Kimbra's debut almost sounds like music we know, but the strange siren from Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know" turns tropes and trends inside out and upside down. The opening track invites you into a weird new world of hoots, odd harmonies and fuzzy popcorn beats, where pop disguises itself as trip-hop show tunes, spaghetti western doo-wop and off-kilter R&B funk, like Mary J through the looking glass -- or like Prince and Nona Hendryx made a girl group of love children together. It's a breathless, at times even exhausting, romp that breathes giddy new life into music's dead horses.
Our little Biebster's 18 and he's got some not-a-girl, not-yet-a-woman-type stuff to prove, y'all. And wow, does Believe do the job! JB zips around the pop Monopoly board, building hotels on everything from dubstep-doused dance-pop to Mrazian acoustic jams ("Be Alright"), and bubblegum retro R&B ("Die in Your Arms") to a lot of Timberlakian blue-eyed funk. What's more, he gets panty-droppers like Ludacris and Big Sean waxing sweet enough to sell cereal. And that's what Believe really is: a balancing act that dances perfectly between his wholesome kiddie pop past and a sexy, grownup future.
If 2010's Night Work was an examination of disco history's dark underbelly, then Scissor Sisters' fourth album is a frenetic romp through the possible futures of disco-fried dance-pop. Magic Hour zigs from midriff-baring, '90s throwback beats ("Self Control") to kuduro-laced sass ("Keep Your Shoes"). They counter flirtations with mainstream dance-pop with firm commitments to the queer at the album's center, with the drag-fabulous "Let's Have a Kiki" and the Azealia Banks-featuring "Shady Love." Like good neo-futurists, they lace it all with a mood somewhere between joy and melancholy.
"We've reached euphoria!" announces Usher at the end of his sixth album. In addition to his casually great post-coitus slow jams (including "Climax" and "I Care for U") and electronic pop explosions ("Can't Stop Won't Stop" and "Scream"), Usher offers a frustratingly small window into his life as a pop superstar. He rues over his alienation from friends and lovers on "What Happened to U" and admits to feeling lost on "Looking 4 Myself." Intriguingly, his jumbled metaphors on "Sins of My Father" could be about his divorce... or something else. It's not Confessions, but it will have to do.
Regina Spektor makes more than one reference to fellow classically trained, distinctly voiced chanteuse/pianist Nina Simone on her sixth album. It's an interesting touchstone for Spektor, whose funny valentine vocals are so often delivered with a cutesy coyness Simone never bothered with. But there's a heft to this album, a sadness more indebted to Simone's soulful gravity than, say, the preciousness of Far. Take the plaintive, frightening "Open" or any of the vodka-soaked Russian songs. Don't worry: Spektor's still a weirdo (see funny noise-ridden "The Party" or "Open"'s melodramatic gasps).
This EP serves many purposes. First, it's meant to tide over fans waiting for Bareilles' fourth album. Second, it's meant to introduce us to a new Sara sound, one doused in lush strings and sweeping synths. Third, Once Upon Another Time gave Bareilles a chance to work with pal Ben Folds, who produced. Folds helps her stretch her languorous vocals across new environs (the epically lovely title track) and new moods (the biting "Sweet as Whole"). If much of the album is rather Foldsian (and at times, maybe Sarah McLachlan-esque), Bareilles has the presence to make it her own.
Though Mayer relocated to Montana, Born and Raised finds him setting up camp in Laurel Canyon. This is obvious from the outset. With its winsome pedal steel and precious references to heading out west and Neil Young, "Queen of California" is pure 1970s folk-rock. It's a hip style these days: Dawes; Ray LaMontagne's work with The Pariah Dogs; Father John Misty. But the new (but really old) sound also feels like a role, as if Mayer believes playing the hippie troubadour affords him a certain kind of concealment while penning confessionals that deal with all the tabloid-worthy stuff he's done.
FM's first album since "Like a G6" feels less like an album than a clutch of singles shooting for those stars again. To put it another way, Dirty Bass is a non-stop party. The guest list includes big names (Bieber, Pitbull) and unknowns, all served with a smorgasbord of the day's biggest dance beats. With the exception of the slizzery, Tyga-featuring title track, most cuts here feel more hands-in-the-air than bass-down-low. And while some tracks ("Turn Up the Love") feel like a mashup of modern radio hits, unexpected gems (like the Feist-sampling "Little Bird") highlight FM's potential.
This enigmatically titled album may be Ed Sheeran's debut, but this young Brit has had buzzy written all over him for years. + has all the bells and whistles that earned him that buzz: beat-boxing over acoustic guitars; sweet crooning of lyrics riddled with nostalgic pop culture references (see the conversational "Wake Me Up"); beats culled from rock, coffee-shop pop, country ("Give Me Love") and a whole lot of Justin Timberlake's hip-pop songwriting book. But the plus of +? The tender, loving earnestness with which Sheeran and his feathery tenor kiss every song.
Beth Ditto listened to nothing but ABBA for a year before Gossip got Xenomania (Girls Aloud, Kylie M) to produce its second Columbia effort. It's a combo Gossip could make a fabulous noise with. But Joyful kind of ... isn't. Dark, disco-fried beats land between mainstream and drag soundtrack without really hitting either's sweet spot. Meanwhile, with a few exceptions (the athletic "Perfect World"), Ditto's usually incendiary vocals feel weighted down, disconnected. As dance-pop goes, it's just fine. As a Gossip-worthy dance-pop deconstruction? It's a little short on the fabulous.
Emeli Sandé is a young Scottish artist who's perched on the (cutting) edge of super-stardom in the U.K. and looks very hip. But her debut is the sound of an older soul, harkening back to an era when the voices were bigger, the R&B was more akin to quiet storm than dance-pop, and the divas were worshipped for the inspirational drama. Pianos and acoustic guitars swoop in and out of slow jams and ballads, bolstered by echoing synths and crisp beats. Sandé belts and whispers about finding -- and surviving -- love with a voice that is, if at times a bit unwieldy, commanding. Don't miss "Daddy."
Kris Allen has done just what a good American Idol should. He's put out a second album that's both stronger than his debut and still coated in the wholesome pop goodness that won him the title. The sweet, strummy coffee-shop pop and love-drunk sentimentality that endeared him to audiences is still here. But it's augmented by bits of blue-eyed funk (check out codependence ode "Rooftops"), smatterings of rock licks and country (a strong future path). If his only crime is it's often too tame, it's a small price to pay when even treacly, Idolicious ballads like "Fighters" are sung so prettily.
