The advance buzz about Luke Temple’s first record as Here We Go Magic suggested the Brooklyn-based songwriter could be about to do a Grizzly Bear, but his latest project is a far more introspective beast.

A few of the songs stick too closely to the originals, going to show that it's best to do something daft and unexpected rather than just trace the lines of greatness. You can't improve on perfection, but you can certainly play around with it.

If you don't already know the Mac, treat this as your way in. You won't be coming out in a hurry.

It’s a difficult album and requires repeated listening for some of the subtler parts to sink in.

The result is a set of remarkable electronic rituals with an endearing, mystical quality.

They're songs infused with bite and bile, quite ridiculous, very bombastic - and let's make this point one more time - utterly, utterly thrilling.

You hear a band capable of genuine prettiness as well as arch cleverness. [6 Jan 2007, p.26]

Strange Weather, Isn't It? returns as a more disciplined, ziggurat kind of groove odyssey, where the modular sounds are rhombus and the emotional undercurrents darker and more demure.

An inventively arranged mixture of blues, hip-hop, strings, folk and metal, 'Eat At Whitey's' is like Fun Lovin' Criminals' cameo in The Sopranos: by turns, flash, atmospheric, melancholic, and very masculine.

This is a surprisingly decent album, as good as anything they've ever made.

They normally strike a few bullseyes per record though, and so it is with Hold It In.

Liz Wendelbo and Sean McBride have the Human League/Thomas Dolby textures down to a tee but, crucially, they haven't skimped on the songwriting

The populist music-for-the-people philosophy embodied at the core of Harris’ anthem-heavy new record--which is basically the aural distillation of his hedonistic yet geeky everyman persona--is something to be cherished right now.

Amped-up, aggressive and with a deep love for our canine friends, he arrives once again, shadow-boxing to the max. [19 Aug 2006, p.33]

"Relapse" should have been the end of his career, but by admitting his mistakes as well as trumpeting his successes, Shady's given himself one last stand.

Frenzied excitement still prevails.

It's a surprise and a pleasure to report that much of The Ecstatic is--whisper it--simply good, honest hardcore hip-hop given a twist by MD's slurred, inebriated delivery and use of odd imagery.

It’s the vividness of the lyrical themes and rich, poetic words that ultimately carries the record over, but unfortunately so much attention is paid to crafting the perfect setting for Graham’s brooding lyrics that they all too often become lost, a nuisance among an overly eager wall of sound.

All perfectly good stuff, technically excellent. But 'American Life' also feels like an unnecessary sequel, a 'Men In Black II', made because hell, if it ain't broke...

A bit less front and slightly more of her crazed, talon-nailed, plastic surgery-enhanced Bratz doll-persona would've made for a classic. [12 Nov 2005, p.41]

This is Swell's most constricted, least dynamic album to date. All songs move along at almost exactly the same pace and there is less breadth to their vision both musically and emotionally.

Cool cover or not, 'Strange House' is a strong debut from a band who, many sceptics believed, were at their best in front of a camera rather than behind instruments.

Afraid Of Heights takes the formula he toyed with there and beats it into something more coherent, focusing on decorating his punk with this new sonic tinsel.

No prizes for guessing who's been reading Guy Debord then, but it's these touches as well as his reverb-laden sound that makes him vaguely modern, unlike some folk artists who'd be happier pretending the 20th century never even happened.

It’s nothing you won’t have heard before--the clue, after all, is right there in the title--but hearing it done as well as this is rare indeed.

Because a grand and fabulous mode of theatre pervades everything about this band, you’re often a few degrees off completely connecting.

Bereft of blues bombast, electronic trickery or bothersome concepts, when E's not coming on like Red House Painters he's getting seriously classical.

Largely, Trick measures up as a solid modern dance record and bears no trace of Bloc Party, proving that a lot can change in nine years.

What this collection of songs from his mid-'90s creative purple patch shows is that few people in recent times have done sadness so exquisitely.

Monuments To An Elegy is essentially a Corgan solo record which shows flashes of his old power, while also straying into some seriously dodgy attempts to update the Pumpkins sound for 2014.

