The album is stuffed with this kind of lyrical proficiency, which demands high levels of dissection. ‘King’s Disease’ is an acutely perceptive and culturally relevant body of work that finds its author willing to try out new ideas. There’s a genuine conversation to be had about whether it’s the best rap album of the year so far.

Alongside stripped-back, warm and hazy versions of the always powerful ‘Ohio’, ‘Alabama’ and ‘Southern Man’, Young’s new take on 1977’s ‘Campaigner’ hits especially hard.

A stunning return to form. [14 Oct 2006, p.35]

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.

heir lighter moments can be a bit cringeworthy--too earnest by half--but when they go slow and heavy, they’re unfuckwithable.

Where the intervening years have tempered that haste, this fifth album offers compensation in the form of their sharpest, most precise set to date.

Recorded in a primary school, the Reading warbler's third solo record is whimsical, pleasant and calming, with shades of Damien Rice and Regina Spektor.

Big Boi is the best thing about the album--and double props for staying true to his entire career's quest of never making the same album twice. But Vicious Lies And Dangerous Rumors as a whole? It's all over the place.

‘Free’ is a liberating collection that unshackles the star from his past and his insecurities, and slowly cracks open a door to version of the future that will inevitably arrive when he’s ready. Wherever that journey takes him in this phase of his career, it’ll be an honour to witness.

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.

The misogyny of Tha Carter V cheapens its moving moments.

For the most part, The Stoop is a tuneful if beige Ronson-esque production, set against clever-lyrics-for-stupid-people.

There are some bumpy moments along the way, but this ‘Voyage’ is a nostalgia trip worth taking.

[Evans is] a sharp songwriter with an acute ear for melody and a voice that could bitch-slap any R&B wannabe into place. [21 May 2005, p.66]

Urban Turban is more grin-inducing than a piano-playing cat.

That's what they do with pop--layer incongruous harmonies and bastardised riffs to make us look at it anew. If that sounds like too much effort, then Man... isn't for you. If however, the thought of it as a brilliantly unsolvable puzzle appeals, then bow at the feet of pop's new Picassos.

Festival stalwarts and vintage sonics trailblazers, their no-fuss rhythm and blues has little truck with reinventing the wheel and fizzes with the simple joy of creation.

Adams could clearly make use of an editor here--but you can't possibly hate an album that uses pedal-steel on every track. [24 Sep 2005, p.43]

Cronin’s knack for languid songwriting is enhanced by adding more opulence.

Of all the dead genres, you’d think it would be hard to credibly reinvent blaxplotation-era soul, but The Heavy (who, along with Pop Levi, are heading up Ninja Tunes’ new imprint Counter Records) pull it off explosively well.

There’s not much sugar to sweeten the pill, meaning Trap Lord is often one-note and depressing.

A blissful happiness pervades 'Baby I'm Bored', but then that's Evan all over.

Triumphantly succeeds in underlining Dulli's deft touch in understanding the magic woven into the fabric of great pop. [4 Sep 2004, p.73]

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

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

It's hard not to enjoy being alive while listening to this album. [25 Feb 2006, p.31]

It’s this ability that makes The Big Pink so special for, beneath the dissonance, the artful posturing and the pop hooks is something far more enduring: these guys have got a soul and they’re not afraid to bare it.

Now Pollock has rediscovered her former band’s grandiose esoterica and stark, scratchy danger.

Miike Snow’s debut is a curious affair: clad in icy, inscrutable packaging a la Sigur Ros with american singer Andrew Wyatt carefully enunciating every overwrought word, it’s also jam-packed with the kind of dazzling pop tricks you might expect from three chaps whose day job is churning out radio hits for the likes of and Jordin Sparks.

It was produced by Michael ‘Mike D’ Diamond of the Beastie Boys, though sounds like it’s held together with snot and sawdust, lending the record a sense of spontaneity that runs through all 16 tracks.

Everything pushed to the limit, it becomes abundantly clear they’ve made an album that sounds as at home on the dust-stained subway as it does at the peak of the Empire State Building.

[The] change in pace makes for a welcome modification to the Flume sound, which is elevated by his rich, newfound sonics. Yes, Streten can still soundtrack your night out, but on ‘Palaces’ he’ll also gently bring you back down to Earth when morning comes.

Recorded under the radar with producer Jason Lader and Bright Eyes collaborator Mike Mogis, it’s a strange little album, just eight songs long but deceptively dense with ideas.

Though ‘shame’ is no wild departure, its voice feels stronger. Cutting loose clearly suits IDER – this independent follow-up finds them free to pick apart all the complicated facets of shame in a slow-burning, smouldering fashion.

