Most of the scattershot pastiches hit their targets.

Foals [has the] potential to be the most inspired and inspirational band of their generation. All they need do now is let go of the safety rail and plunge.

At its best [Four] excels with a glut of sensitive pop tunes which, although no substitute for exhilarating, provocative post-punk, prove Bloc Party are still capable of depth.

'Have Some Faith In Magic' sees them unbuttoning those stiff top-collars and delivering some of their finest pop bangers to date.

They’re still working out the kinks, though, so a few tracks fail to match their ambition.

There's nothing on Anxiety so arrestingly new or comfortably familiar.

The kids of the LC! still bristle with a fundamental melodic vibrancy, and the hand-in-hand maturing of music-writer Tom Campesinos! into the realms of Sonic Youth thrashes, cranky synthetics and handclaps, harmonium, violin and bar-room piano gives the record a gravitas to counterpoint Gareth's lyrical anguish.

It's not the world-claiming masterpiece it could have been. But as an evolutionary step from world-party-queen towards a more complex beast, it's intriguing.

The tender optimism of tracks like "The Morning" and the gorgeous, harpsichord-led symphony "Oh So Lovely" are wonderfully uplifting, but there's still room for some snarky self-deprecation on "Baby Loves Me" too.

Power's handful of great tunes make it worth the wait, but its more affected moments make it difficult to love.

We're treated to none-too-shabby performances of the obvious lighter-wavers as well as several lesser-known wonders, including a rocked-up take on 'Green' favourite 'Orange Crush' and an airing of the sublime 'Cuyahoga' from underrated 1986 release 'Life's Rich Pageant.'

It’s not a bad record, but, ultimately, All We Are lacks energy.

Oklahoma’s Samantha Crain does weird so very well. The only trouble is, she just doesn’t do it nearly enough.

Recorded with a Luddite's zeal- no keyboards, samplers, sequencers - he's... managed to document the clanking claustrophobia of modern life.

A happy, penguin-chilled sunset beach barbecue of a collection. [3 Jul 2004, p.65]

It’s nothing new, but it is fun.

Recorded in sessions at a French convent and a San Francisco studio and featuring analogue electronics alongside strings, brass and woodwind, Geocidal is monolithic.

Time and circumstance have not blunted his abilities, and Understated is lyrically empathetic, musically emphatic.

At other times we're not sure whether we should be laughing or feeling uncomfortable; either way Ventriloquizzing is certainly no dummy's game.

Biggest irony? A trillion bucks' worth of vocal talent can't top 'Watch This', a crunching Dave Grohl-embellished instrumental jam. Sounds like a convenient juncture to give Axl a reconciliatory ring, fella.

Trouble is, as grown up and grouchy as Sum 41 may have become (on record, if not in Strokes-mocking video), they sure aint no Fugazi.

Still not Friday night material, then, but a moving display of one man's myriad sorrows nonetheless. Bless.

A Better Tomorrow isn’t all good (most noticeably, it’s lacking killer verses from Raekwon and Ghostface Killah), but it’s a bold, clever album that’s thankfully positioned away from the hip-hop zeitgeist.

The record works as just five songs.

Interesting but inessential.


There’s been a hope that he’d one day return to his dream-pop roots. Stars Are Our Home isn’t that, but there are shades of his past on the twinkling, self-titled opening track and ‘(I Don’t Mean To) Wonder.'

Like the enraged hormones of Iggy Pop slugging it out with the grandiose pomp of Queen. [28 Aug 2004, p.57]

The results are remarkably plangent and romantic.

While the harsher edges of their previous efforts have been sanded off long ago, frontman Neil Fallon still has a bucketload of fire and brimstone left in his belly and no-one does the possessed preacher man schtick quite like him.

This record may not be as wild-eyed and rabid as it's predecessor, 2000's 'Cocaine Rodeo', but it's loaded with more illicit sex, insanity and glam-punk brilliance than you can shake Satan's pitchfork at.

Big Talk is a record to be roared while stood atop the bar, and then deny all knowledge of the next day.

Untrustworthy, confused, touching and idiotically ambitious; hard work that, undoubtedly, repays the effort.

They expound spiritual philosophies (“I am a hieroglyph of love!”), grasp the rural jig-folk baton from Mumford & Sons and, post-Beirut, remind everyone it’s supposed to be fun.

