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O’Connor delivers her own lessons in love and empowerment.
A new, blurry shade of gray added to the Chicago hip-hop scene.
Back from hiatus, the Brooklyn band underwhelms by opting for the straight and narrow.
A softly nostalgic accompaniment to Charlie Lyne’s dissection of the teen movie genre.
A frankly expressed project on the dualism between love and lust, reality and fantasy.
The 22-year-old producer pivots toward emotive dance-pop on his debut LP.
A gruffer, more refined Kevin Martin.
The phlegmy anti-comedian returns and alienates as well as ever.
On their sophomore record, the Washington trio’s visceral, emotive punk is a bit one-note.
A catchy, occasionally beautiful album that falls short of its influences.
It’s Beal’s beautiful emptiness — and we’re living in it.
Pleasant but safe indie pop from the North Carolina duo.
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