It's a set that does reward investigation, perhaps not with lasting love but certainly first-few-plays impressions which will last into the New Year.

Scott's permanent air of wonder, and respectful, well-crafted arrangements, allow him to get away with even the most fanciful of tales.

As an album, a glorious rawness and disregard for verse-chorus-verse simplicity runs throughout, but it strains for cohesion.

It's a downbeat record that reclaim's dubstep's original dark energy and experimental imperative.

they've upped their creative ante somewhat, a number of these songs (assuming you pick the 'right' ones) coming across as more measured and mature, and a heck of a lot gloomier, than the upbeat bounce-alongs of old. [Review of UK release The Future Is Medieval]

The Len Price 3 sound well aware that people aren’t tuning in for their Swiftian commentary, but for the fizzy fury of their cheerfully unreconstructed rock’n’roll. Pictures may well be what the doctor ordered, for those whose preferred consultant’s last name is Feelgood.

On much of The Old Magic, he's Richard Hawley unplugged.

If there's a weakness here, it's in the lack of variety to Smalhans' structures and sounds, the emphasis on arpeggios and keyboard lines that arc ever higher.

While Sempiternal isn’t the equal of another genre-bending record Date has worked on, Deftones’ White Pony, it represents significant and successful progression for its makers.

It's an inverted-commas proper long-player, which manifests a relaxed mood and maintains it marvellously.

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.

Steadman's vocal stands out--its tremulous quality may be a hangover from, as the story goes, embarrassment at being overheard singing as a kid, but it heightens the sense of an authentically troubled spirit exorcising his demons in the quietly devastating manner of a Nick Drake.

They still have enough primitive power to brush past any road blocks, but they could do with tweaking their formula somewhat if they don't want to run out of gas.

The subject matter may be familiar territory, but this is no comfort zone.

It's a contented celebration of success with weed as the indisputable toasting substance of choice. The sound is bigger, with more detail, exhibiting more confidence to experiment.

Gregg Allman's history lesson may not match his finest recordings, but it's a diverting blues miscellany from an undoubted master.

An engaging diversion down a road which might be worth investigating further.

[Singles] I'm His Girl and Friend Crush both appear here, and though they're highlights, they don't eclipse the rest of this generally impressive debut LP.

Cole World reveals its maker to be a technically superb rapper with great production skills, albeit currently exploring rags-to-riches tales lacking in consistent vigour.

Colour of the Trap, impressive an achievement as it is, is begging for diminishing returns.

Mescaline-soaked narratives woven through hallucinatory images of Americana.

Although at times the tunes and excitement commonly associated with a debut album can become lost in painful pursuit of authenticity, this is a surefooted and uncompromising collection.

Spirit Fiction is jazz the way it's supposed to be: cool, chaotic, and unassuming. It's good music for the sake of good music.

On an album of depth and scale, Lytle is aiming to move mountains. It's big.

He has made another (mostly) sublime record.

There are ten other very fine songs here, this album shows Ritter developing continually, and there's potential for greatness, in time.

A mazy, fluid, ethereal suite of chamber jazz to get properly lost in.

At times, Spektor can be too cutesy... More often though, her little idiosyncrasies are charming.

In the end, Watch the Throne is a very noble attempt at cohesion, but its inconsistency ultimately stalls the project, resulting in an uneven recording that buckles under the weight of its own pressure.

The OF Tape Vol 2 is an excellent addition to the group's canon.

This is a charmingly youthful and exuberant album, featuring a fine selection of vocalists.

Small Craft... isn't an album that's going to change the world forever, but listened to in the right environment it sometimes does just that for a few minutes at a time.

This thoroughly enjoyable release does include one surprising blast of brass.

They seem to have stopped trying to subvert their pop nous and accept what they do best, and for the most part it works a treat.

The follow-up to 2010's Paupers Field, this set plunders the overarching melancholy of Townes Van Zandt, making for an emotionally draining listen.

At times The Light of the Sun veers towards self-indulgence, and some of its ideas are not fully followed through. On the whole, however, it is a rather lovely, emotional album that provides a beguiling snapshot of the current life of Jill Scott.

Of the nine songs that aren't singles already, four are cut from the same cloth as the hits: each one desperately vying to be the tune you most want to be dancing to when the realisation hits that you're out, the night is young, and everything is brilliant.

If there's a case to be made for formulating something serious out of classic pop and old-time hokum, Welch and Rawlings make it as well as anybody. So while just a bit of drums and bass would probably have broadened the record's appeal, we must give thanks for this stubborn duo's independence of mind.

For sheer frazzled sonics and sci-fi future textures, Heady Fwends can't be beat. Actual songs are few and far between, and anyone looking for heart-stopping melodies will be disappointed. But if you're in the mood for a 70-minute aural assault, listen no further.

