Ultimately, it’s Rubinos’s unflinching lyrics that linger long after Black Terry Cat ends.

Hit Reset, the Julie Ruin’s second album, is super-spunky.

Q might appear masked on the album cover, but his explicit tales of hardship, prosperity and loss hide nothing.

The tongue-in-cheekness can create a distance that prevents the songs from hitting hard and/or stirring up your feelings. But you can still sit back and appreciate Arner's songwriting craft, knack for memorable hooks, the intelligent places his songs go to, his and Delisle's harmonic chops and the lo-fi production aesthetic that speaks to a talent for doing a lot with a little.

As the narrative grows sleepier, it feels as though she wants to see how much she can reduce her theatrical pop image into something small and seemingly impermanent.

While IV shows a progression, it lacks the progressiveness that would keep BBNG in a league with their aforementioned jazz/hip-hop predecessors and peers. However admirably, it stays in its own lane.

Each woman's distinct singing and songwriting style is front and centre, but their voices blend beautifully.

Recorded in Los Angeles during the summer of 2015, the 10-song release is noisy, messy stuff. What sets it apart from Segall's other numerous bands is Shaw's contribution: he brings a punky, tough sing-shout to the lo-fi, overdriven tunes, while Moothart and Segall (on drums here) go in for a thrashy vibe.

Natasha Khan's fourth Bat for Lashes album is her most mature and cohesive yet.

The hallmarks of Blood Orange’s sound are all here--breathy male/female vocal interplay, rare groove rhythms, jazzy sax, gliding slap bass, honeyed falsetto melodies and flirty spoken word--but channelled into a reassuring, comfortable space that brings together pop’s supposed polarities of accessibility and specificity. Somewhere in there, Freetown Sound finds its own beautiful sweet spot.

Nothing about For Evelyn feels resolved. A restless quality drives each track, resulting in a thoughtful, solitary album that you listen, cry and even dance to alone. Yet after it's over, you're left feeling less alone, because through its intimate explorations, Georgas makes the personal universal.

The Magic is not their best album, but it's an excellent Deerhoof album, and they are the greatest of all time at what they do.

While each song is its own curious, maximalist wonder, it adds up to something fairly cacophonous. So much is happening in each trebly, dizzying track that there are few new heights to reach after the first three or four.

Puberty 2 is full of isolation, anxiety and loss, with the idea at its centre that happiness eventually becomes sadness and despair. Mitski switches between airy minimalism and bursts of loose, wild rock as she navigates these tempestuous waters.

Diarrhea Planet have always aimed for the rafters, but on Turn To Gold they crash through them.

Yes, all the songs are nice and pretty, but there's something missing. It could be that in 2016 there's palpable nostalgia for mid-2000s indie rock (see Wolf Parade reunion tour). But it's the actual music from a decade ago that fans are yearning for, not necessarily the newest versions of the bands themselves.

Gunn excels at unrushed, meditative songwriting, but this album also finds him giving stronger form to his dreamy creations.

The title track, Show Me, Drive The Night and Face 2 Face are ostensibly about a failing romantic relationship but crafted to read as if the daggers are also aimed inward, which adds an interesting duality to the album's titular theme.

When they stop aiming for catchiness and instead get real about relationships, LYTD sparkles.

There's no grand resolution on Tired Of Tomorrow, but you can't help but hope Palermo finds some peace in all the noise. That's what making noise is for.

In a way, this could be Glasper's Black Radio Volume 3: The Davis Edition. However, positioning the album as a tribute runs counter to his forward-looking use of the material.

It has the bigness and accessibility of a major hip-hop album thanks in part to zeitgeisty guests like Justin Bieber, Future and Young Thug.

They might've built their reputation on kinetic live shows, but taking the time to make a proper studio album has refreshed, revitalized and tightened their special sound.

Kidsticks's risk-taking, while not always on point, proves Orton capable of reinvention. She's still a voice worth listening to.

