately as bland as they come, and no good amount of mourning, sonorous guitars can excuse the fact it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find a relatable common ground in Gibbard’s repressed impulses.

There are times in which The Ark Work sounds aimless in spite of its slight technical achievements, yielding a sensory overload of strobing compositions channeled with unrestrained imagination.

All We Are has potential, but it's squandered on their debut in an attempt to make a spacey, moody soundtrack.

The “that's life” solemnity that throbs in Vestiges quickly fizzles into a series of narrative incoherent niceties, and becomes a far more rewarding listen when lyrical fragments are taken out of context.

Restarter is still quite a strong sludge-metal album that can stand strong with many of their peers, but it’s sad to see them sacrifice much of what made them stand out so strongly from them in the process to merely become one of them.

Somehow, because Uptown Funk is so, so good, Uptown Special is even more disappointing.

Always professional, but rarely memorable, What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World, much like its fudge of a title, ultimately balances out as a fairly middling work.

What Nights possesses in skillful precision and tight musicianship it lacks in songwriting polish, though it’s easy to dismiss when it hits you with its triumphant highs.

It’s largely inoffensive and bland, with a few above average moments, and has a tendency to fade into the background.

Grohl and Co. have celebrated the veins of American rock music from coast to coast, but their fear of over-administering each city’s sonic roots into their own blueprint has hindered the progression of Sonic Highways into a cohesive unit, and instead resulted in a challenging listen.

What we find with Tough Love is an album just as conceptually focused as Devotion, yet too willing to waste Ware’s sophisticated emotionality on tracks with no depth or purpose to them.

Listen is set to force you into either accepting the band’s new identity or hitting upon the realisation that the band you originally fell in love with have moved on.

El Pintor isn’t a rekindling of old fires, more so a chilled, mutual acceptance from a band that is letting things roll as smoothly as can be.

It’s an incredibly well-observed, poignant look at what it means to be Jenny Lewis right now, yet lacks the indefinable quality to make it a classic.

It needs a more tangible emotional charge. What it most sorely lacks is spontaneity.

Less a statement on White Lung’s potential than its ability to rush through an album, through its attempts at relentlessness, Deep Fantasy underwhelms.

The record lacks vision, direction, clarity.

Careers can be perceived as a step backwards, or as an opportunity for Citron to find her voice, even though it may not make that much of a difference considering there’s very few variations in the tradition they dutifully follow.

Though charmingly lo-fi and sure to satisfy any enamoured female fan, most of these tracks drag on too long without any payoff.

In Conflict is either one of those records which invite thoughtful criticism, with the repeated phrasings and imagery occurring throughout the record (not to mention the swooningly lush orchestrations) suggesting vast rabbit warrens in Pallett’s psyche worth considering, or render it entirely pointless, given that it seems set on creating something immaculate, and then mercilessly deconstructing its creator.

One or two irritations apart, Teleman have created something on a shoestring budget that intrigues enough to demand attention; there’s a way to go before they explode but Breakfast certainly represents a solid start.

It’s an album focused on a very limited range of moods, and inhabits that tone very well, but ultimately does little to justify sticking around.

Nabuma Rubberband is a solid album, but ideally you want a record that does more than remind you of the band’s existence.

It doesn’t leave much to the imagination; in fact, it states quite clear that there’s not much substance behind their muscular, other times grounded, modern rock template.

As a first attempt, Tremors is stirring, maybe, but not earth moving, unfortunately.

What we are left with is a short, mostly enjoyable set that does not overstay its welcome and is quite confident of what it’s trying to be.

Teeth Dreams on its own sounds like a transitional record, compelling in spots but nevertheless unfulfilling.

Forcefield chiefly sounds more relaxed and natural, fully letting go of the stilted verses and swift tempos they’ve been gradually forgoing ever since A Lesson in Crime made such an immediate splash.

While there are plenty of technical elements to recommend it, The Classic just lacks that indefinable quality that would make you return to it repeatedly.

Although the record’s themes are well-worn, her approach to sound remains pure.

Hansen has appropriated this kind of self-reflective, blissful IDM with skilled craft, but when the final result is too inwardly focused and monolithic you wish he’d let out a bit more.

Listening to it can be exhaustive, particularly during its clumsier second half, in which the narratives are duller (particularly Dossier), the musical progressions more stagnant (422). It’s undeniable, though, that this is a very original, fruitful record

G I R L sounds like the work of a much less interesting artist. But if Pharrell’s goal was to bring happiness to his listeners and vibrant tunes to the charts, then by all means he’s fulfilled his goal.

How long this approach will remain fresh or whether Hoiberg can maintain the quality of his productions after the novelty wears off are questions for later records. For now, enjoy Wedding Bells. It was made for no other purpose.

With this latest (and perhaps last) album, it’s still true to say that Xiu Xiu haven’t delivered a wholly complete work, but then it probably wouldn’t be a Xiu Xiu record if it was.

While lyrically ponderous and sometimes grim, (“Am I a waste of life?/I ask the night”), Hubba Bubba satisfies an impulse pleasantly.

The good news, at least, is that Phantogram have made a solid album. The bad news is that it spans across their two LPs with plenty of forgettable filler in between.

Guilt Mirrors covers different facets of Harte’s unfiltered work ethic, cobbled together into an unpredictable jumble of distinctive idiosyncrasies that somehow brings more clarity into his thought process.

If you’re already a fan of 80s alt.pop, or modern shoegaze, then give this album a go; it’s by no means a bad album after all (despite my gripes). But if you’re not a fan this is unlikely to turn you, and may just make you yearn for some music with a bit more bight.

Although it may not sound as groundbreaking as its predecessor, Little Red’s introspection-on-the-dancefloor theme is fascinating enough to sustain multiple records.

The band needs to play to its strengths, rather than a production style. This is not a band that sounds good with buried instruments. This is a group that sound best when they are in your face.

For those fans unable to acquire a ticket, this finely recorded set of songs makes for an ample substitute. For non fans however, this is unlikely to thrill.

After The Disco deserves to be heard and delivers a truly pleasant listening experience, rousing even, when the hooks hit the spot. But--and perhaps this is what the duo insightfully intended when they gave the album its title--don’t expect a party.

Actress’s music always seemed like meticulously detailed sketches that came to life and immersed the listener, but while Ghettoville comes off as an interesting sketchbook of ideas, it rarely transcends that to become something greater.

Too Much Information sounds more like a collection of tracks from different moments in their career than a fully cohesive whole but perhaps this isn’t such a bad thing.

It has all their trademarks--simultaneously elaborate and raw, idiosyncratically punk-rock, dedicated to chronicling the unrelenting ugliness of western society--but this time little of it sticks.

Like the super-impositions of the cover art, there’s nothing solid here (other than that all-pervasive bass-line), which is not necessarily a bad thing, but the general feeling of ethereal politeness does rather expose the moments.

An occasional retread, Innocence remains difficult to dismiss.

Age has its promising moments, but it overall fails to hit the mark. Gibb’s songwriting this time around just doesn't match the range and energy of his previous works.

They sure had the knack to look through the lens of their younger selves, which makes one think whether keeping it sweet and snappy would’ve suited them better. Regardless of their intent to reach out of their limit, there are bursts of inventiveness in Trouble that make the risk taking worthwhile.

There seems to be an innate knack for melody on display here that produces several moments of pop joy.