In and of itself, So Long, See You Tomorrow is more or less flawless BBC; their music has always been polite, erudite and winsome, and that beat does not skip here.

‘Morning’ is stately in a hopeful sort of way; ‘Heart’ an uptempo standout that hints at the quiet majesty of Nick Drake in his ‘Bryter Layter’ period. Meanwhile the striking ‘Wave’ pits Beck’s vocal against a lush, sad string arrangement by his dad--but there are moments where the introspection slides into an acoustic torpor, too.

The Oklahoma songwriter is back with some of her most ebullient, ambitiously styled music to date on St Vincent.

Occasionally the bare-bones arrangements, a virtue in the main, serve to expose minor shortcomings in the songs. But overall, it’s a quibble far outweighed by the thrill afforded by a record that’s as honest and open-hearted as anything this great band have put their names to yet.

Menace Beach may have their sonic ingredients already established, but the result is even better than the sum of their parts.

A well-rounded and mature second album.

Samantha Crain’s debut seems inextricably tied to that spirit [of alt. country], with its simple melodic warmth trumping contemporary notions of waistcoat-wearing ‘authenticity’.

More Dum Dum than Vivian, September Girls’ debut LP is a reverb-ridden sass-pot of a thing--all fluttering eyelashes and scratchy underbelly.

Total Strife Forever (thanks, Foals) is an ambitious, absorbing debut, and still probably only a glimpse of what East India Youth’s capable of.

Sure, there’s clunky country passages (‘Houston Hades’), brassy crooning (‘J Smoov’) and Cream-y jams (‘Cinnamon and Lesbians’), but Malkmus’ wit remains more than intact in his middle-age.

It might be as modern as loincloth, but ‘California X’ is surely a future classic.

Join The Dots makes good on the band’s promise to deliver a new album every year, though you can’t help but feel certain songs were neglected in favour of more sophisticated production values.

Even attention-grabbing appearances by Lovefoxxx and Hot Chip’s Alexis Taylor don’t distract from the ambition, intellectualism and plain-speaking seductiveness that make ‘SUM/ONE’ a more than impressive listen.

Mostly, these are exquisitely constructed slow jams--especially recent single ‘Cookies’, The-Dream-esque ‘Crazy Sex’ and the cashmere-soft, Kelly Rowland duet ‘All The Way’--but the pace becomes stagnant after a while.

It all feels rather too short, which was surely Mazes’ plan all along: leave ‘em wanting more.

Though Shangri La is at least entertaining, it’s without that lasting, killer incision that will guarantee longevity.

This is just the latest in a series of EPs from the Philadelphian, though some may quibble it’s light on original material.

Featuring cameos from David Longstreth, Chairlift’s Caroline Polachek, Kindness and more Cupid Deluxe is a rich, rewarding listen.

There’s a handful of ballads too--the surest sign of maturity--but just when we think they’ve given up the pacy numbers forever, they sucker-punch us at the death with the perfect one-two combo of ‘Unwanted Place’ and ‘Young’.

Psychedelic leanings and Le Bon’s fragile Welsh lilt make Mug Museum a typically unusual listen, but its sincerity shines throughout, finding beauty in the strangest, sometimes saddest of places.

It’s good to have them back.

When it works, it’s brilliant.... But at times Caramel feels undercooked.

White Denim continue to teeter there.

Whilst Lorde’s world creates its own incredibly distinctive atmosphere, it feels accessible and open to maturing.

Bold, vulnerable and pleasingly disjointed, miraculously Night Time, My Time was worth the wait.

With psych bite and cosmic volume stripped away, Nielson’s brilliant, dextrous playing and addled lyrical bravery are illuminated brighter than ever.

The now-quartet’s fourth record marries prickly melody with glossy discord, eclipsing not only its predecessors but its entire genre.

The enjoyably fluffy, pacy tunes here match Best Coast’s debut, but the content makes you want to scream ‘Get a f***ing life and chill out!’ at the speakers.

Thanks to the sheer joy with which he performs it (produced here for the first time by Kieran Hebden), it’s irresistibly, inevitably satisfying.

Shulamith picks up pretty much where that album left off, mixing elements of yacht rock, soul, hip hop and dub into a smoothly melancholic whole--but at times Leaneagh’s vocodered emoting makes you wonder if this isn’t just Dido for the blognoscenti.

What richly rewarding, flourishing, beautiful songs they are.

Beautiful Rewind is the sound of an artist looking to cut loose, and its playful spirit proves catching.

The rapid and rabid ‘You’ve Got Me Wonderin’ Now’, replete with wonky recorder, matches the velocity of that record [Light Up Gold], as does the hurtling ‘Descend (The Way)’.

For now it’s still deliciously entertaining.

The moments of clarity indicate a record that yearns for change.

One Breath lacks the overwhelming force of her earlier material, but given time it will surely burrow under your skin.

Basically, you can listen to all 11 tracks of This Is... Icona Pop and have a reasonable time, or you can put I Love It on repeat, forever, and have the time of your life.

Psychic is perfectly executed, impenetrable.

The juggernauting anthemia that has become their signature is upscaled for Reflektor, a wider-than-widescreen, 70-minute, two-disc odyssey.

There’s a sheen to much of Days Are Gone that can prevent you from delving further. But it’s a minor quibble on the whole, chiefly because the songs are strong enough to keep pulling you in for repeated listens, each hook burying itself deeper and deeper.

The Californians still play ethereal tunes that could waft on forever.

