Hands of Glory exists as merely a portion of a divided project that should have remained whole.
Despite its flaws, The Haunted Man is still a worthy, often gorgeous entry in the Bat for Lashes canon.
Shut Down the Streets, continues to spotlight Newman’s talents as a cerebral balladeer.
Tom Krell has lent his work a subtle weightiness that becomes clear only after repeat listens.
Shields plays like a calculated retreat into something altogether indistinct and inconsequential.
This is a collection of richly crafted but idling songs in desperate need of some muscle.
Now with six albums under their belt, Stars have gone from simply embracing their drippy, sentimental music to full-on bear-hugging it.
A Thing Called Divine Fits is absent of any of the growing pains or false starts one might associate with a young band’s debut.
Four is a vacant display of miscellany, a rather depressing scenario considering its makers were once genre-definers.
Gossamer is true to its name: colorless and precariously thin, with precious few bright spots.
When Corin Roddick lays off the sequencer buttons, as he does on “Shuck,” the results are hypnotic, rhythmic, and effortless.
They’ve Westernized their sound so much that they’ve become nothing more than a glorified boy band.
Twin Shadow’s sophomore effort is emotional and muscular, racing through its pathos-filled contents with speedier, high-energy melodies.
Oceania benefits from Corgan’s new sense of freedom, resulting in the Pumpkins’s best album since the gothic Adore.
The only reliable human standby amid the parade of dreary automation is Alexis Taylor’s voice.
Every song on Synthetica is a poker-faced exercise in resigned indifference.
Valtari proves that Inni was more of an unfortunate blip than the sign of impending stagnation.
The only thing that actually elevates Bloom from the linearity of its reverb-caked narcosis is the effort of vocalist Victoria Legrand.
With A Different Ship, Here We Go Magic has essentially removed the “psych” from psych-folk and replaced it with monotony.
Santigold may not possess Kanye’s megalomaniacal charisma, but she’s just as much of a pop-music savant.