By the end, they've told a story of adolescence spent crumpling at the hands of others, while having to pick up the pieces all by yourself.

The notoriously hardcore sexual aggressor has swapped strap-ons for sentiment and turned all flaccid in the process, and guess what: it’s quite...nice.

After is personified by her ragged, powerful voice, under which she picks, thrashes and strums riffs that mostly sound just as full of character.

[An] impressive lo-fi debut. [27 Aug 2005, p.74]

It's crystallised, but the light shines through.

So the album doesn’t sound old but there’s a refreshing warmth emanating from these fizzing and burbling Moogs and Parker Steinway keyboards.

Gently acoustic, peacefully steeped in nostalgia and remembrance, it generates a warm glow of grace...

This fifth set (their second since breaking out) pushes the city limits of their fantasy world even wider and masks an uncomfortable truth.

It's just a shame that quieter moments such as 'The Lengths' sound a little weedy in comparison. [4 Sep 2004, p.72]

Like Johnny Cash jamming with Holly Golightly, Little Amber Bottles is the grizzled embodiment of everything that's brilliant about sleazy, Deep South rock'n'roll.

When two such spiky forms collide you can’t expect everything to click, but FFS is still a wonder of gelling idiosyncrasies.

On this lovely little patchwork pop record, there's enough going on to make you actually quite scared of what they'd come up with if they had a budget.

There are tough, commanding rare grooves, fly spy-thriller tracks, big, daft hip-hop tunes, a brilliant lounge-reggae skank, 'Good Girl Gone Bad', and, in 'The Turnaround', and the 'Apache'-like b-boy break-out, 'Battle Of Bongo Hill', two of the funkiest, party starters you'll hear all year.

He continues his obsession with broken-hearted collages and interstellar folk music. [25 Jun 2005, p.64]

This album sees him rising from the hordes of spider-black hoodies, becoming a musical force beyond the Download ticket-holders.

Proving he's no slouch when it comes to keeping up with musical trends, he's brought in producers like DJ Scratch and one-time junglist Adam F to make sure his beats match up to his evergreen vocal skills. And it works... Amazingly, this is his ninth album, yet he still sounds fresh.

The cocky confidence that barrelled them into the big time might just be losing momentum--a band made of bold leaps have started dipping toes.

Farrar has the passion to carry the songs beyond any hackneyed themes. [6 Aug 2005, p.56]

This time around, however, they've paced themselves and delivered an album packed with punchy, literate guitar music.

Confusing, in a fun way.

Chasing Yesterday has its flaws, but they’re far outnumbered by moments where it succeeds in catching up with its titular quarry.

What's most pronounced is the subtlety of it all, the tastefulness, the lack of bombast and histrionics.

Angel Guts: Red Classroom is his third album in under a year, and superficially it resembles many of Xiu Xiu’s others by draping wracked and fragile vocals over obtuse electronics and analogue atonality.

While Mandarin certainly rock, they do so at a pedestrian amble. [11 Sep 2004, p.53]

Although less vitriolic than 2006's "Nux Vomica," his third album still throbs with delicious melodrama and anguished assertions.

'Storytelling' is the first indication that Stuart Murdoch has finally got some decent red meat down his gob and he's no longer resigned to wallowing in his dank indie mire until The Pastels come home.

While a grisly backstory doth not always a masterpiece make, the album's finest moments come when she takes a Misery-sized sledgehammer to the youthful irreverence of yore and reduces it to rubble.

Kicks with a passion and inventiveness that's seen them steam up the specs of everyone from Moby to Graham Coxon. [17 Jun 2006, p.39]

A dreamy debut that’ll get under your skin and into your head.

They may be a one trick pony, but these 2008 recordings show that Stereolab are good at what they do.

What saves this record from being another wallow in the misery of post-fame existence is the music.... 'We Love Life' is a grandiose, symphonic affair buoyed by succinct orchestration and white-light choral interludes.

No acoustic stinkers. No Live And Unrehearsed At K-ROQ radio sessions. No ropy early demos. No remixes. Just Green Day, playing solid, dependable, familiar idiot-savant punk-rock.

