Michael Roffman

Sure, Hills End peaks fairly early, but the album plateaus in a way that’s inviting, comfortable, and better yet, quite addicting.

On first listen, it would appear that Casablancas is out of his mind, but really, he’s working with his most original material in years.

It’s a loud record, but everything’s all there. It shakes, it rattles, it rolls, and that’s sort of a nagging issue. 

While Bish Bosch isn’t nearly the departure The Drift was six years ago, there’s a sharper attention to detail and a much broader scope at bay, one that would shake the boots of even the strongest composers worldwide.

In turn, it’s less a collaboration and more a tutoring session on how new tricks can sharpen old perfection.

Too many bands have attempted to adopt that fractured Manchester sound, but Holograms sweeps up the pieces, tosses most in the trash, and yet saves just enough to make their own.

It’s a loud, abrasive record that, in the end, feels pretty damn inspiring.

He’s a little scatterbrained on Blunderbuss, as if he’s still shaking up his past to move forward into the future, and as a result, Jack White represents everything Jack White has already accomplished.

With Kill For Love, it almost feels like the man’s true thesis, as if he’s strung together all his ideas, feelings, and sounds into one colossal being that acts less like an album and more like a highly organized archive.

Whereas she used to craft dizzying spectacles that were both insightful and emotional, she lays it all out here, bolds the key terms, and highlights the fluff.

A Different Kind of Truth offers the same youthful escape that sold the band to millions worldwide over 30 years ago.

With Attack on Memory, Baldi’s never felt more alive or more authentic.

They’re attempting to breach their comfort zone, and they’re definitely drilling away here, but it’s questionable whether or not it’s in the right area.

Although Dreaming sports slower, more introspective ballads, there’s also a pantry’s worth of interstellar jams, chock full of sounds you’ve probably never heard before.

With such little variety, Ukulele Songs becomes a chore to sit through.

On Destroyed, it’s as if his scope was all encompassing, which, regardless of the artist, will always result as clustered and unfocused.

It’s essentially a 37 minute jam session; one where they’re carving out their current sensibilities and seeing where they run.