The songs rarely cohere into anything greater than the sum of their individual parts.
The whole album is restless, overstuffed, and desperate to impress.
These songsunfurl like hazy, sepia-tinged memories of endless summer afternoons.
An official release of the singer’s latest single almost didn’t happen.
The album unfolds like a Pinterest mood board of regional dance subcultures.
The album is both an aesthetic and a thrillingly profound philosophical statement.
The album feels more invested in preserving a myth than reimagining it.
The song delivers all of the vaguely outlined angst we’ve come to expect from the band.
The driving club track finds the singer embracing all of her imperfections.
The album doesn’t shy away from the glare, but rather steps into it.
The album feels like a branding exercise starring Travis Scott as the reluctant ringmaster.
As much as the album relies on attitude, it never feels one-note or settles for mere edginess.
The album serves more as a platform for empty self-aggrandizement than self-reflection.
In the end, the album is too reverent to ever bother being interesting.
The song is a proverbial lost gem with sharp lyrics and a killer bridge.
The band’s propensity for catchy, danceable garage-punk remains intact.
The singer seems torn between unruliness and introspection.
The album is a hesitant step in the right direction for the singer.
The album is, if nothing else, an inadvertent test of Boone’s capabilities as a performer.
Carlisle is at his best when he juxtaposes traditionalism with contemporary sensibilities.
These albums reflect a collective mood that’s far more nuanced than the almighty algorithm would have us believe.