Glitterbust is the sound of someone coming out on the other side of that moment, armed with heightened instincts and unfaltering confidence.

The production isn’t minimal, but Ørsted and Vindahl cram in a lot of oddball flourishes without distracting from her refreshingly unvarnished voice.

To Rock's credit, his touches don't actually get in the way of the songs, and hopefully his tweaks are just what Sexsmith needs to garner the support he deserves.

The result sounds like a stack of old 70s records your nerdiest music snob friend discovered in a dusty record store.

While they may never reach the heights of their Source Tags & Codes, the band can still push boundaries.

While the production is tight, it’s not going to cause rival producers to sell their samplers and look for jobs in air conditioning repair.

The album shows he’s progressed since bursting onto the scene four years ago, but it’s definitely not going to change the minds of those who think he’s ruining dance music.

The album has some great moments but a few too many fumbles to hold up as a complete package.

The subversive elements often feel like unnecessary posturing, but the production wisely hides them behind more obvious assets like sunny pop hooks, singalong choruses and Madeline Follin's childlike voice.

The result isn’t quite on a par with their best work, but it’s nothing to scoff at either.

Ditch the padding and Interstellar could be a flawless EP.

Weaker songs near the end dull Day & Age’s initial shine.

The remix supposedly reflects how the band always wanted the album to sound, but it’s hard to tell what O’Brien did. It’s definitely cleaner, louder and more polished, but not dramatically different.

With 22 tracks over 80 minutes (including a few skits you’ll skip after the first listen), it’s way too long. It’s themed around Chance’s wedding to his longtime partner, Kristen Corley – a rite of passage that mirrors the “big day” of his debut album release. And like a wedding in which the priest’s sermon is getting in the way of the dinner buffet, you can really feel it drag.

13 gets tiresomely monolithic and ponderous.

They can still rage, summoning plenty of singalong anger on Donny Of The Decks and Things To Say To Friendly Policemen. But their targets feel more academic.

Gareth's voice has gone from excited and jubilant to pained and miserable -– an uncanny cross between Robert Smith and Conor Oberst.

Neither as playful as previous efforts nor as spooky as it wants to be, Mirror Mirror is a middling effort by a good band.

Baby 81's not nearly as original or as interesting as their past releases – including Howl.

It sounds very much like the disjointed collection of rickety epics about fucking and frustration you'd expect from a BSS disc.

The wrong turns don’t sink the album but steer it into an awkward middle place unbefitting the talented group behind the wheel.

While each song is its own curious, maximalist wonder, it adds up to something fairly cacophonous. So much is happening in each trebly, dizzying track that there are few new heights to reach after the first three or four.

It didn't take long to turn the novel clank and grind of Kinshasa junkyard techno assault unit Konono No. 1 into an easy-to-use formula with enormous money-making potential.

Naturally, the interpretations go beyond mere homage as Marshall uses her mysterious Cat Power skills to channel the spirits of the singers who inspired her, with mixed results.

Frontman Bobby Gillespie’s lyrics still don’t sound as effortlessly cool as his breathy delivery (see Culturecide), but it feels like the band is back on the pulse of something.

Maus sounds as pretentious as his album title when he's at his least self-censorious, delivering empty, eye-rolling provocations on Cop Killer and Matter Of Fact.

Nichols's gravelly vocals are more immediate and heartfelt than ever, especially on the dark, ruefuI I Woke Up In New Orleans, about self-destructive alcoholism. Lighter subject matter works less well (the pleasant ditty I'm In Love With A Girl, the lacklustre Throwback No. 2) but has enough southern soul to keep things interesting.

The super-synthetic ethos of the album starts to rub against your skin; the band's retro dance-music collage feels less like innovative referencing and more like flat pastiche, and the simplistic little-girl lyrics add nothing.