The album has a conceptual and sonic unity that goes a long way to explaining its greatness: The Lioness isn’t a collection of songs, it’s a state of mind, or a state of the soul.

Put simply, CollectiV is a masterclass in supremely executed rock and roll.

Despite a miss or two, with Cows On Hourglass Pond Tare will likely appease even the most weary AnCo audiences, stringing together an album that is sonically ornate, scintillating, and poetically metaphysical.

It’s a piece of masterful craftsmanship tucked snugly into the singer-songwriter tradition, filled with country-soul ballads and grungy laments driven by jangly guitars, family band harmonies, rumbling pianos and cinematic string passages that should appeal broadly to fans of the genre without alienating his own die-hards.

The guitars and brass survive, but everything else is fresh.

This is an album that is full of glorious melodies, harsh noise and field recordings. Agora is the strongest, and most cohesive, album that Fennesz has released in over a decade, and that is no mean feat.

Some listeners will have been craving something more alienating to sink their teeth into, but what we actually have is an appetising, confident statement of intent from a band that want us to know that they are still a force in contemporary music.

It’s not a game-changer of an album, but the game is certainly changing and Apparat is playing for the right team.

Halo expertly shuffles musical microclimates like a card shark elbow greasing a three card molly hustle.

Basinski is a true master in the way he can overlay true emotion onto his subject matter, and there’s a sense of sadness for these black holes in their destruction and rebirth and the fabric of spacetime they tear apart within that. To close out with that sense of wonder and discovery relieves the weight of his material.

On the Line is yet another beautifully-realised and impeccably-delivered effort from a songwriter who revels and beguiles us from floorboards and pavements that few other songwriters would dream to tread.

Overall, this album isn’t bad, it’s very easy to listen to and it’s quite likeable with some beautiful moments. However, it doesn’t bring with it the life-altering, head-over-heels feeling that I’ve had before with previous BFL albums. Perhaps my expectations are too high but it would be great to see a bit more grit and energy for the next release.

Rather than thinking of Groove Denied as some form of outlier we should only be thinking of it for what it is: a delicious treat.

Topics like institutionalised evil, war and greed are always valid targets and The Coathangers go for the throat--and draw blood--pleasingly and memorably at every opportunity. This should be their moment of glory.

This is Foals at their best, and we're only seeing half of the picture.

The 19 songs form a 39-minute-long cohesive whole which looses its meaning once shuffled or reorganised. What could come across as a mash-up of jam sessions slowly reveals its internal coherence.

Imbued with a defiant refusal to succumb to external pressure or fall into the well-worn paths of similar artists who have trodden this road in the past, Sigrid has created a truly unique and recognisable debut record which I’m sure is a sign of spectacular things to come.

As a whole, perhaps unsurprising to those well-versed in the band’s skyscraping sonic feats, Electric Lady Sessions is an affecting appetiser with riveting moments strewn throughout the 12-song compilation.

With Compliments Please, Taylor reclaims the path that the industry had laid out for a pretty girl in an indie band--and she proves, with ample sauciness and class, that strong independent women aren’t just riding trends to cash out. This is metaphorical gold.

Reinforced by the layered repetition that comes with recording on tape, this album finds its grace by turning heartache into cheeky, fork-tongued refrains.

When they do finally depart after a handful of shows later this month, Woman's Hour find themselves in the fairly unique position of having a small but well formed catalogue of work that's near flawless. As a result, Ephyra is a fitting epitaph.

On Black they sound fully invested into exploring, and more than capable of handling, a new pop sound. This is a unique addition to Weezer’s discography that sees them preparing for the future, however bleak and overwhelming it might seem.

Occasionally, rarely, a record comes along that restores our faith. If this is the future of pop-music, then sign me up.

Yorkston feels like a man who genuinely does this, not for fame or money or even to send a message, but simply as catharsis and because it means something to him. The Route to Harmonium is another chance for us to share that with him.

This is a tremendously accomplished piece of work, but one lacking a little of the swagger of previous outings. Give it the time it deserves.

It’s hard to know whether he’s released the most cohesive, and immediate, collection of songs first, or as the series goes on it’ll get more abstract and ethereal. Either way this is an artist, and series of releases, to embrace and get excited about.

This is not background music to relax to, though there’s something undeniably calming in its beauty. It’s music to be consumed in, sink into its depths and float on its updrafts. To revel in its celebrations and mourn with its grief and feel all that it means to exist within universal existence. If that seems excessive, well sometimes hyperbole feels justified. Stop, listen and be in love with the world once again.

