An irresistibly fun listen, even at its simplest. DOOM's role is honestly more like a supporting cast member here, but when he shows up, his husky ramblings still have the same gravity they always did. The production plays to his strengths.

For something as weighty as a debut album from a hotly-tipped artist, Parallel Memories feels a little too light for its own good.

In recent years, Stott has alternately spurned and embraced the nasty side of his sound, but on Never The Right Time, he nails a difficult balance between bass weight and pop vulnerability.

His third album is easily the tightest record yet. Jumping from sound to sound, Ital Tek has covered a startling amount of ground in a short time.

Some of Orbiting still sounds a little sketchy, like a bunch of good ideas that have yet to coagulate into fully-rounded, purposeful bangers, but clearly Jeremy Guindo is a real maverick talent.

Where Moderat sounded at times tentative and disjointed, II is in every regard a better and more well-rounded record. If there were no third Moderat album, this would stand as a definitive statement.

This foray beyond the confines of UK rap doesn't leave the album feeling muddled or stylistically confused—her out-there synth rap sound remains consistent throughout, for a polished, elegant debut album that stands tall inside (and outside) the UK's rap scene.

The band's mix of disco, funk, new wave, dancehall and West African music would in most hands sound muddled or derivative. What happens instead is music filled with life and imagination of the kind described by Stuart Evans, the cofounder of the Green Door Studio, who once likened Golden Teacher to seeing "a robot dancing with a leopard."

Vynehall's entry into the long-running series doesn't have quite the same crowd-pleasing quality, but like the Moodymann mix it's brilliantly executed.

It always felt like the UK dance community was collectively cheering for Katy B's success, and Little Red shows how much she deserves it.

Key to the Kuffs certainly finds one of underground music's true antiheros in irresistibly infectious form.

Whether you like Long Trax 2 depends in part on how much you hear this message. ... Long Trax 2 runs the risk of monotony instead. But that seems to be Long's message: we're stuck, sorrow repeating without end.

Without much more than endless stretches of sound to hang onto, The Four Worlds occasionally drifts into tedium. The record's pair of vocal cuts stand out as a result, regardless of how effective they are.

The covers are the stickiest aspect of 7G. Most of them are one-note, more of an "influences" playlist than a collection of worthy interpretations. They weigh down the already heavy album with dead weight, but the hit rate of 7G is remarkably high anyways, a testament to Cook's vision.

It takes a lot of talent to make crate-digging sound so seamless, and even if the cracks show every once in a while, Planet High School is some of the best patchwork around.

On Powerhouse, we learn many things about Rostron. Few artists can express their politics and personal life so directly.

Aptly-titled, Fever Dream's gentle and imaginative hip-hop beats waft by leisurely, attractive on the surface but substantive and personal on the inside.

Together, Dom Maker and Kai Campos are something truly special. Apart, they still sound pretty damn talented, which makes this diversion a welcome one as the group work towards their next grand statement.

Caracal has the effect of a magician performing a trick twice in a row, rendering once clandestine, miraculous movements suddenly obvious, over-rehearsed and unnatural.

It's more about repetition than surprise, meditation than hyperactivity. Many tracks start slowly and quietly, and some hold entirely to that restraint.

It's an album of contrasts that can prove difficult and overlong one listen and breathtaking and fascinatingly complex the next, not a masterpiece by any means but a unique kind of impressive nonetheless.

Motzfeldt and Stoltenberg's subtle R&B harmonies are understated and arresting, exposing the inner sanctum of a complex emotional relationship. Believer is an album about raw friendship, personal image and collective awareness.

You're drawn in by a minimalist master at work.

They might be skeletal and drained of colour, but their tracks have an unpredictable, wandering spirit that makes them far more than listless jamming.

This is imaginative and complex dance music, with a level of detail that in the hands of a different artist could become overwhelming. Luckily, as brainy as it gets at points, Second Language is always exhilarating.

What really marks Machinedrum's growth are the moments that subtly push Stewart's sound into small stylistic corners only hinted at before.

Where Mala In Cuba boiled, Mirrors barely gets to a simmer.

This series has always been Kompakt’s annual attempt to try to shape mainstream house and techno in its own idiosyncratic vision. Once again, it has done so in style.

These might not be Martin's most envelope-pushing beats, but it's hard to think about that when the walls are violently shaking.

His architectures still have an unreal sheen, but they're convincing enough to get lost in.

Tejada being Tejada, the machines aren't done away with entirely. Amid the orchestral strings and irregular drums you'll hear the rich melodic layers and electronic processing that have long been Tejada hallmarks. His stamp is all over this typically classy if unsurprising album.

The album channels Alva Noto's trademark sounds into jittery, funky music that loses none of the complexity of his more challenging work.

