He’s Got the Whole This Land Is Your Land in His Hands is by no stretch of the imagination the most disagreeable Joan of Arc record to date, or the most impenetrable, either; some of the soundscapes here are pleasingly smooth given how scattershot Kinsella’s approach so often is.

The band remain an excellent and vital act, still producing worthy music which is head and shoulders over many similar, lesser acts, the problem, it seems, is that their evolution is a slow one.

In subduing and possibly internalising his animalistic anger and youthful vigour, the introspective search for his new identity is yet to bear any real musical fruit.

It’s crushingly disappointing from a band that can sound so much better.

Future Politics is political, danceable, dark, shimmering and hopeful. Not a combination easily achievable, but Austra have never been a normal band. Utopia might be fiction, but Future Politics is real, beautiful, necessary.

With Foxhole, The Proper Ornaments often make going through the motions sound like some revelatory train of thought.

The orchestra tries so desperately to stage this cool retro show, but there are so many glaring holes in the script.

This is a perfect introduction to new Gainsbourg fans and long standing followers will find plenty to get behind, it just feels that something might have been lost in translation somewhere along the lines.

Iris is that very rare thing: a soundtrack that can make a superb stand-alone listen.

You get lost in them but not in a good way, and the hypnotic nature of SOHN’s music makes it very easy to phase out, which is a shame, because the closing song, 'Harbour', is a raw and vulnerable gamble that pays off well.

The record will likely serve newer fans of Bonobo better than those that maintain a stronger fondness for his earlier work, but his journey is a fascinating one and only time will judge its permeance.

This is an album that could easily be subtitled Mission Accomplished, but for once, it feels like bowing out on top would be ill-advised. That, in itself, is quite the compliment.

The best moments on the album are the ones that grab you just as things start feeling too samey.

Welcome, Stranger!, unfortunately, leaves the listener largely nonplussed. And while a lot of these tracks are perfectly nice-sounding, it feels a bit tragic to consign a record by the Blue Aeroplanes to the background.

This record tames its chosen songs, moulding them into softer and smoother beasts, and producing altogether sanitised interpretations.

With Oczy Mlody, The Flaming Lips have managed to take us on apocalyptic journey that’s also fun, which is no mean feat. If the 'real' end of the world is half as fun, we’ll all be alright.

The set-list is a sprawling interweavement of new and older material. Wrigglesworth and J Willgoose esq take their time, lengthening out some of their songs, paring back and experimenting with tone and texture. The richness of the instrumentals gives a warmth that enhances the hypnotising quality of tracks such as ‘E.V.A’ and ‘If War Should Come’. ... It’s unfortunate, then, that PSB’s communication method of choice in-between songs is a set of pre-recorded audio snippets.

Ultimately, though, this is a more than solid album from a band who it was once assumed had given up. While nothing will compare to the band's exceedingly unattainable debut, it is refreshing to see the band learn from their mistakes on Coexist and create something new and intriguing, but still ultimately them.

Whether they choose in the future to extend their reach into more abstract or formless areas is up to them, but there are signs here that it could be fruitful for them. Nevertheless, as a debut album, Mechanism displays two musicians with a clear facility for evoking visual landscapes and narrative drama.

Their output remains honest, unsullied and socially conscious--it’s still got all the bark and bared teeth of a Boston terrier, and the drinking songs are still out in force, but there’s a message of hope at its core that espouses all the values that are held so dear to the contemporary punk scene.

It’s the kind of album that restores a moribund set of ears into the the place of loving music and all it has to offer, once again. It really does have the potential to draw in fans of multiple genres around the love of one band.

Action Time Vision... covers a seminal time when anything seemed possible and a special kind of never to be repeated excitement hung in the air. For those reasons alone this box set is worth anyone's time and money.

Just when you thought Reznor and his obscenely large biceps had been plugging away far too long on what was essentially a Nine Inch Nails tribute act, he sets things straight again with an original, well-produced, no-bullshit record. More of this please, and less of that other stuff.

Reflection is quintessentially Eno. A beautiful, thought provoking and introspective body of work that is composed in a way that is still as unique and as radical as the man himself.