Toliver adds a new flavour to his popular sound here, and while the result is a less cohesive record than ‘Heaven Or Hell’, the result is a similarly cosy sonic comfort blanket.

What solidifies ‘Mother’ as an excellent debut is Poulter’s openness to embrace a myriad of influences, from UK funky to disco and ’90s house. To produce good dance music means keeping the sensations alive on the dancefloor; ‘Mother’ highlights the multiple ways the club can be enjoyed.

A set of sombre fingerpicked fables, Luminous Night’is heavy in spirit. It is cold to the core, as if it’s being played in the long shadow of a tombstone.

Caoimhe Derwin and Jessie Ward’s guitars have perfected that Jesus And Mary Chain kettle-whistle sound, lending a haunted air to otherwise energetic stomps like ‘Heartbeats’ and ‘Talking.

Jenny 'Rilo Kiley' Lewis, and Jonathan 'Just Recorded Under His Own Name' Rice's brand of folk-indie-pop--jangly guitars, sweetly shared harmonies, echoes of the Deep South--isn't groundbreaking, but probably wasn't supposed to be.

An intimate, frequently beautiful and consistently surprising record that gets better with every listen.

Overall, though ‘Heligoland’ is a puzzling and frustrating listen. Some good tracks can’t hide the fact that this is the stuff of an identity crisis. It’s one thing to call on your famous friends to put flesh on your bones. It’s another if you leave the listener wondering if you’ve any spine at all.

The Avetts are clearly happiest when they're miserable. Which is fine, if you're in that kind of mood.

‘EBM’, then, goes some way to bringing the seasoned band back to what they do best, all the while pushing things forward.

Stories Don’t End is smoother than a drive down to Malibu with the Eagles chilling in the back seat.

Good, but not "The Greatest."

As a collection of songs, however, Colors is by far Beck’s most upbeat and enjoyable record from front to back since the ’90s. Repeated listens will no doubt be rewarded.

Volcano may rank as more of a technical progression than an artistic one, but it’s no less impressive for that.

All of these incredible songs shimmer and vibrate with the riotous majesty of 'Psychocandy' without a trace of the Mary Chain's post-'Honey's Dead' self-parody.

A stunningly original record--harrowing and hilarious in equal amounts. [25 Feb 2006, p.32]

Happily, it makes a good go of bucking the trend here and there, with singer Bill Janovitz's full-throated delivery investing his words with the kind of gritty undercurrent of self-loathing and inner torment that makes Skins jolt with bursts of fresh energy.

Cyclops Reap keeps the party going.

The ramshackle energy and unpredictability of their live show has been sanded down into something more clinical and precise.

A whiff of unoriginality aside, what this EP offers Parquet Courts addicts is fresh meat to chew on, signs of innovation and further evidence that these New Yorkers are one of the world’s most essential new bands.

It’s a graceful evolution and one that rocks just as hard as the squalling fury of The Distillers ever did.

If it’s mournful epics you want, then the album’s crammed full of them, from the strummed, outdoorsy sorrow of ‘Winter Dies’ to ‘Rulers, Ruling All Things’, which is peppered with cheeky Spanish guitar and weighty, fin-de-siècle lyrical flair.

Their personality is bold throughout, an excess of top-shelf distortion and a cast-the-crutches-aside sense of euphoria.

Attention Please is the first to feature just guitarist Wata on vocals. Her breathlessly beautiful singing style calls to mind classic Stereolab on the title track and one of My Bloody Valentine's more sublime moments on 'Hope'.

There’s a certain power to ‘Euphoric’, but it certainly could have been a much more potent album. It’s a shame, and a missed opportunity: we don’t learn much about Georgia’s new worldview on a record that is, supposedly, dedicated to moving on from the past.

This is a sweet postcard from a man who still gives a shit about trying something new.

Needless to say, this is 45 minutes of Satanism, anti-capitalism, rebel protest, warfare and gore in which every form of sludge/speed/death/pop/goth/punk/armadillo metal is flung onto an increasingly gooey and formless pile, like a torture chamber’s heap of discarded body parts.

It's compelling, and finds new territory.... But it doesn't do a huge amount to lodge itself in your memory

This catchy and characterful album already feels like a job well done. When this girl’s having fun, we are too.

It’s the social commentary that makes this experimental album feel vital and unifying. Okereke lyrically eviscerates the politicians who’ve caused divisions based on race, wealth, sexuality and gender, but also offers a vision of hope and a desire for England to rebuild.