With 4everevolution Smith continues to avoid the genre's default Americanisms and instead dabbles in proggy electronic wizardry ('In The Throes Of It'), warped R&B ('Takes Time To') and sleekly produced, astute socio-political commentary ('Who Goes There?').

New is the sound of an old dog having fun with some old tricks.

Opening track ‘Back To Land’ wouldn’t be out of place at an Eric Clapton gig, closer ‘Everybody Knows’ is dreary, and ‘These Shadows’ could be a Mazzy Star throwaway. The rest, however, is gold.

It’s unlikely to gain any new converts to the cause, but you get the impression Hitchcock stopped caring about that sort of thing long ago.

Blood Red Shoes is probably the duo’s most satisfying effort to date--frustratingly short of the “quiet triumph” they sing about on closing track ‘Tightwire’, but an admirable racket nonetheless.

Yet another ’90s micro-genre gets the hipster revival treatment on Montreal duo Solar Year’s snazzy debut.

The result is a record that fully embraces the theatricality of its genre but falls just on the right side of ridiculous.

The Faint continue to ensure that across the pond there's an infinitely sexier state of dance-rock affairs. [11 Sep 2004, p.55]

He sounds small, beaten and subdued beneath the Lemonheads-meets-Diiv slack drawl of the music. The key thing here? Unlike so many of his contemporaries, he also sounds totally believable.

Yes, we could have done without the plodding, church-baiting 'Hash Wednesday', but songs such as 'Explode', and 'On A Fix' more than make up for it and are so incredibly abrasive that you probably shouldn't put 'Eyes & Nines' next to valuable records on your shelf.

London duo Mount Kimbie are stronger than the latter temptation; this six-track mini-selection bows to no imagined commercial pressure.

If this is an indication of what to expect [on the next LP], things are going to get very hairy. [8 Oct 2005, p.43]

The rest of it though, is soulful and intelligent where 'intelligent' is not exclusive to 'good beats and rhymes.' Which is what it's all about.

The unlikely, ghoulish inspiration of a dead Dutch pop star has forced Pixies' frontman Frank Black into making his finest album since the demise of his influential '90s alt.rockers.

Thankfully, on The World Is Yours the band sound more engaged than they have in some time.

She’s every bit the equal of Bat For Lashes, Frida Hyvönen or any member of the Wainwright clan.

While the music may not always match up, the lyrics reaffirm The Libertines’ place as one of the most vital British bands ever and should usher a fresh generation of believers on board the good ship Albion.

Where once lo-fi underachievement stifled Barlow's outsider pop genius, 'Emoh' abandons dictaphones to the dustbin and sees Lou documenting his wonderful, incisively literate pop songs with something resembling sheen. [5 Feb 2005, p.51]

Their first record is good; their next could be mega.

New Gods is endlessly lovable stuff.

Butter is twitchier than a smoker on a 12-hour flight, and you wish Hud-Mo would have more confidence in his majestic melodies before shredding them. For the intrepid listener, though, this is popping candy for the ears.

This is a gorgeous album, but sacrifices had to be made. They’ve undeniably lost something that made them special in the first place.

Frustratingly, the one thing Held needs is the one thing their Tumblr-goth fans are short on: concentration.

The odd misfire aside, Feel It Break is self-assured and utterly consuming. At this rate, she'll be leading the pack soon.

This Bronx rapper-producer makes genuine party bangers out of dustbin scraps. [18 Sep 2004, p.65]

Mostly, though, Conatus gives you a more polished version of exactly what you'd want from a Zola Jesus album.

'Black Mountain' is like a stoned friend with really good taste in music burning you a mix CD. [Jul 2005]

He may have softened his edge, upped the production and pulled in the stars, but The Weeknd remains an outsider.

From the bouncy 'Same Mistake' (this album's 'Is This Love?'), to the darkly nostalgic ballad to years past, 'Misspent Youth', it's a comeback as irrationally happy-inducing as its title suggests.

They could turn even the hardest kids at school into pissy wrecks with the elegant dread-heart blues of this, their fourth album.

Angst-ridden indiscretions aside, Sigh No More is a fine debut from a band that's patiently picked up the tools of its trade, and chosen the right moment to give them full rein.

The quintet deliver a sincere emotional punch.

At its best 'Riot City Blues' is dumb, fun and silly. [3 Jun 2006, p.33]