Everything from the minimal arrangements, to the briefly heard flutter of a page turning draws you into the world that Jófríõur and Ásthildur inhabited when they were making the album. They may have been apart for a while, but Sundur is proof that the musical connection between the two sisters is as strong as ever.

Ultimately Life On the Road can only work as a comedy project, and musical comedy needs to be richer than this to be worth visiting more than once. You need to be Flight of the Conchords to pull that off, and David Brent just isn’t likeable or interesting enough.

What we get is an interesting departure from his usual work, but not interesting enough to create the eternal music that he is talented enough to execute.

There are moments where the live dynamics allow the songs to hit a few more buttons than the studio recordings did, but ultimately it was an overwhelmingly visual show and it feels like everything here is lacking its USP, no matter how good it is.

Nothing goes anywhere, and yet every song is so long. It’s painful.

If you're only half paying attention, it sounds exactly like the stereotype of techno as nothing but an hour of kick drums. This mix delights in small, fiddly details that demand your attention for their enjoyment.

There is a lovely, childish innocence to how much fun you can hear them having on this record, revisiting the music that once made them dream of making music their life’s work.

Starboy is fine, it’s grand and it will do, and it really should be so much more.

It’s exhausting. And while collecting and devouring his albums is probably a more satisfying journey, to be delivered this trove of Fifties big band funk and perverted doo-wop, and to see it spiral out into interstellar space-jams in a stop-motion fashion is a huge thrill. Singles provides the first real opportunity for an audience to hear how Sun Ra became Sun Ra.

As a whole, Remain Calm dies too quickly, leaving the listener hanging on the sandy, sunset-lit horizon of 'Mob of Waters'; 'I’ll Keep Going' stretches its melancholic (and mostly static) air a minute too long; and while the concept of 'Xhill Stepping' as dissected electro amuses on paper, its dry deserted dancehall yields nothing but empty space.

You Want It Darker is a succinct journey into the psyche of a man who knows his career is at an end, but that isn’t going to stop him going out on a high.

Though it would have been nice to feel a greater sense of ownership, it’s a solid enough new chapter for a group who always kept it light, so why change all that much now?

It may not be perfect, or even great, but Pete Doherty has somewhat surprised with Hamburg Demonstrations by proving to a world increasingly less interested in his antics that, when given the chance, he can still pen a tune or two. Maybe just try including a few more 'bangers' in the next album Pete, eh.

By track five Hardwired has already showed off all its tricks, and I find myself quite tempted to show my discontent by going to listen to Slayer instead.

The arena-filling sound that runs through modern music owes something to Bon Jovi, but This House… comes across more like their third-tier spiritual successors, comprised of forgettable dance-rock and schmaltzy slow-burners loaded with endless platitudes and those echoey, staccato guitar lines that bands do when they want to sound big.

More often than not, there’s a controlled confidence and sensitivity behind each note that makes for a powerful delivery. Rumer should be praised for taking on such a feat, handling the weight of the songs, and producing something filled with raw emotion, maturity and depth.

The details rest comfortably in the background and add only to a sense of ambience, not to a bold artistic statement.

In this latest instalment in the Late Night series, Holmes seems to have scored an origin story of sorts, in inimitable fashion, snatches of places and time woven among some breath-taking selections, passing through the present moment as observed with an eagle eye, before being let to peace until called upon again. 



Even now, Fuzzy Logic hasn't dated and certainly doesn't sound as though it was made 20 years ago.

Scott Litt's crisp, clean production always had a plangent directness that suited Out of Time perfectly, and any remastering tweaks are pretty imperceptible. Disc two here is entirely comprised of demos, many of them instrumental, and certainly not something to repeatedly listen to in a single sitting.

The danger of a concept album, is it can end up sounding like a mismatched collection of tunes that have been lumped together because they fall under the same umbrella. Romare has avoided this trap by creating a body of work that expertly weaves through all the subtleties of falling in and out of love, and everything in between.

'I'm Still Believing' and 'Dream Orchestrator' provide capable reminders of Toy's cosmic rock outs from yore but its the dreamier, lovelorn compositions that steal the limelight and honours here.