Rae's languid enunciation gets lost on faster tracks, and on Caramel and Night her vocal style shifts to a heavy-handed singer/songwriter coffee house/lullaby mode. Most captivating are the moments when she returns to exploring the thrill of vulnerability on Hey, I Won't Break Your Heart; emotional standoffs on Been To The Moon; and anxiety-inducing ruminations on Do You Ever Think of Me?

Fallen Angels is a hazy, laid-back history lesson with as many enigmatic twists and turns as a classic double-cross caper. It subverts archetypes of romance, heroism and interpersonal connection to reveal something more sinister about human intent, all packaged in beautiful musicianship of the highest order.

Thematically the songs stick to the familiar pop terrain of love--the least adventurous thing about them--but Oh No nonetheless makes a convincing case for broadening the term "pop star" beyond the glamazons.

It's the kind of album that resists being parsed out into singles. Aside from radio-ready lead track Love As A Weapon, the rest work together as a cohesive whole even while bouncing around lyrically.

The Colour In Anything is a good album that could have been great if Blake had been a bit more willing to edit and discard his less successful sonic experiments.

In contrast to the neoclassical leanings of Antony and the Johnsons, Hoplelessness is about this particular moment and sounds very of the moment, thanks to beatmakers Hudson Mohawke and Oneohtrix Point Never. Combined with Anohni's trembling and vulnerable vibrato, its grandiose sounds crescendo into a sprawling political epic that could inspire spontaneous bursts of interpretive dance.

There are moments where the restraint feels almost too determined, as though the abundance of care and attention to subtle detail also places a cap on the kind of impulsive energy essential to a rock-oriented band.

As much as Kaytranada seems to be referencing genre staples and styles, his constant flights of rhythmic fancy make his music seem genre-averse. And when he connects with a vocalist or drummer who shares that sensibility, 99.9% really glows.

It's an unnerving listen that demands a certain amount of masochism, but you've definitely never heard another band like Nissenenmondai.

Every few months, the members would meet up at their studio and play whatever they felt like without the looming pressure of album cycles or release dates. Eventually, these sessions became the basis for Waltzed In From The Rumbling, a record at once thoughtful and unwieldy.

Ward's writing--though universal and singalongable--sometimes suffers from vagueness and clichéd rhymes. He should have a bit more faith in his audience, because Hope is most interesting when it strays a little from this formula.

A few songs recall the off-the-cuff, askew rock 'n' roll they built their name on. Others, though, are barely listenable.

The Toronto trio's idiosyncratic blend of psychedelic rock, techno, industrial, New Age and cosmic folk has solidified into a sound that's unmistakably their own, and that doesn't depend on the theatricality of their live show to work.

Refreshingly, they're not only about slick production atmospherics, though some cavernous sonics and electro rhythms threaten to steal the show around the album's midpoint.

What sets Lemonade apart are the ways it continually highlights the fine line between empathy and anger. It’s a line Beyoncé walks with supreme confidence.

The result is often delightfully overwhelming in its heaviness, with the calm moments in between making the ear-splitting loud parts disturbingly jarring. These extreme peaks and valleys elevate the record into the realm of difficult but deeply satisfying art.

Addicted, Magic, Priceless and Fool No Mo are as sharply written and realized as they are unapologetically indulgent of heady atmospherics, each song its own exaltation of the understated power of Tweet's singular voice.

Trouble, while not a huge departure from the Woodpigeon canon, proves Hamilton's songwriting is always growing. Here's hoping his audience will be, too.

Harvey sings with unshakeable poise, and her melodies are as sticky as ever--to the point where you can imagine some songs working as barroom singalongs.

The album is full of the group's signature dreamy arpeggios, massive drum rolls, epic builds and breaks--expertly produced with Stuart Price. But it's the push and pull between the sociopolitical reality and urge to escape into nightlife, where dressing up, social cliques and the pounding beat of pop music can feel life-saving, that fuels the drama.

He may not be reinventing himself with each album, but his songs are so rife with double meanings and flourishes, there's always a lot to unpack.

