The singer has yet to discover a sound or sensibility that truly distinguishes her.
Thr33 Ringz is drenched in what already sounded like last year’s sound a couple years ago.
At this point in the game, the group no longer needs to work to earn anyone’s respect.
Galore makes for one of the most self-assured, strutting debuts in recent memory.
On Our Bright Future, Tracy Chapman tempers the social conscience that’s been her trademark with guarded, cautious optimism.
Attention Deficit may be one of the best rap releases of the year, even while it lacks the focus of a central persona.
While not offering anything wildly divergent or profoundly groundbreaking, it trumps their 2004 eponymous album.
Few bands display raw courage and an adventurous spirit more vividly than Bloc Party.
Boasting a title that only a grad student could love, Wilderness’s new album, (k)no(w)here, doesn’t exactly expand on their trademark sound.
The pleasures of Little Joy, a casually assembled, self-titled side project anchored by Strokes drummer Fabrizio Moretti, are small but concise.
The album arrives with a host of existential questions that Bradford Cox and Deerhunter have entertained before but have never fully answered.
For an album with no lyrics, Jóhann Jóhannsson’s Fordlandia certainly has a lot of things to say.
Play is an insightful, compelling and fantastically performed declaration of who Paisley is as an artist.
As anyone who’s been there can attest, New Orleans isn’t really the best place to be sad.
I love this stuff and Spilt Milk is some kind of genius missing link.
It’s no surprise that Madonna’s new show comes off not unlike an act of self-defense.
Smooth and mostly sunny, Cardinology hums along on the fumes of better Ryan Adams material.
Evolver might be the least affected of Legend’s LPs thus far.
Broken Hymns distracts from the staleness of its themes by burning them from the ground up.
A Hundred Million Suns, unlike Snow Patrol’s previous two releases, focuses on the giddy start of a relationship rather than its end.
As divorce albums go, no one will mistake Funhouse as a Blood on the Tracks-style emotional bloodletting.