Despite the echoes of their past on this second long-play set, Digitalism's perfectly timed return is more about fondness than contempt.

Some Clark fans will be disappointed with Iradelphic, but many others will see the promise in this little treasure.

It all adds up to a record for those who want thrills but don't want them dumb.

Past Lives are prog incarnate; yet dissection of their work here reveals a far simpler formula than what initially presents itself. The four are restricted to some degree by their make-up, with Henderson handling much of the multi-instrumentalist demands, but the ideas are solid.

This is at heart a fun, dirty, insincere, cheap-thrill-laden pop record, with the raunch-riffery of Band of Skulls and lyrics which could be drawled from the mouth of a Bret Easton Ellis character.

While Amok--like The Eraser--is unlikely to arouse the same passions as, for instance, In Rainbows, it’s an often fulfilling and fascinating indulgence.

Sure, it's a little disjointed, a little indulgent, but when Boxcutter's best beats connect with welcoming synapses, the effect is like mainlining fizzy pop on a summer's day: brilliant, bright, jumpy and jovial.

Her songwriting is not greatly altered: tunes most often travel at an energetic tempo, with melodies shining through the thickly applied reverb and helping the likes of Know Me to soar. The presentation, however, recalls the Cocteau Twins during the album's most abstract moments.

Hardly revelatory then, but Nelson delivers hardy material like traditional Satan Your Kingdom Must Come Down and I Am a Pilgrim with such wizened assurance, it's impossible not to feel the love.

It's a solid, engaging and high-calibre Biffy Clyro album. And that's no bad thing.

While keeping his music fantastically fresh and of the moment, this often causes a speedy ageing process.

There are songs here that comprise bite-size fragments of multifarious melodies, drawing on myriad influences. But there are also tracks that sustain one tune and tempo over the duration, where previously only three or four would do.

Ring was inspired by the symmetrical order outlined in Homer's poem Odyssey, the idea that any structure doesn't necessarily have to abide by a beginning, middle or end. Presumably this is why when succulent-lullaby Clamour completes the cycle you'll want to return to the start once more.

This is an album that glides between the concertedly cold and clinical, and a simplistic joy in pop harmonies.

Sleepy Sun aren’t above dispelling the perceptions of over indulgence, and they may always be tarred thus, but Fever at least proves there’s a renewed clarity to go with the lozenge-smooth lethargy, even if it isn’t totally clearheaded.

The Sea and Cake's music is more about mood than narrative, as with the largely acoustic Harbor Bridges' gorgeous evocation of summer's end.

Trans-Love Energies is a fine return and a worthy addition to the catalogue of a band whose path has become more of a fantastic voyage than a standard career.

While this isn't a great album it's still a very good one, and even lesser Waits is worth a lot in any other currency.

In the US they're pitching this as Diamond's revelatory masterpiece, which is a bit rich considering he's performed covers often before, and his own best songs were as strong as anything here.

It's lengthy, but the sensitivity of every guitar tickle and percussive touch, as well as main man Christopher Owens' spellbinding voice, means that it is rarely boring.

If Mika had refined this into a 10-track collection, trimming the cuts that don't quite click, we'd have an excellent album on our hands. As it is, The Origin of Love is stretched slightly too long.

Hebden is right to think that presenting a distinct musical vision is more valuable than getting the listener from start to finish with as few bumps as possible. It's a decision that pretty much pays off, the result more a collage than a traditional mix.

For all the calculated horror show element, much of King Night is very pretty and nuanced, trading in shivering beauty rather than infernal fury, with an aching world weariness running Marlatt and Holland's more lucid vocal turns. It's just a shame Donoghue has to dopily blunder in there every now and again, the dimwit henchman to his evil scientist colleagues.

Spoonfuls of sugar might help Murderbot's version of juke to go down, but Women's Studies still contains more than enough dirt to drive Mary Poppins insane.

This is the most balanced album of Mason's career, or certainly the least precipitous. There is still a yawning void beneath him, but for once it doesn't sound as if he's about to fall into it, and you can't help but share his relief.

But subtle though it is, Tarwater's Bernd Jestram--who mixed the album--ensures that the imaginative details sparkle, so while Nes' world may at times sound familiar, it's still very much her own, a comforting and alluring one into which to retreat.

The songs he's written with new acolyte Sorren Maclean and Idlewild bandmate Rod Jones are more assured than ever.

Merritt’s songs are, as ever, as lugubrious yet playful as his voice.