Her robotic sing-song is more unsettling than affecting, and the synth backing is never quite immersive. Spontaneity is often this pair's strength, but with more ambitious ideas it limits them.

The problem is the tone, which, from the album's first whimper to the comically bad poetry reading that closes it, is hackneyed and overwrought all the way through. These ten tracks are defined by somber pianos, bittersweet strings and quivering pads--like Sigur Rós, but drained of all mystery. Worst of all, though, is the singing, a half-coherent moan that falls somewhere between Thom Yorke and '90s radio balladeers like David Gray or Five For Fighting.

Making good on Quattlebaum's professed interest in radical queer politics, the music on C-ORE feels suitably radical, queer and non-conformist.

Miami still isn't their masterpiece, but it suggests they have one in them.

It's a wild, theatrical and, at times, bloated ride.

St Germain conjures up rich and atmospheric landscapes equal to Navarre's earlier work. They're different from where we last left him, but they still seem to find him right at home.

The spirit of the concept is dazzlingly portrayed at times, but the LP also conveys the emptiness of these things, the true idea of a "new pleasure"—everything we want, though not always enough of what we need. But it's great while it lasts.

Salton Sea feels engineered for eminent listenability.

It's something more functional, familiar and safe.

Brute's most interesting flourishes are all surface-level. Take them away and you're left with Al Qadiri reusing the same musical ideas.

Ultimately, Tears In The Club could have been a nearly flawless six-track EP--though the filler doesn't detract from the more noteworthy tunes on here, it doesn't really contribute either.

Without its academic trappings, Projections starts to grate, with its middle-of-the-road niceness and mood of tepid celebration. With them, it's borderline offensive.

"Napoletana" got the Project Pablo ear for melody and signature sweet mood, but the sonics are pristine, every lead flourish and bassline wiggle perfectly placed. Elsewhere the mood deepens, and Project Pablo flavours his melodic groovers with rich atmosphere.

Live manipulation gives In Situ its textures, as Halo hardly lets a few bars go by without tweaking rhythmic elements, introducing new sonics or briefly leaning on an effect. The movements are unpredictable but never distracting or overwhelming.

Serious and focused but also enormously fun, it represents the late flowering of a distinctive, accomplished talent.

Providence marks a muscular new path for Fake, but he sounds as singular as always.

With a relatively small number of building blocks, Acre has built an album that feels varied, showcases a range of emotion and, most importantly, feels whole.

The State Between Us does, at times, attain a depth of its own, particularly when it's dealing in the sadness of separation Brexit engenders in roughly half of the population. But at other points it just seems to be saying, "Ooh, aren't we quirky?!"

It's unclear if Elements of Light represents an evolutionary mark for the producer or a one-off exercise inspired by a summer's day in Oslo, but as an effort at minimalism, it's a modest success at best.

If you come to Foals from an exclusively indie rock perspective, this may blow your tiny mind. But if this is Foals' attempt to infiltrate clubland proper, it falls short.

Their lush synth textures are a few tints darker and their songwriting is a whole lot tighter.

The twists and turns can be compelling, but they make The Catastrophist feel somewhat lopsided, with scattered ideas too disparate to congeal as a cohesive listen.

Most of The Triad lacks darkness or tension, which results in a lack of depth and contrast.

Days Gone By focuses on the band's smoky, bedroom-ready style. It's only half the story, but it's still a pretty good one.

It's a rare example of him writing and singing lyrics, and it's endearingly youthful.

Butler's troupe have always been unique--a dance floor-friendly manifestation of the dissenting, politicised queer underground--but now they're making transcendent music again, too.

Love Letters is more mature, doleful and disconnected from club trends.

And while there's no percussion in any conventional sense, the likes of "Uptown Psychedelia" jerk manically to their own spasmodic rhythms. Yet where those tracks are marked by an almost feverish nervous tension, from "Racist Drone" onwards Hecker and Lopatin seem to drift into an almost tranquilised state-one which strays closer to ambient clichés.

Where Ufabulum felt like a garish souvenir from the performance built around it, Damogen Furies is more substantial and self-contained.

Clarke sounds reinvigorated here. It's clear he feels he has nothing to prove to anyone but himself.

The complexities of romance, alcohol dependence, the fragility of life and untimely death weave in and out of intricate arrangements of manipulated vocals and bold melodies.

While that pop sense is here yet again on THEE PHYSICAL, the difference on this album is that it feels written, large empty structures playing host to actual songs.

As with all of Copeland's records, surprising angles and intriguing touches are strewn throughout. But this is also an incredibly fun record, which is enough reason to play it over and over.

Instead of building on the momentum of her songwriting career, Still pulls her back into her comfort zone, with promising hints of something new waiting in the spaces between.