Aside from an introductory impersonation of Fleetwood Mac's 'Albatross' (on the title track), they continue where their 2010 debut left off.

It’s bread and butter blues-rock, packed with lyrical anachronisms and clichés, but it’s done well.

Weirdness far from gallops across the dozen songs that make up the pick'n'mix bag of The Whole Love though, as the straight up alt.pop of 'I Might' testifies, coming across something like a breezy Weezer packing PhDs and lime-topped Coronas.

'Chosen Lords' is proof of Aphex Twin's uncommonly rude health, artistically-speaking. [15 Apr 2006, p.33]

It doesn't always work, and the softer 'Awestruck' is kinda preachy. But when the vitriol is squeezed into Fugazi-via-My Bloody Valentine-via-Sonic Youth swagger, as on the mighty 'Catatonic', it's admirable.

Frustratingly, though, White Chalk isn't consistent enough to be a classic PJ album, and if you're new to her music, this isn't the ideal place to start.

'Mythnomer’'s nightmarish pitch-shifted vocal and claustrophobic beats are a misjudged move, but on the whole Breathing Statues is a world that's ripe for sinking into.

When Dinowalrus get it right, they do Britrock rather well indeed. From 'Riding Eazy''s shimmering funk to the dance-punk strut of 'The Gift Shop', there's a lot to like--even if on paper it does all appear terribly clichéd.

MS MR might lack some of the extrovert star quality of the acts Plapinger usually signs, but 'How Does It Feel' is an emotional ride that shows she has plenty of her own worth sharing.

Gatekeeper's Aaron David Ross and Matthew Arkel crunch elements of '80s post-industrial dance, horror/sci-fi soundtracks and computer game music into an enjoyably garish whole.

Twinkly epic 'Cruel' is especially outstanding, while collaborations with Dev Hynes (‘Want Your Feeling’) and Miguel (‘Kind Of… Sometimes… Maybe’) save the latter half from drifting too far into languid MOR ballad territory.

A pop album that comes giddy with detailed digital patterns,

Anxiety moves between smooth grooves and kaleidoscopic electronics, but it’s the sensual vocals that carry the record.

Given that this album spans nearly a decade of the band's huge and peculiar journey, it's odd that its somnolent air actually renders it slightly one-note.

While Negativity is an apt word to describe the impact of the events that inspired Deer Tick’s fifth full-length, it’s not an overwhelmingly dark record.

Often shocking and consistently, unapologetically direct, every word and note here is positively swollen with meaning.

It's hardly 'The Cutter', but it can just about handle the mustard.

It's more chillout room than chillwave, all dub and little step, and the better for all of that.

He's a white man crafting beats behind street-level odes to marking out territory from the likes of Detroit's Guilty Simpson and Marv Won, plus others, and he draws on a cornucopia of cultures to do so. Latin, Middle Eastern, African and, worst of all for Starkey, freaky German (NOT THEM!) Moog music rears up on a seductive record that reveals itself in layers.

If you've the stomach to set aside your indie sensibilities and endure the occasional terrifying flashback to '(Everything I Do) I Do It For You', Battle Born holds some majestic moments.

It’s a groove and a mood piece; a funk report for the ages and the future--and, after less than 40 minutes (including the bonus tracks), it drops out of space at exactly the right moment.

Half of it’s as good as anything TVOTR have ever done.

War On Drugs engineer Nicolas Vernhes smoothes restrained standouts ‘Don’t Ask Me Why’ and ‘Room’ into two of Kalevi’s best songs yet, but the whole thing bathes in glorious groove.

There’s enough musical ambition, heartbreak and menace on The Big Dream to keep the Lynch nerds absorbed.

As long as he keeps on being this magnificent, Mr Ripley can be as avaricious as he damn well pleases.

It's masochistically delightful.

The only downside? You don't get to see the band's plentiful hair thrashing about. [30 Sep 2006, p.39]

Intimate, unpolished and worth getting to know.