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.

That this 'art collective,' incubated in south London's makeshift spaces--all sketchy car parks and vibrant experimentation--should turn out a debut as casually brilliant as Other People's Problems is not surprising in itself. But that it should sound so vital, kind of is.

Ultimately, 'Musicology' is a kind of flawed redemption, neither inspired enough to be a true classic, nor insipid enough to make it unworthy of your attention.

Confident, bold, ambitious, bunged with singles and impossible to contain, ‘X&Y’ doesn’t reinvent the wheel but it does reinforce Coldplay as the band of their time.

Mostly Ghettoville is an exciting new landscape to get lost in and explore, even if it does spell the end for Actress.

Wild Divine ain't 'Kid A', but it's hardly musical stagnation.

Fearless himself assumes vocal duties, although Austra's Katie Stelmanis is also occasionally employed to help the music transcend the dank analogue dungeon of its creation.

It can feel – despite the vivacity and thrilling, shack-shaking garage rock beast that this whole album is – that Romero are stuck in a single gear. There’s a sameness to the songs that won’t trouble any listeners who only want to throw their heads around, pogo bounce and get deafened by riffs.

Noctourniquet's greatest strength--or, to hardcore prog-trolls, its unforgivable weakness--lies with its melodies.

In any other hands this would have been a total disaster, but yes, things are never quite that simple with these two.

After all these years, he's still got it.

It definitely ain’t perfect, then, but in concocting a scrubbed-up, carefully wrought maturation of their sound, Born Under Saturn gives us something close to Django Django unchained.

While not their best, it’s decent enough to ensure there’ll be more-- even though the truly off-the-wall moments are either rare or misguided, meaning the record feels slightly anonymous.

Submissive this is not.

Sure, this isn’t going to frighten the rabbits just yet, but they do occupy a beguiling space between playful celtic reverie and the pits of drone-rock hell.

It was a coming together of people and community, and it's therefore fitting that Lupercalia the album is a celebration too.

It’s hardly love at first listen.... Yet across repeat plays, the album’s charms begin to unfurl.

London-based collective Fanfarlo’s debut is a carefully orchestrated treat.

They're tight in the way that only the threat of bottling can foster.

'Anxiety Always' is a triumph of punkish spirit, an album that embraces creeping horror like an un-comfort blanket.

Muse have widened the goalposts and re-established what rock is allowed to stand for. Next to ‘Absolution’, even something as majestic as ‘Elephant’ sounds so painfully small.

His solo debut is frequently as imperfectly perfect as Pavement approaching their best...

Boisterous, full of sincerity and exciting enough to make you jump on a table in the middle of a board meeting, ‘Tickets To My Downfall’ is an album that not only proves MGK can do whatever the hell he likes, but that also maybe pop-punk still has something important to offer the world.

By drinking deep from the coolest records and the hippest poets, Penny succeeds in beginning a new chapter for her band.

The astonishing thing is that on any other record, the two above low points [Snaps and Invincible] would be stand-out tracks. With Tinie, only the best will do.

The Raveonettes are super-cool Scandinavian noise-rockers and they’ve shored Lust Lust Lust in that turmoil to create their most engrossing album to date.

Bosnian Rainbows finds Omar in controlled, more conventional territory than he has been in a while. There’s structure, sub-four-minute songs, melody. It’ll never be Nick Grimshaw’s Record Of The Week and it’s still prog, but it’s a punky prog that at least feels like it is actively trying to make friends with you.

While it's still shrouded in the frontman's down-in-the-mouth moodiness, its slinking rhythms offer the album's most striking and effective contrast between light and dark.

What’s really intriguing about Jungle, though, is its darker side. There's a tone of inner-city malaise, romantic ruin and psychedelic alienation to a raft of its tracks that speaks to those modern urbanites feeling screen-wiped and robbed of opportunities, busy earnin’ for nothing.

This is funny peculiar, not funny Barenaked Ladies.

Luck has its moments, but in terms of defining a way forward for Vek, chance would be a fine thing.

Mostly, Landshapes sound like a band that might be a better prospect live, where their ever-shifting ideas can fully flourish.

Night Work makes no apologies; Stuart Price creates a sound that is fierce and muscular.

Currently, there are few notable British producers creating such brilliantly odd pieces of music as this.

A lot of Every Now And Then was recorded in the rural French studio they’ve compared to the doomed country retreat featured in cult comedy Withnail & I. And that fits, really, as the place this album had to have been made: somewhere haphazard and idiosyncratic, but weirdly brilliant.