It’s the sound of the man inside the ball feeling an unknowable fear and trying to accept it. The rest of us should join him in his strife, if only to enjoy that psychedelic drone groove. It’s an anxious riot.

Easily their finest record yet, a genre-shrugging masterpiece of delicate musicianship and warm feeling.

There’s plenty of fun, filth and frills to go around with McHale’s latest venture.

Vek truly exploits the benefits of being in a one-man band: all instruments and ideas can be used as often or as sparingly as he likes; the feelings of the Mellotron and crumhorn session musicians do not need to be taken into account.

As the album unfolds, the band continue to nail the balance between rebellious anthems and cutting social commentary.

Ode to Joy is the culmination of a musical evolution Wilco have been working towards for years. Ode to Joy holds a microscope to the small moments of life – which, thanks to the current political landscape, we’re often in danger of missing – and encourages us to see and cherish them.

Though they've shed the cheap - but undeniably fun - Day-Glo immediacy of 'Fever...', it's been replaced by a range of expressions that most artists will only stumble upon by their fifth release.

We know what we’re getting from here: effervescent pop-punk smashes with a political edge. The lyrics are more personal here than on previous Sløtface albums, as Shea dissects her experiences growing up in Norway with American parents.

If you were looking for a new Bowie, Patrick Wolf is proving himself the Thin White Duke's successor in more than just his extravagant dress sense.

On 'Octopus' The Bees find their groove and sound blissfully unaware whether anyone else is listening. You should, they've made their best album yet.

There are cheesy moments--Jesso pretends to cry on 'Crocodile Tears', and 'Can't Stop Thinking About You' mimics the theme from US sitcom Cheers--but the compelling fragility of his demos remains. Because of that, Goon is a triumph.

With 'Here Come The Bombs', frontman Gaz Coombes does a surprisingly adept job of retaining [former band, Supergrass's] oddball pop sensibility, but shaping it into something that's, if not mature, then at least slightly less frivolously young and free.

Compulsive and conflicted.

McCartney’s always been about inclusivity and openness, but this latest glimpse into his life feels like a particularly enlightening one.

Their time in a diverse array of groups on the Leeds scene results in a record that’s at once funky (‘Dead Horse’) and spunky (‘Witness’, ‘The Incident’) – even when they slip into cliche (‘Rich’) they sound better than most.

An intoxicating listen, Honeymoon is designed for the red neon glow of a smoky cabaret bar, a Californian answer to the chanson tradition.

Before you even consider the sonic and melodic innovation paraded through the album there’s so much crammed into each of these fifteen songs (without any one of them sounding overproduced or cluttered) that repeated listening is a must.

Metals is, in its own right, quite simply the cat's pyjamas.

Few albums designed to sound like a party actually play like one, but Bruno Mars has pulled it off with style.

A collection of gorgeous, sultry songs that contend with the angst of feeling like you’re the only person who is truly awake and alive in an otherwise sleepy world.

Encore essentially mingles mellowed ska and reggae with funk disco, Latin hints and spoken-word pieces.

Highlight ‘Swamp And Bay’ offers a rare hook-laden respite with a country-ish radio jangle and scuzz-rock climax, but everything stays consistently true to the core of the record: a very human and honest partnership, in a universe all of their own.

AJ Tracey’s debut is perhaps the best of the current crop; twisted, vibrant and ever-shifting, but linked with that confident voice.

Sadly the last couple of songs on ‘The Bonny’ disappointingly tail off and almost feel tagged on. Thankfully there’s more than enough on here to help us dream of better times ahead.

Van Etten tackles heartache with refreshing sharpness, distilling complex sentiments into something beautifully simple.

The Lost Tapes is no barrel-scraping… it's more dark magic straight from the source.

Frontman John Dwyer still sounds like he's singing through a kazoo, the drummer is still obviously banging away on cardboard boxes and keyboardist Val-Tronic plays like all her fingers are broken. [5 Mar 2005, p.50]

On the evidence of this impressive and winningly authentic second album, Cara is increasingly unforgettable.