AC/DC’s first album without their founding member is a crisp Brendan O’Brien-produced musical wrecking ball.

Lashings of reverb and experimentation with acoustic instruments draw the music into something much more evocative.

Large Hadron pop that'll frazzle yer neurons.

Freshly hooked-up with Ed Banger, Oizo has made a joyously daft party album.

This is warm, sleepy music that buzzes like a fridge. Best heard lying down.

Potential cover performers take note: this is how you do it.

For all the strange twists and turns, the rich layers and dark beauty to be found, nothing here grabs you and sets up home in your heart like 'Veckatimest' did.

Rarely has reliability been this funky.

Although Leven recites a fair number of hippie clichés (“Make some peace, everyone” implores ‘Seasoned Sun’), it’s her inventive use of an arsenal of rich, vintage synths that rescues Season Sun from cloying sweetness.

This album may be svelte, but it’s far from slight.

In defiance of a criminal lack of universal adulation, they just get better, harder, faster, stronger, and you boggle at just how formidable they might be in their dotage.

Not likely to appeal to your common or garden new raver, but perfect with a nice cup of tea.

Blige’s enthusiasm is most powerful on Follow.

It’s still a brilliantly sleazy punk rock’n’roll album that feels, sounds and smells just like you want The Bronx to be, and the fact it’s so pure and elemental works strongly in its favour.

If this really is to be Lambchop's final album, it's an undeniably lovely one.

It’s still occasionally a bit too ‘nice’ for its own good, but in a cynical world, sometimes a little hope and buoyancy doesn’t go amiss.

Occasionally devastating, often outstanding.

Adam Green’s flowering from puerile anti-folk twonk with The Moldy Peaches to suave lounge-country crooner is laudable.

They're most fun when they're really letting loose, though, which is pretty much always.

A fun comeback album filled with screeching and penis jokes.

The anti-folk pioneer's sixth album for Rough Trade is a familiar comedy of errors, full of dusky textures with a sparkling hue of optimism.

Allow Caramel to ooze out and it’ll rock you into an unsettling trance.

It all suggests a promising future for the reinvigorated band.

Gauntlet Hair’s reference points are sublime, of course, but when they come up with the grudging funk of ‘Simple’, it’s something that’s all their own work.

With bursts of martial snare and brass held together by a minimalist, bass-powered spine, it's reminiscent of The Neptunes' spare genius and feels like off-the-peg future pop.

Made In Sheffield is a surprising record, lovingly conceived and beautifully executed.

The Bachelor is a thoughtful record whose greatest flaw is only that it’s overthought (though to the fans obsessive enough to fund it, that’s probably a bonus).

Overall, it makes for a fascinating listen that rewards close attention, even if a lack of true standouts means the album is more impressive than loveable.

Mission Desire, a token shard of folk gloom, does little to undercut the finely honed futurist gleam elsewhere.

What's most intriguing about Content Nausea is listening for possible signposts as to where the next 'proper' Parquet Courts record might be headed.

They’ve upset people’s expectations and made a handful of very good pop songs, but Twenty One ultimately just proves that they’re as unpredictable as they ever were.

Soft and slipper-shod as it may seem, there's a complex coldness to Sandoval's lyrical persona.

Overall, Pure X’s immersive charm remains intact. Only ‘Rain’ betrays the heady sonics of old.

Overall it just about balances out.

You won't listen to it again and again; yet the time you do, it'll be a blast. [4 Feb 2006, p.29]

The album's overall trajectory feels directed by human hands. But just as often elements feel like they've been left to lie where they fall.

Kill For Love keeps in this spirit, playing with the attention to detail of an art-house movie (and a near 1½-hour running time).

Brain-rinsingly psychedelic without needing to tell you about it, they deserve to sit at the table with Current 93 and post-Syd/pre-stadium Pink Floyd.

One of the strongest punk debuts of 2015.

As Minor Alps, Hatfield and Caws have made a gorgeous debut that sounds as if they’ve recorded it in each other’s pockets, their tones exquisitely matched, the songs intimate.