Without him [Machinedrum], it's a well assembled but dull record. With him, it's sublime.

Dirty Projectors ultimately leaves one too puzzled to empathize with apart from letting out a false, mouth-gaping awe.

What really makes this album the disappointment that it is is not the songs that wallow in the background. It's relistening to his earlier work that puts it into perspective.

It’s an unfettered display of eighties-evoking posing that suits them perfectly well, but it also sounds like a step back after they’d already figured out how to match their compositional smarts with a clear message.

As it stands, Deerhoof seems to have lost its footing a bit with this one.

Nabuma Rubberband is a solid album, but ideally you want a record that does more than remind you of the band’s existence.

If only she would’ve toned down the unnecessary sensual flourishes to cultivate more of what she does best: amiable, pleasant songs with outwardly simple, yet weighty underlying truths.

Plumb feels unsure of how ambitious it wants to be, but instead of landing in the middle of the road, the lack of focus and uncertainty create an incoherent mess.

They're much fuzzier than Deerhunter, more jam-inclined than The Horrors, far lighter than Slowdive – and if it's true that they're introducing the kids to krautrock and psychedelia I'm all for it. Perhaps more of an homage than an invention, then, but still, an absorbing debut.

Hardcore... may be their most consistent album for a while but any of its tracks would have fitted perfectly on its predecessors Mr Beast or The Hawk is Howling.

White Stuff is a welcome return even if it is uneven.

The songs are flat and unoriginal rock.

Always professional, but rarely memorable, What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World, much like its fudge of a title, ultimately balances out as a fairly middling work.

It’s a good comeback for De La Soul, and there’s plenty to really enjoy here, but there are too many occasions where tracks loiter for too long, not outstaying their welcome as such, just not doing a great deal with it.

FRIGS half-convincingly communicate their agitation over piercing shards of noise. The band are at their best when the rhythm section takes charge.

Kehlani replaces any hint of controlled pop presence with a lowkey, gloomy vibe that doesn’t suit her strengths at all. Her raspy voice is now placed upon liquid synth bass and irritating trap production, leaving her songwriting to be the record’s only strength.

The problem is that Ishibashi isn't idiosyncratic enough to make this a memorable record... That said, he gets it so right on Manchester it's unbelievable.

After 35 minutes filled with one kinetic power-chord to the next with the littlest variation, Typhoons spreads itself too thin.

Pt.1 was such an exciting deviation for Foals that it would be disappoitning if it proved just a mere detour on their way to producing empty, arena-sized rock. Here, they not only return to their formula, but ramp it up to dangerous levels. It’s brash, loud, and, ultimately, tiresome.

El Pintor isn’t a rekindling of old fires, more so a chilled, mutual acceptance from a band that is letting things roll as smoothly as can be.

When things work, Moolchan sounds confident taking on new influences and playing around with them until they fit within her playful vision. Mostly, though, Highway Hypnosis is frustrating in that it feels more like a collection of potentially good but unfinished ideas that lack the focus and imagination needed to make them work.

What starts out as inviting, quickly becomes a bit irritating and ends up overwhelmingly draining and drab if tackled all at once.

The way they attempt to reinvent the idea of the rock band is admirable but quixotic; they;'re intriguing but way overhyped. The album is buried in just a bit too much sonic obscurity--their arrangements are at first elating, but eventually frustrating.

While it starts strong, the weaker second half makes Serpentine Prison a mixed bag. It doesn’t feel like a definitive statement album, more like an opportunity for Berninger to stretch his legs. There’s a good amount of work to enjoy here, but it’ll mainly make you want to listen to The National instead.

Woods should take the cue from Bill Callahan and what he accomplished with Smog: if you are going to delve into the restricting realm of lo-fi, there has to be emotional and appealing substance and quality in the songs themselves. Lowering the production quality does not, as in a double helix, imply that the songwriting quality will improve.

When this album hits, it hits hard, but for the first time in their career, the barrage is intermittent instead of constant.

Ruins is an affecting, comforting listen, but not one that will imprint itself too vividly in the memory.

It's great when artists learn to produce work that has more than one dimension to it. Robyn's has two. I'd just like to see her develop one or two more.