While getting the most out of this work takes a couple listens with at least one (simultaneous) read through with all your concentration, it’s worth every second and every bit of energy.

Everything about Jessica Rabbit is visceral--full-force drum slams, the slick claps, Miller’s steely slabs of guitar, lyrics replete with bombs, knives, and natural disasters.

Some of Loscil’s best, most menacing, most uncompromising work.

Highway Songs feels both like an underwhelming experiment with moments of greatness, as well as a highly personal piece which is almost impossible to penetrate.

Compulsion Songs highlights each individual element of The Lucid Dream's make-up and like its predecessor, takes the listener on a journey that is never predictable but always rewarding.

It’s easy to call XAM Duo a Hookworms side project, but to be honest, these days it kind of feels like Hookworms are the side project, not the other way round.

The feeling [is] that nothing here belongs to Robbie Williams, that he’s officially completely interchangeable, that he’s become trapped in a maze of his own making, and all of the noise seems so very quiet now.

This is the album 2016 deserves, whether it finds it a particularly pleasant listen or not.

While Ween’s subtlety was never their selling point (but instead a delicious present undertone that added to the comedic effect) The Deaner Album also makes it clear that any poignancy and lightness of touch they did deploy came from Gene.

The real talking point is the poise with which Honeyblood have carried off a record on which they seem to have so completely trusted their instincts.

Its great moments really are great, and shouldn’t be underestimated. However, when an album is bookended between two potential song of the year contenders with little to grasp in between, it’s difficult to really get too invested in this record.

In summary, Third World Pyramid could be renamed 'Business As Usual'. However, when business is as productive and efficient as The Brian Jonestown Massacre have been throughout the majority of their existence, it can only be a positive thing.

Goat haven’t set the world on fire this time around, but they continue to make alluring, fascinating and significant music. On their third they have assembled a warm and more open record that doesn’t sacrifice their inherent mystery.

The album is brought to a close by the title track, a summary of sorts about what's gone on before that erupts in a monumental instrumental breakdown for its final two minutes as Big Box Of Chocolates closes its lid one last time. As kitchen sink dramas go, this is the perfect soundtrack.

There's not yet a band that can evoke the intangible nostalgia that the Radio Dept. do, but at least with this release we can be assured we don't need there to be.

Let It Be You is a real return to form for Wasser, and one for which Davis is due ample credit; when the two hit their stride they’re undeniable, making more material from the two a tantalising prospect.

Dare’s vocals have lost none of their emotive brutality; the juxtaposition between his delicate voice and the brutal messages he conveys still fascinates, just as his experiments with heavy synth and drone alongside a solitary piano sound impossible, yet somehow work.

The thing is I wanted a Pretenders album, not The Black Keys feat. Chrissie Hynde. Which is what this all too often feels like.

While they’re unlikely to achieve the same reach awarded them by ‘The Middle’ (although Taylor Swift’s endorsement won’t hurt), their dedication to honest, wide-eyed songcraft has resulted in their best album in over a decade.

She remains in a state of full control throughout the album, and by album’s end it’s clear that Gaga has released one of her most dazzling albums to date.

In fact, if anything time has only the strengthened the chemistry of the band, distilling its essence in to something much purer than its base product. In a year of excellent records, American Football have quite possibly made the best.

Dissociation may not be the dream record for those who want Dillinger to return to the pure intensity of Calculating Infinity or Miss Machine, but it does make a suitably multi-faceted and powerful closing statement from one of heavy music’s most brilliantly insane bands.

You really can’t get het up one way or another about a song like ‘Waste a Moment’, which might as well be called ‘Lead Single’, nor can you muster up anything other than a yawn as ‘Conversation Piece’ stretches out like a cat in front of a fire on a cold winter night.

For while the aforementioned songs all have recognisable parts borrowed from their peers, they all also contain moments of genuine beauty, fear and grandness which demands you to fall into hell just as Dante's Devil demanded him to.