He [bandleader Anthony Gonzalez] masterfully weaves myriad sounds and structures--mainly late 70s- and early 80s-influenced--into a remarkably strong, cohesive unit.

Blue Wave fails to clarify what kind of band Operators truly is. Are they post-punk rabble-rousers? A modern pop band hiding behind retro synths? A gritty indie rock trio? Of course, they're all of the above, with Boeckner happily shape-shifting in between.

The complexity of some of the arrangements and the bouncy danceability of most of the songs make it easy to overlook the lyrics initially, but with repeated listens they start sinking in.

The production is unpolished, warm and organic. It had to be. When you hear the pained fury in his rendition of Black Sabbath's Changes, it's clear it would be an affront to modernize Bradley's unvarnished howls.

Their fourth album reveals the breadth of the genre.

The album repeatedly teases you with glimpses of the unhinged, earnest urgency that made the Violent Femmes semi-famous, and then flips into an annoying faux naive whimsy just as you’re starting to enjoy it.

Glitterbust is the sound of someone coming out on the other side of that moment, armed with heightened instincts and unfaltering confidence.

He seems caught in a place between wizened wild child and something kookier, but he’s apparently too content to go whole hog in either direction.

Although the album pushes the envelope lyrically, the music doesn't always elevate the ideas as much as it could. Mount Moriah's deftly woven, loose Americana is more a vessel for McEntire's poetry than anything else.

His singing, an acquired taste, could have been used more sparingly. Nevertheless, his odd chants keep the weirdness levels appropriately high, and we wouldn't want it any other way.

Occasionally, songs sound a little too derivative of older Scream, but Gillespie's desire to look inward feels genuine.

Eraser Stargazer is full of ideas, a lot of them half-baked. But for the band, it's a courageous, wholehearted lunge into a more danceable form of convulsive mayhem, and into more elliptical and impressionistic narratives.

The weakest tracks--the hackneyed anthem Love Is Blind, the dreary Hurt Me--are the most radio-friendly and interrupt the album's flow. But that's not a major drawback. In fact, for many new artists, either track would be a high-water mark.

In this current moment, when the us vs them of identity politics is at a sharp pitch, it's an enlightened view for an artist to put forth.

Only about half of the songs captivate; the others could be used as sleep aids. This is frustrating, because the strong songs are fantastic. The lesser ones suffer from too much washed-out dreaminess.

Lamar is as cutting as ever in his rhymes, and adjusts his flow to great effect.

Her signature hollowed-out minimalism nicely suits the subject matter, sometimes rising in urgency before falling into a deceptive calm.

As accessible as most of it is, though, the band can’t seem to resist throwing strange electronic sounds and off-kilter ideas into the mix, which helps offset some of their blander tendencies.

Aside from flailing a bit at the end, the London group’s third full-length hits its mark.

On indie pop cut One True Love and the rollicking I Need An Angel, Wisenbaker’s gritty voice scuffs up Goodman’s buoyant one – a good thing, since she can sound static at times. That said, she’s sorely missed on the jangling track Nineties, in which Wisenbaker takes sole vocal duties but lacks the charisma to pull it off.

It’s initially fun to play spot-the-references, but in the best moments the sounds are harder to pin down.

On his first solo album under his own name, the songwriting is just as sharp and hooky and the emotions sometimes just as plaintive, sad and angsty as on past projects. But this time Bogart hits upon the most fully realized pop idol version of himself by embracing the demented, neon-coloured camp aesthetic he's always loved.

Turns out the relentless ferocity, while a riot live, ends up making the Dirty Nil more enjoyable in small doses on record.

Like many pop acts' full-lengths, this is an album of singles.

The production is restrained, leaving plenty of space for Staples's rich vocals, although some songs feel a bit too clean and reserved. It's all very pleasant but lacks the fire and passion we want from her.

Even as they cop the slinky white funk of INXS and David Bowie on Love Me and aim for an easily romanced demographic with the electro-tinged ballad A Change Of Heart and the anguished The Ballad Of Me And My Brain, they sound suspiciously like dudes too eager to come off as sensitive and edgy.