Abandoning the abstract art-rock ideals of experimentalism and pushing the rhythm section further out onto the dancefloor has resulted in a sweet spot for this type of storytelling. Still, this isn’t music to be taken in completely on the first listen. It’s eerie, complex, heart wrenching even.

They are certainly light enough to float, and, if you will forgive one last crass metaphor, they may just provide a navigational guide to safety for anyone stranded in dangerous waters.

At 13 songs it's an eventful ride and one that takes repeated listens to really click but once it does, Ladytron makes all the right noises in all the right places.

The Delta Sweete Revisited probably isn’t destined to be anything more than an interesting footnote in the career of anybody involved. But it certainly has something to it: a mood, an ambience, an ethereal sultriness, chilly northern mists turning to hot southern steam.

There is something to be said about a record like Quiet Signs, which finds its maker willingly dwindle and fade within the corporeal world’s fog and decay. It may be an old fashioned idea, sure, but it’s one that will undoubtedly age well.

Of course, we already knew that SGD could dish out more than most amateur punks. But this time around, the duo flaunt even more of their hard rock swagger. Ursula finesses the kit like the legends, while Delilah can command her voice with more expression and scathing attitude than ever before.

Slaves of Fear isn’t perfect, but then I’m not sure it’s trying to be. It’s all over the place, but is also strangely connected. It’s good, just leave me alone now--I need a lie down.

Folk-rock, synth-pop, and more mature delves into the post-punk spectrum of alternative rock are all explored in What Chaos Is Imaginary. Each song is a new chapter offering insight into the multi-dimensional world that is Girlpool--and every one is more intricate, more complex, more captivating than the last.

Ripples is a record which will likely struggle have any relevance, impact or longevity beyond the goodwill of its own gestation. Which really is a shame.

As well as they’ve delivered The Teal Album, they don’t quite hit the mark with every one of its takes, with their version ‘No Scrubs’ feeling more than a little bit uncomfortable.

Creevy’s vocals are a controlled force, and it’s hard to image a woman who writes so incisively about her feelings ever recorded a song about grilled cheese. The potential was there from the beginning. It’s nice to see that they’ve realised it.

With Highway Hypnosis, the cool kid sets the trend yet again--now floating almost entirely away from the bass, Moolchan cranks down the tempo for a decisively more urban flair that draws from the streets of Lisbon, Atlanta, and London in equal measure. And somehow, even with all this new swag, our sneaky protagonist loses none of the prankster wit that turned heads in the first place.

Blake’s musical pallet is a fair bit brighter of late and you can expect a deeper, stronger and more solid vocal tone on much of the album.

Get Tragic, quite candidly, is a virtually perfect record. There’s nothing about it that’s out of place. It draws on the best parts of the band’s past history, catchy choruses, glam-rock guitars, electronic riffs that don’t leave your mind for days, mind-blowing lyrics--all combined with a glamour that lurks at the edge of the hometown you escaped, as the sun slowly sets.

Future Ruins progresses at a pleasing rate, though it never really pushes beyond its genre confines. Every track here is solid-to-good-to-occasionally-great with a friendly, familiar vibe of a bygone nature without ever really presenting anything new or challenging.

With 2019 fresh upon us, hopefully the splendour of Outer Peace is an eclectic foreshadowing of a thrilling year in music.

Its strangeness is all-pervasive, yet understated. It‘s Deerhunter’s quietest record to date, and not exactly lacking in hooks--’Element’ and ‘Plains’ are earworm-ish. And yet everything’s ineffably odd. ... But it all adds to the the album’s allure--a singular thing, not quite of this world, desert fruit ripening quietly on the eve of the end.

Remind Me Tomorrow isn’t as consistently captivating as Tramp or Are We There, but it’s nonetheless a delightful return, one that gives us a new (pleasingly less traumatic) window into Van Etten’s world.

It shows an artist no longer caught in his own artistic web, but someone watching his past selves struggle from a higher vantage point.

It’s a determined, seductive experience, brimming with belief and completely torching everything they’ve done before. As of now, The Twilight Sad are basically untouchable.

It’s unsentimental and unfussy, as both Moffat and Dickens’ best stuff usually is, but still radiates a simple joy in celebrating a special time of the year.

None of the live tracks which also appeared across various formats of This Is My Truth...'s singles are included, which is a shame as there was no better live band anywhere on the planet at this point. Nevertheless, this is a rewarding compendium if only as a means of re-evaluating an album that was promptly dismissed by some, yet when all's said and done, in many ways years ahead of its time.