It’s not terrible album--it might even make you do a little shoulder shimmy every now and then or remind you of an awesome Depeche Mode song you haven’t listened to in years, but at the end of it you’ll probably find yourself either: a) indifferently bored; b) making bets with yourself on what he’s going to channel next: will it be an oriental theme, a Cuban beat, a doo-wop harmony or will he go rogue with some balalaika? (He doesn’t.)

The record captures and remains stuck in a moment, circulating a narrative where memory serves and is replaced over and over again, like an acid flashback with a locked groove.

The zany highs--and even the not-so-zany lows--of Color conjure a fantastic parallel world, lightyears away from any other fighting contender, and still unforgettable in private lives

In between there are definite moments, but the preponderance of very long songs makes it a slog to this day.

I’m sure there’s a decent record in here somewhere, but it’s hiding in amongst the detritus which seems to have been added in almost at random.

Loss in its many forms shades Ruminations, and the matter-of-fact nature of its acceptance makes the record all the more devastating.

It’s with a sense of relief then perhaps that Revolution Radio, whilst feeling a little like a pastiche of their forms selves, sees the trio steering a steadier course on more reliable ground.

Unfortunately, instead of producing an album that feels new, exciting, and refreshing--exactly what you’d expect from a band in their position--you get some lazy attempts at something different, before a retreat into the comforts of a tried and tested sound.

While Joyce Manor's fourth record is still a very enjoyable romp through ten expertly written pop-punk songs, the album's plain-view influences, cleaner production and vocal delivery feels like it just slightly misses the mark on being the something truly special the band have threatened their entire careers.

On Let them Eat Chaos Tempest has cemented herself as a poet/rapper of the highest order, who isn’t happy just make the masses smile, but to challenge and make them think and love too.

It’s still simplistic and limited but it’s meant to be. That’s the whole idea. The converted will remain.

Banks is perfectly comfortable in her own skin and artistic abilities, and it shows immensely on The Altar.

22, A Million is a triumph even before ‘666 ʇ’ and the Springsteen-dashed ‘8 (circle)’ cast their own entrancement. The beauty of it is that this is a puzzle, one that will initially confuse and ultimately resonate in a way that feels deeply organic.

On the whole City Club is full of the type of synth funk nonsense that should have been left alone in the late Noughties.

If you need something to invigorate your soul and send you on a journey then look no further.

As a whole, Remember us to Life feels a little patchy, with enough ups to make it good, but too many downs to make it great.

Stark but lush, these are pop songs for moonlit lakes, soft throbs to bob in while no one else is looking.

Each song is chocked full of inventive counterpoints and melodies making it the most cohesive album Tiersen has released for a decade. With each listen you uncover another facet not just of of this complex and charming album, but of yourself too.

There is something for everybody here. That he seems to pull off every style he tries his hand at with such assurance is a testament to his talent. Here, finally, we have an artist who seems to make it his life’s mission to move with--and reflect--the times.

Ape In Pink Marble may not quite measure up in quality to Mala, but it is definitely a fruitful album by one of the most respected musicians in the business.

The real power of this album is not only the showcasing 1-800’s collective musical prowess and their ability to mix and merge genres and style effortlessly to create music that sounds like nothing that has been released commercially in recent month, but of Trim’s vocals. Throughout the album he is the glue that holds everything together.

An endearing, very likeable record indeed, and a confident first entry under the Flock of Dimes handle.

While Head Carrier may right some of the wrongs of Indie Cindy, it still remains a distinctly average affair from a band once considered the best band on the planet. Too often this sounds like a younger band's best impression of Pixies, or worse, a parody of themselves.

Big Mess is hardly much more than ten stabs at reclaiming a relevancy that was only marginally theirs to begin with.

The band have retreated back to their pre-4AD line-up and reined in the overtly pop instincts of After the End, instead content to needle at a single idea in the hope of coaxing something memorable.

Warpaint are nothing if not ambitious, which is doubly proved on Heads Up.

To give The Boss his due credit, the progress leading up to his debut album could not be better fleshed out.

The one-man band that is Rostam Batmanglij enjoys co-billing status here as the pair deliver a follow-up that goes bigger and better in the way that a worthy sequel should.