Together, they’re a marriage made in musical haven.

At 77 minutes it’s no sprint, but YLT’s mellifluous serpentines are never less than involving.

Whatever the permutations, Amiina's fragile magic can't fail to beguile.

There are missteps... and the production is sometimes frustratingly muddy, but Neon Bible very nearly delivers on impossible expectations.

Their debut has a great deal of shadowy appeal: there are lyrics about ghosts and secrets, set to drowsy washes of guitar.

Burial has concocted a noir-ish sound that’s as powerful as it is atmospheric.

This only occasionally matches the breathtaking splendour of last year's …Illinoise! but with its modest price and immodest extras only Scrooge could fail to have his heart warmed.

El-P's uniquely, beautifully harsh vision remains undiluted.

Rather than play catch-up, the Chems are accentuating the difference, digging deeper into melody instead of piling on the noise.

Ward’s band kick back with a looser, rockier feel than previously, yet his dusty, wistful voice still inhabits an age all of its own.

The sort of euphoric, sweetly intentioned indie pop that, despite occasionally making Belle & Sebastian sound like Da Lench Mob, nevertheless manages to stay the right side of cloying.

It's brilliant: Broder's twisted tales are better than ever, this time underpinned by urgent guitar riffs, off-beats and perfect pacing.

Upon starting Soft Bulletin--you’re instantly whisked off into the universe the Flaming Lips have created. The musical journey that ensues is nothing short of imaginary genius--simple as.

Filling the gaps between Prince and !!!, this is for those who spent the last two decades shaking their hips rather than banging their heads.

If you’re after dark, bloody romance with a twist, look no further.

It’s clear that chemistry was in the air.

This mini album sometimes feels as if it’s thrown together like quickly-packed luggage.

Warm and quirky. Pleasantly bizarre. Sophisticated and daft. Herbert at his best.

The result is a folk album so rich and intricate that, in scope, it's comparable to Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks."

Frank is an honest, refreshingly personal record which, though very occasionally strays into easy jazz, has Gucci bags of personality.

[Finn's] smart, poetic, unashamedly adult lyrics... almost guarantee this is the best arena band that’ll never play an arena.

As lush and expansive as his former work was taut and aggro - only the quality remains.

It's a bewildering jumble on first gaze, but Harte's little fingerprint-smudged slivers, so lovingly composed, are precious things, and you'll fast find yourself addicted to his sweet, glum love stories.

If there is such a thing as music with a hairy chest, this is it.

Their second album continues in a similarly delicious vein, melding wonky electronics, pillow-soft soul and lyrics that manage to weave strange violence into gorgeous soul songs.

A textbook lesson in sublime but understated country soul.

Short answer: it’s good.

It’s a winning combination, with the Prince’s shambolic charm still intact but lent clarity by the new additions that make this infinitely preferable to previous efforts.