Born In The Echoes follows the duo's formula of saving the more psychedelic tracks for the end.

It's the "electronic music" aspect of Strange Passion that's most fascinating.

As strong as Dillon's songs are, the idea that there are some missed opportunities here can't help but nag at even its strongest moments.

Equal parts rock, hip-hop and experimental, it's one of the most interesting records of the year thus far.

Rinse Presents: Brackles is a cohesive, singular statement that finds his sound truly rising to the occasion.

The album stays reasonably well-balanced throughout, straddling that fine line between understatement and being sledgehammer-esque obvious.

Stones and Woods is a frustrating body of work, with good ideas poorly realised and arresting moments interrupted by annoying ones.

The appeal of this LP lies in the adroit splicing of this aesthetic with that of dance floor techno, a combination which has the potential to be horrifically stale, sterile, smug—but ends up being anything but.

Waverly is constant and consistent in its crossing between a less exotic Dead Can Dance and a more lo-fi Fever Ray, which is certainly a captivating enough blend for a debut album.

Where their first album felt like a definitive statement, Natural Selection sounds, as so many second albums do, like a diffuse bunch of half-realised ideas.

No Sounds Are Out Of Bounds, with its stylistic and thematic missteps, too often shakes us out of this trademark groove.

With a couple of cuts hovering around ten minutes, the album requires patience but remains accessible.

Even with so few words uttered, it's a vital entry in a vast discography that constantly seeks answers, building spiritual strength along the way.

Even in the depths of despair she still managed to turn out something that feels lush and enticing. DREAMER is one of those albums people revisit for all kinds of reasons, whether they're sitting drinking wine with friends or out on a walk in need of a good cry.

On Turn Blue you can tell the duo remain integral and solidly at the core, new influences or not.

In the style of Arthur Russell, Tophat uses studio trickery to weave contrasting material into dreamlike narratives. Programmed drums morph fluidly into live ones, while samples and voices circle each other like planets in unpredictable orbit.

There's a nagging feeling that the project uses such a vast grab-bag of references to mask a lack of clear, foundational ideas. That could be slightly unfair though. Moffa and Troxler wouldn't be the first artists to take up residence in a maze of their influences, and as muddled as things appear at times, on Lost Souls Of Saturn they do some pretty striking work.

So short and concentrated, the album feels like a style exercise rather than a major work, but it nonetheless finds Cutler refining his skills and presenting the best version of his 1992-via-2020 approach yet.

The album gets off to a rough start with "Don't Leave Me Like This," whose poppy melancholy could be better appreciated if Bobby Raps's vocals weren't distorted to an infuriating chipmunk pitch. ... But on tracks like "Way Back," Moore shines, and his knack for earworm melodies, genre mashups and collaboration comes through.

His music appears to be the stuff of mid-morning TV interludes and inconsequential memories, yet it ends up plumbing great depths.

The album is incredibly rich from beginning to end, and totally unpredictable.

Listening to the album feels like opening a time capsule to the early and mid-10s, a period marked by a cheesy, over-the-top hedonism that might only be truly understood if you survived the Great Recession and saw Obama become president twice. ... It's easier to get behind Quest For Fire when Moore's dubstep influences are subtler.

This is a record that Biosphere fans will enjoy losing themselves in. Like the Wolski forest and its ghosts, Departed Glories brings you far into its unknown expanse, never showing you a way out.

It's a record that balances the hardcore continuum with emotion as she turns out club tunes touched by vulnerability.

Most tracks have a near-total lack of reverb that suffocates sentimentality without starving the record of atmosphere. As a listening experience, it's like pushing on a bleeding gum: knotty and perversely satisfying.

All That Must Be is a smooth journey from start to finish, but it too often feels familiar. In spite of a new cast of collaborators, little about the LP improves on its predecessor. What sounded unique from FitzGerald three years ago isn't quite as satisfying this time around.

It's like listening to the sea, before the strings slip in and out of tune like crashing waves. The beauty that emerges throughout the record requires patience to be appreciated in full and—to Frahm's credit—when it arrives, it's worth the wait.

Ghettoville doesn't sound like the work of a producer who's no longer able to make wondrous music; there's enough craft and intention here to suggest that, for whatever reason, he just didn't this time.

The album is quite possibly his most stirring and accomplished work to date.

At over three hours of half-lidded drone and ambient, Rainbow Mirror is one of the quietest Prurient albums, yet also one of the most demanding.

There are moments of hymnal beauty, but it's unmoored from the hardcore nostalgia of Bevan's most affecting music. The context for Young Death / Nightmarket is harder to grasp, and before you know it, it drifts away.

The first new Plastikman material in over ten years was always going to carry some high expectations, and as solid as it is, this one doesn't quite match up.