The results are indisputably unique, but the project often feels more like a collection of intriguing experiments than a proper album.

Things mostly stay low-key and subtle, with Ejstes's guitar growing righteously wild just once, on En Dag På Sjön, one of several instrumentals.

The Agent Intellect is a multi-layered, emotive powerhouse of a record.

It's the ballads--a side of her repertoire that had taken a back seat to forgettable chart-chasers--that show Jackson's at her vocal and songwriting best.

A contemplative but intense listen.

RUFF is Born Ruffians’ strongest album to date. With gritty atmospherics that closely resemble their magnetic live show, the album is less polished and slick than 2013’s Birthmarks.

The production’s grittier qualities suggest heavy emotions lie beneath his sardonic facade, but the sense that Grant feels liberated in middle age is what comes across most strongly.

It’s nice to see a seminal, hugely influential band given their dues (and then some) after the fact. But it’s equally disappointing to see them fall short of the hyperbolic over-hype.

It’s exceptionally diverse, especially for hard rock.

Caracal is consistently good but also feels manicured and safe.

The album would feel more complete if they’d included at least one nod to the warped pop music that made them famous.

Surrounded by blunt-force catharsis and brandishing some clever, caustic wordplay (like rhyming Lil Boosie with Susan Lucci), Blanco manages to be a pure delight as a rapper, even if he isn't calling himself one.

This means there are fewer musical surprises, though one comes when Martin Doherty takes over lead vocals for a song, seemingly out of nowhere. It makes Mayberry’s return to the mic even sweeter.

Some might prefer she stick with her usual skewering of gender roles, but that genuine anger lends a new seriousness and realness to even her silliest verses.

Occasionally Half Free can sound dense to the point of being vexing, but its vivid imagery and striking melodies keep Remy’s more self-indulgent tendencies grounded in a classic pop sensibility.

Some take a little while to hit their sweet spot, like the middling That’s Life, Tho (Almost Hate To Say). But when Vile hits those hazy, beautiful peaks, he reminds us that the untamed wilderness of modern Americana is still his backyard.

Holter confidently and impressively takes her music wherever she wants.

Whereas her last album had a gently psychedelic and live-off-the-floor feel, Honeymoon plays it safer with “cinematic” arrangements occasionally pumped up (but not excessively so) with modern drum sounds.

When Drake swoops in to pick up the thread, his clear, articulated voice is so much more animated than Future’s that the impact is jarring.... Occasionally the two conjure interesting spaces between underground murk and pop-star sheen (Live From The Gutter, Scholarships), and the tension, as they adapt to each other, is compelling.

Nichols's gravelly vocals are more immediate and heartfelt than ever, especially on the dark, ruefuI I Woke Up In New Orleans, about self-destructive alcoholism. Lighter subject matter works less well (the pleasant ditty I'm In Love With A Girl, the lacklustre Throwback No. 2) but has enough southern soul to keep things interesting.

Powers's vocals, which still possess his signature nasal tone, are more upfront and unflinching this time. Yet for all this newfound confidence and prowess, that special emotional punch of a Youth Lagoon song is missing.

The album makes every effort to showcase the band's deep back catalogue, and represents their second coming--it speaks to the new generation of fans they've gained. There are worse ways to be remembered.

The way Ought confront modern bleakness is understandably disaffected but ultimately moving and celebratory, in the idealistic tradition of punk.

Pagans In Vegas may not be the strongest entry in the Metric canon, but the juxtaposition of Emily Haines's robot-girl vocals and pointed lyrics with dark yet hooky melodies remains a winning combination.

Despite its relatively minimal instrumentation, virtually every song here crackles and hums with distorted, altered familiarity.

Turkey is erratic, disjointed and full of loose garage swagger--in other words, classic Krol.

Stuff might not be a true follow-up to 2013's Fade, but it's an excellent follow-up to Fakebook 15 years later.

Scott goes for spacey sounds, stoner vibes and vocal filters, but despite the eclecticism, he's too elusive and bland for Rodeo to amount to a stylistic--let alone a subversive--statement.