Intensely individual without being overly self-indulgent, TOTEM offers an at-times madcap, at others beautiful but always-rewarding insight into Ryat's mystical and eccentric world.

Confess is an easy record to listen to and love.

Despite the odd patch of fluffier filler, it's still filled with enough dark delights to send tingles up and down your spine.

It's a pleasant, head-nodding mood record which deftly pieces together a wash of sound; but the best moments are when there's a defining thread to follow.

For a debut album it’s accomplished stuff, though like the Manics before them Anthems is not without its stodgier moments.

There’s a solid groove to most tracks, with no digressions to the Court of the Crimson King, or democratic opportunities for weaker members of the commune to sing.

It has the feeling of a band progressing in their own rights, under their own terms.

It's not an album fans of Prekop's signature drowsy vocals and woozy choruses are going to warm to instantly. Not that it's entirely unapproachable--far from it, there are luminous passages and lulling, almost cartoonish refrains to be found among the synthetic scree--merely unexpected.

On one hand, this [move to a much smaller, California-based independent label] represents a gentle lowering of expectation. On the other, however, it's given Bilal space to explore what he does free of the stifling expectations of a label trying to work out what they can sell, and to whom.

While Blood Red Shoes displayed a more erratic style back in 2010 on second album Fire Like This, this third feels formulaic – highly thought-out and polished.

Sigh No More sees four-piece Mumford and Sons strike out for equally distinctive territory, carving out a mostly winning--if nigglingly naive--debut that deserves an audience to match its impressive convictions.

Paisley's at the top of his game – but he's capable of better than this.

Crisis Works is accomplished, polished in all the right ways (it sounds good without the grit at the heart of the songs becoming obscured), but perhaps lacks the soul that a musician's primary project might be instilled with.

A little of this niggling frustration sticks, but for the most part Exister subsequently reveals itself as a more positive, uplifting record than its predecessors, adding something new to the band's eight-strong studio album canon.

As methods go it can be messy, but it also throws up some interesting hybrids.

The album unfolds an immeasurable amalgam of genres and inspirations, all fused together in a diamond-encrusted bubble of futuristic, day-glo hip hop. The energy is palpable, the pace rarely lets up, and personality pervades throughout.

It's perhaps a bit long, and there may be too much repetition for some – but persist and Drokk is quite the engrossing, and sporadically discomforting, listen.

All things considered, Gold Dust works as an introduction to Tori Amos, though an imperfect one. It should also persuade a few lapsed fans to get reacquainted.

If this were an EP, it would be captivating--Everdell's voice is certainly commanding--but, spread out over 11 songs, it loses some of its hold.

This third studio album struts in on a crest of rollicking beats and wearing the kind of snarl that even in this new century is likely to delight fans of balls-out, raucous rock‘n’roll.

No-one will be disappointed by a Glee album which includes "Don’t Stop Believin’"--their chart-eating cover of the Petra Haden arrangement of the Journey song; or "Alone," or "Gold Digger." But it’s a shame there wasn’t room for their Winehouse-approved upgrade of "Rehab;" or the stripped-back swing at Bel Biv Devoe’s "Poison," as performed by the show’s all-male vocal group Acafellas. These would probably have lifted the second half of the CD, which loses some of the sparkle and joy once the barn-storming "Somebody to Love" has finished.

The Betrayed is not an underachieving record. It sweats hunger and ambition, and while it’s not flawless, it’s a success on their own, aggressively populist terms.

Such is Sitek’s influence on the record that it takes you a little while to get to know the real Miranda. While initial listens find her songs somewhat opaque, they gradually open up to reveal their emotional depths.

Its most successful examples retain some Radiohead DNA, but reconstituted into a new form.

They have delivered another album which is at least 70% corking. It's just that they're much better when on stage, playing these tracks while scaring the life out of you.

Think of it as a solid foundation to build something more unique from and it's a triumph; or, better still, don't think at all and let it tickle several sonic taste-buds in a single sitting.

It is dreamy and languid, warm and inviting in turn; a soulful work by a talented young singer-songwriter that hints at a bright and beautiful future.

While there's much to marvel at, not everything convinces.

After this striking highlight ["Stick to My Side"] Black Noise glides into a slight lull that persists through the Underworld-like fidget of "Satellite Snyper" and the disappointingly anonymous electro house of "Behind the Stars," which shows that when Weber promotes rhythm ahead of melody the effect can be underwhelming. It’s with the album’s final trio that things return to the high standard of the first half.

It's a knowing retread of what works and what's expected--but boy, that's no problem.

As has been noted before, bands such as We Are the Ocean currently exist in a crowded market. Maybe Today, Maybe Tomorrow should give them a firm foothold in it.

It’s all quite understated and beautifully played, and any shortcomings in the material are more than made up for by Drever’s peerless singing.