This, like the other excellent records he has given us since his belated emergence into the global limelight, is a work of quiet--but nonetheless defiant--beauty from a true great of contemporary classical music, who we must all continue to cherish for as long as we can. Essential.

Along with fellow Birmingham rabble rousers Table Scraps, Sunshine Frisbee Laserbeam have made a record that proves the spirit of DIY is alive, well and living somewhere off the M42/A34 axis.

These are ultimately, however, personal stories that are elevated by their universal nature.

Less a concert than a monument to a life, a jubilant-sad, bittersweet way to mark the beginning of this old man’s final act, a taking stock, an affirmation that this all mattered. Springsteen on Broadway is a show about a man who dreamed of escape who never escaped.

Amidst the madness of Oneohtrix Point Never’s music, these are songs that hit the core of humanity and therein lie their beauty.

It is not monotony but repetition, not sing-a-long surface but deeply-felt rhythms, shunning songwriting convention for more fertile ground.

It’s the points at which A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships veers away from the preset aesthetic that feel the most profound.

Where this EP lacks in progression, it makes up for in the strength of the songwriting.

Laibach has done little to diminish their brilliance on a loaded, thought-provoking, and immeasurably entertaining release.

After five albums, and after seven years of silence, it’s obvious now that Art Brut work best when they’re back to basics, reminding us what it might have been like to be fresh out of university in pre-recession times, and ensuring that we can dance along with them while they’re at it.

If we look to the previous literature, we find that no components of >>> are particularly novel.

This is ultimately an unremarkable--and frankly forgettable--third album from a notably gifted songwriter.

Rich and accomplished; beautifully played and immaculately conceptualised, Albarn’s latest trip from FitzRoy to Faeroes and back, via Dogger and Dover, is a drizzle-soaked deep-dive into a fractured land and fractured people. One of the quiet highlights of the year.

Half one is lovely folk, half two is slightly less even, slightly more idiosyncratic folk.

The Smashing Pumpkins in 2018 are an anachronism. Whether that’s an anachronism to relish, or render them irrelevant is up for debate, but Shiny and Oh So Bright sadly offers little to further their considerable legend.

The versatility shown here adds yet another notch to Drug Church’s (and Kinlon’s) bedpost as one of the most exciting bands around in a genre that doesn’t often do much experimentation or progression.

If you’re a Dinosaur Jr fan and you can live without a couple of Lou Barlow tracks per album then it would be well worth checking out Elastic Days and hearing J do what he does best in a slightly different setting.

A great starting place if you don’t know anything about library music as the album is chocked full of bangers. Wall-to-wall bangers! It gives you a launch pad to go and geek out over musicians and labels, each being a rabbit hole well worth going down. The abundance of heavy hitters is remarkable.

Simulation Theory largely sounds like the work of band who have the pressure off and are just going with it--definitely not a bad thing.

Davies’ solo output would increase in the Eighties, yet like his day job band, the quality began to vary markedly. Here we have a snapshot of a time when he was at the top of his game--but overshadowed in the public eye by his brother’s more easily digestible (and, let’s face it, available) work.

While the ten songs that follow aren’t quite as arresting, there are still plenty of earworms to be found.

‘Timebomb Zone’s ugly rave onslaught strikes first – you feel the stretch of a wince appear. ‘Champions of London’ and ‘Boom Boom Tap’ follow up with a one-two punch; you never saw it coming. Maybe ‘Give Me A Signal’ would be a late highlight, and it is, unless you’ve heard ‘Higher State Of Consciousness’ more than once, or ‘Poison’, for that matter. You never stood a chance. The only reasons to recommend this record over its predecessor is that it’s shorter and doesn’t have Sleaford Mods on it.

As a collection of well-trod leitmotifs, Fudge Sandwich functions more as further folklore in the Segall autobiography than a mere cursory look at the tracklist would suggest.

It’s cheeky, and should be gimmicky, but this is a record so sharply made in Kenney’s own non-conformist image, and she gets away with it. On this form, she’s destined for alt-pop greatness.

The mayhem, the confusion, the hysteria, Holter has learned to embrace all of it, and by reflecting it honestly in her music, she has shown the rest of us that whilst we live in alarming times, empathy and love continue to stand strong. Aviary will be a challenging listen for many, but its message needs to be heard.

