New Music From SpaceGhostPurrp, Jana Kramer and 2 Most of the debut album by SpaceGhostPurrp, "Mysterious Phonk: The Chronicles of SpaceGhostPurrp" (4AD), consists of cleaned-up versions of earlier mixtape tracks. And cleaned up is not a euphemism. This Miami rapper-producer's earliest releases - especially the intoxicating and asphyxiating "Blvckland Rvdix 66.6" - were often vexingly muddled, dubbed-out and dank. SpaceGhostPurrp hasn't been alone in pursuing this aesthetic in recent years, but he's been the most committed to it, even as like-minded associates like ASAP Rocky brushed off some of that obscurity in search of something more broadly palatable. To SpaceGhostPurrp's credit, or to the credit of his stubbornness, this is still a spectacularly dirty album, though, even if several old songs have been run through a wash-and-rinse cycle, revealing the hard-angled lyrics and off-kilter noises beneath. The darkness here recalls nothing so much as early albums by the Geto Boys, and also the layer of grit atop the first Wu-Tang Clan album. An air of menace and depression hangs over this album, embodied in SpaceGhostPurrp's stream-of-consciousness raps, leaning on sneering boasts and mantralike chants. This single-mindedness can be invigorating, like on "Been Fweago" and "Osiris of the East." But SpaceGhostPurrp also shows hints of a clarity-enhancing consciousness on "The Black God." It's a relief he can be heard. Jana Kramer The young country singer Jana Kramer has a reedy, harmless voice, and she spends a good deal of her warm, approachable self-titled debut album (on Elektra Nashville) hiding behind it. Her breakthrough hit "Why Ya Wanna" is a wounded plea to an ex to keep his distance; weakness is its selling point, and it's an effective sell. An actress who's had roles on "One Tree Hill," "90210" and "Friday Night Lights," Ms. Kramer may not be built for rowdiness, though she's trying. "I hate four-inch heels," she chirps on "Goodbye California," the song in which she swaps milieus but doesn't abandon her good mood. And yet it's her voice, with its narrow message, that makes her sour songs that much more sweet. "I Hope It Rains" is sung cheerfully, like an encouraging pep talk to a friend, except really she's patronizingly patting an ex on the head: "I hope it rains, hope it pours/I hope she's in heels and some little white shorts." But her best moments are on "Over You by Now" and on the outright devastating "When You're Lonely," which seethes with the fire of early Reba McEntire, or the darker side of Dolly Parton's oeuvre, with Ms. Kramer letting her voice bleed at the edges and drawing her vowels out and down, landing on fertile, strange ground somewhere between Faith Hill and Gary Allan. 2:54 is a duo - the miserabilist British sisters Colette and Hannah Thurlow - with one mind. And it's cloudy. Indebted to the cold atmospherics of the xx and also to the bloodiest and most purple side of early 1980s gothic-romantic rock, 2:54 is committed to a mood that's lean and chilly but not harsh. Its self-titled debut album (on Fat Possum) following an EP, "Scarlet," consistently applies the same tools: wobbly guitar, rough-edged drums, vocals that lap up against each other, all coated with a dry haze. Recently the band toured with Widowspeak, which is like its slightly more optimistic younger sister. It seems to prefer operating under a steady churn of gloom. But there's real muscle here, both in the singing, which is rendered wide and fat, an ooze of its own; and also in the guitar playing, which is hefty and dark. Elements bubble up from the mix at different times, for a kaleidoscopic effect. Finally this duo isn't wholly without cheer, or romance, or at least humor: see "A Salute," the brightness of which clearly would have fit well on a John Hughes movie soundtrack. Whitechapel Deathcore, that highly technical and breakneck-speed blend of metalcore precision and arena-metal theatrics, has its dogmas. Over three albums the ferocious Tennessee band Whitechapel has helped write those rules. Its self-titled fourth album (on Metal Blade), is a continuation of that path, with mild flashes of ambition. Phil Bozeman, its singer, is an accomplished throaty howler, a vocalist not mindful of inclusion. But in places on this album, like at the choruses of "Section 8" and "I, Dementia," he removes the rough outer layer of his voice, maybe looking for a singalong. Primarily, though, this band's assault is shaped by the work of its three guitarists: Zach Householder, Ben Savage and Alex Wade. The band also includes the bassist Gabe Crisp and the drummer Ben Harclerode. Mainly they build unforgiving walls of riff, and unpleasant ones too. Pleasure's not the point, though. There is a militaristic certainty to Whitechapel's work, which activates the true thrills of masochism. So it's notable when this band changes speeds. The few seconds of slicing guitars on "Hate Creation," those joyful Iron Maiden-style licks on "Faces" or the occasional moments of release that are like a hand dropping away after clutching tightly at your neck.