Despite glimmers of authenticity throughout the album, it’s hard to discern who Gomez is, musically or otherwise.
The album is steeped in warm acoustics juxtaposed by austere observations about life and love.
The singer-songwriter’s guileless musings serve as a reminder of what young, unjaded love can feel like.
There’s no denying the album’s imposing maximalism, but its bells and whistles feel like sensory overload.
The album often feels cerebral and off-kilter, and its dreamlike ambience at times turns nightmarish.
The album aims for an enthralling vision of infatuation, but the band’s message rings hollow.
The singer-songwriter imbues her sophomore effort with a multitude of intertextual meanings and nods to her predecessors.
DeMarco has a knack for composing simple yet alluring melodies that feel weighty and timeless.
The album fails to yield anything truly novel within the scope of blues-rock.
The album serves as a reminder of the magic that can result from looking to the past to inform the future.
The album feels more like an American Eagle ad than a documentation of an authentic transformational experience.
The album is the duo’s most personal work to date, but they seem reluctant to let loose and lean into the music.
Chaz Bear's sixth album as Toro y Moi bends the boundaries of club music, albeit with mixed results.
Us‘s charm lies in its articulation of the giddy uncertainty that comes from fully trusting someone.
While Cat Power’s vulnerability here lends itself to melancholy, it’s also triumphant and resolute.
Unlike most ephemeral pop music today, Chris feels consequential and everlasting.
Lovers Rock both bottles the ardor of the eponymous reggae style and testifies to the force of a deep and resilient love.
Justice’s Woman Worldwide at times feels like an inexplicable rehash of existing material.
Swimming is an openhearted meditation on self-love in the wake of heartbreak.
With Sculptor, Luluc casts their characteristically serene and understated folk into a harsher, more challenging light.