Despite its supernatural setting and modern day political commentary, you get the sense that Yorke remains hopeful amongst the darkness. Perhaps this is down to age, perhaps it’s some sort of foolishness--but the optimism never completely fades from Suspiria and gives it a human quality that is not immediately obvious amidst the Seventies synths and modal incantations.

Honey is a fine record, a consistent record and a thoroughly enjoyable record. But it is not a great record, and in comparison with the standard she has set for herself previously, this is a mild (though fleeting) disappointment. That said, there is still a clear and beating heart here and the sheer humanity of Robyn’s musical soul remains one of the most beautiful things in contemporary music.

Last Building Burning feels like you’d hope it’d feel, as a 36-minute rush of blood to the head.

Live at the BBC is obviously preposterously big (I'm kind of relieved not to have been sent the accompanying DVD), but actually that’s kind of fine in the digital era – it’s not that old fashioned beast ‘the live album’, but a whole sprawling history to immerse yourself in, eras hurtling by.

The Distant Sky EP is what happens when a lone wolf suddenly needs to reach out and touch. It’s the chaotic scream around loosing a child. It’s a careful help me into the darkness. It’s an invitation to come closer, to hold hands--at last, be close to our St Nick. And it’s fucking glorious. It could have done with a better mix, though.

Ashcroft's vocal, which once soared and demanded your attention, sounds languid and forced to the point where one is left wondering if he can muster up any will power himself to sing what are by and large, trite soundbites that could have been written on any number of post-it notes.

Over these ten songs Lenker continues to carve out the little slices of magic that at this stage we now fully expect from her.

Sometimes an all-encompassing desire to satisfy the album’s eccentric premise causes musical havoc. Alt-J have always revelled in a penchant for vocal distortion, frenzied percussion, cinematic strings, and reverberating synths - attributes they largely abandon in lieu of offering more traditional hip-hop elements. And sometimes it just doesn't work.

Grant might just be taking the piss here, but his impish spirit reflects a writer with his fingers on the pulse of what’s really magic in this era: an understanding of humanity and all its feathery mess.

Overall, you’re left the impression of an artist genuinely expressing themselves. It may not be his Born In The USA--despite what Vile claims--but Bottle It In ultimately succeeds in its intentions and further escalates Vile’s reputation as part of a rare breed of authentic songwriters. And that’s alright for now.

Possible Dust Clouds finds Kristin Hersh as artistically curious and inventive as ever. Committed to avoiding easy choices musically and lyrically, she remains intent on exploring the murky complexities of the mind and continuing to make the best work of her career. She is an artist that’s always evolving, and yet again the results are often dazzling and always fantastically bewildering.

This is not the best Marissa Nadler record, but it kind of feels like her most perfect, potentially the resolution of a subtle identity crisis that’s run through her music over the years.

A record this willing to go the absolute distance to challenge expectations yet entertain and move so consistently should equally be heralded in such high regard [as Screamadelica], which in time, this will.

Marshall has created an album with a nuance and polish she didn’t have in her early days of just her and her guitar. Even if the territory is somewhat familiar, she’s never made an album quite like this before.

Konoyo exists as a glorious symphony that brings together the starkness of electronic experimentation and the human warmth of traditional acoustics into an astonishing whole.

With Digital Garage, Mudhoney have provided the noise-escape of the year. The war may never be won, but at least now we’ve got somewhere to hide when it all gets a bit much.

Who Do You Love is yet more proof of Årabrot’s status as amongst Europe’s leading alternative rock acts.

A thorny, earth-stained treasure.

King of Cowards confirms it’s Pigs that deserve to have their cake and eat it. But it’s also an open invitation to join in the overindulgence with a complete lack of contrition. To gorge on the fruits of their labour is to feel utterly replete, that said, I’m not one to turn down thirds. More more more more more more more!

With Pastoral Bernholz, excavates beneath the superficial lush turf of England’s green and pleasant land to reveal an angry mix of ancient and contemporary pus-filled sores.

There's an intricate balance struck between analogue and digital, between raw confession and meticulously engineered sonic detail.

Chris is an album delivered for a wider audience, but still with a subversive and unique texture and emotion that loses nothing of the vacillating energy of the subculture whilst making a confident play for the biggest stages.

Full of tasty licks and rocking out it may be, but The More I Sleep the Less I Dream is also genuinely reflective and melancholic as the band continue to mature. Let’s just hope they still get those jetpacks they were promised, even if equally feral and refined albums like this mean they might not need them to soar anymore.

Overall, there’s as much room for the head explodeGIF in Monsters Exist; as there is in a WhatsApp group-chat post philosophy lecture.