A beautifully crafted debut full-length that delivers on the early hype.

Ono brings out the unexpected in everyone, and even the most conventional indie pop acts sound edgy with her idiosyncratic vocals on top.... The album would have benefited greatly from more careful curation, though.

Regardless of Tatum’s ever-shifting musical obsessions or emotional moods, an enjoyable lightness and subtlety to the arrangements and overlapping textures draw your ear in closer.

Although the album revels in its sonic clutter (it’s remarkable how they can make percussive rhythms sound both primitive and absurdly futuristic), there are tracks scattered throughout to catch your breath.

The 10-year-old band should be able to get a dance floor moving more than ever with these songs.

Even when West’s going in uncomfortable directions, his music feels alive.

A little rough around the edges, the album is pleasantly calm while simultaneously tapping into anxieties in its lyrics.

In producer Tucker Martine’s hands (he’s worked with Neko Case, Punch Brothers, the Decemberists and Laura Veirs), O’Donovan’s music sounds light and atmospheric, her folk freed up by billowing electric guitars and sensitive percussion.

The album revels in the clean, streamlined production elements and beautifully realized nocturnal atmosphere favoured by the OVO camp, but that sonic branding, if you will, swallows up any sort of personal flavour or perspective that might set Majid Jordan apart.

Williams gives her songs more room to breathe than ever before, opening up vast, cinematic visions of the highway and land that inspired them.

Bulat has the rare ability to simultaneously sing from all sides: hurt and sweet and wise.

The songs are simple, but Nap Eyes always inject small surprises into them, like clever guitar melodies or tempo changes.

As he wrestles with his isolation--a major theme here--Maine shows shades of Grizzly Bear, but he still fails to narrow in on his own distinct sound.

The trio lose their equilibrium on Maniacs: a flashy keyboard solo hijacks the song and takes it to a cheesy place. But even when songs swing too deep in that direction, Lobsinger’s steady, breathy vocals keep things grounded.

It all adds up to a whole that’s somehow less than the sum of its parts.

Though murky mixing obscures their incendiary songs, the overall mood of disquiet and anxiety is potent (perhaps prescient?). If only they could shape it into something with more of a jolt.

A new urgency and immediacy provide welcome counterpoint to the reserved Canadian introspection that still characterizes their songs.

There’s an urgency to the songs--aided by crisp production--as if Smith resolved to get all his feelings out.

You'll want to let the whole record play, but Refill, Land Ahoy! and Mekons' anthemic Beaten And Broken (sung by Fulks) are highlights.

Not every song is as outstanding as the next, but at points, Anti is incredibly satisfying and sufficiently distinct from her other efforts--very much worth the wait and the bizarre roll out.

Despite ups and downs, Suede have remained an impressively robust-sounding live act, and that energy comes across in Night Thoughts.

She manages to cut through generic themes to inject darker predilections with hard-sung vocals that sound downright masochistic at times.

The more overtly rock moments give the album a bit too much of a 90s alternative feel, but that’s got to be expected from someone who came out of the slam poetry scene and previously worked with Trent Reznor.

A masterful, mystical interpreter, Oldham conjures a new mood for Death To Everyone, unfurls an intense lost original called Beezle, and strikes at the gospel core of Prince’s The Cross.

Newly installed guitarist Kiko Loureiro weaves blistering licks around Mustaine’s own, elevating the frontman’s sorta sardonic, sorta goofy politicized lyrics. Longtime bassist Dave Ellefson ramps up his low-end pyrotechnics, with Fatal Illusion boasting maybe the grooviest Megadeth bass line since Peace Sells.

Like a lot of shoegaze, a uniform production and lots of layers mean the tracks have a tendency to lack distinction from one another. But this happens surprisingly rarely.

After a few listens, hidden melodies reveal themselves and easy-listening bass lines guide you through the ruckus. Or rather, you get used to the disorder and appreciate the songs for what they are: weird experiments from a prodigal songwriter.