This is music that demands to be played loud, and often.

It is hard to care too much about something this safe.

London Grammar’s polished take on trip-hop is quietly dramatic, sometimes beautiful and well worth a listen.

This is as forceful, salacious and dangerous as they’re likely to get.

An unholy marriage of the brutal and the brilliant, fuelling suspicion that their best is yet to come.

It’s intimidating at first, but once your eyes acclimatise, you’ll relish joining them in the shadows.

while the likes of Animal Collective and Yeasayer can sound like they’re from other times, places and planets, Delorean sound more like they’re making music for a lacklustre university recruitment video.

Anger, bitterness and scorn spike the discomfiting atmosphere at every turn.

Listening to Babyshambles’ horrible third album is like being stuck on a roundabout with no exits.

This isn’t her masterpiece (that’s to come in the sixth and seventh suites), but it’s only a sliver away.

Beneath every stoner vocal or woozy guitar line there’s enough melodic nous to ensure Melbourne never wobbles too far into drug casualty territory.

It’s the romantic last dance of an album that shows that they’re still the same old Monkeys. Just dressed up slicker and sexier.

As closer ‘Black’ fades out, it’s clear MONEY have made something special and, maybe, even sacred.

The result is a collection of songs that really soar in a way that some previous material hasn’t.

While there are individual moments that are up there with the band’s best, Right Thoughts falls short of the return to form the opening tracks suggest.

Frankly, it’s a delightful, demented journey into pure psych chaos. Essential listening.

If you wanted a masterpiece, this isn’t it--it’s too long and stoned for that. Rather, it’s an invigorating, assertive and magical collection that’s probably cleverer than you are.

On An Object, their blissy ambient tinkerings finally feel earned and essential.

The very retro Sleeper is an acoustic affair, characterised by bluesy downers and portentous balladry.

With Loud City Song, Julia Holter marks the scene’s zenith, continuing her journey from obscurity, through marginality and onwards into accessibility.

Their debut is yearning blog-pop, which might be a bit ‘2009 called...’ if songs like ‘New House’ weren’t just as sharp as their 80s, sax-ballad ancestors.

The five songs here are awkward bedfellows.

Balanced, measured and, when necessary, jump-out-of-the-scented-candle-filled-bath creepy.

AlunaGeorge are a pop act at heart, with most of this debut’s songs anchored to a radio-friendly chorus.

It’s an interesting mix of the wide-eyed and sparkly and the beachfront and nonchalant that makes for a hugely radio-friendly record that won’t dent your credibility.

Although it doesn’t always hit the mark, Swim Deep’s debut proves more than capable of matching to the dizzying highs they write about.

What lets it down is that it is unutterably, irrevocably and unswervingly dull. Dull, dull, dull. As boring as the hum of a fridge.

Borrell 1 is a disaster that could obliterate any appeal Razorlight once had.

At times a lick more panache might have leavened proceedings, but ‘Winter Reigns” celebration of the great English pub (where “the dark’s never far behind”, naturally) rounds out this confident debut in style.

A fearsome, mind-bending collection.

Wonderfully, it’s somehow nostalgic and current at the same time.

Outlines are blurred between post-punk, rave and a very modern psychedelia; brushing between textures and emotions with skillful subtlety and provoking sincere disappointment.

Lynch showcases a grim neighbourhood that seems electrically oppressed somehow, synthesised echoes murmuring like residual radiation.

Their kings of the beach crown may have slipped a little nowadays, but Wavves still offer plenty of no-frills fun.

Sure, this is a great garage rock record--but it’s dreaming even bigger.

‘A Ton Of Love’ shows they’ve not lost their knack for passably impersonating Echo & the Bunnymen, but really, you deserve better than this hazily indistinct angst.

It’s undeniably a slacked out soundtrack for dopey wallflowers everywhere, but Unreal is also a surprisingly progressive affair that speaks to your soul.

Magna Carta Holy Grail is a solid example of a decent modern rap album and nothing more.

Mostly, though, the music on Sistrionix is plain bad.

This mostly-great follow-up is occasionally waylaid by its determination to make bad instruments sound good.

What’s impressive is that, for all its hymnal melodramatics, Impersonator somehow bypasses insufferability.

An album that ups the radio-friendly factor without compromising any emotion.

What Kanye has created is the most honest--and yes, at times dislikable--record of his career.

Most of the songs here start like slowburn opener ‘What We Done?’, with Stelmanis’ constantly tremulous voice front and centre surrounded by ever-increasing layers of synths, padded beats and distant percussion. If you can get past it, however, there’s much to enjoy.

It’s a compelling story; through industry difficulties and growing pains, comes a lovesick, loveable and brilliant album.

The Brazilians’ fourth is a tuneless, tiresome rabble of a record that does just that [make you feel glum].

This is Peace using 90s sounds to channel that decade’s optimism into something positive for today.

Despite expanding their sonic remit further than ever, Queens Of The Stone Age are still the same peerless band, indebted only to themselves.

It’s a half-hour packed with ideas and wonky ambition.

Far from daft, Tomorrow’s Harvest is a psycho-spiritual stormer.

It’s not perfect--‘Grab Her’ and ‘Stimulation’ both outstay their welcome and the glitchy ‘Second Chance’ feels like it’s from a different album--but it’s a consistently thrilling debut.

Don’t Forget is just possible to enjoy. But only in mod-eration, of course.

These songs are all excellent, and if the album had maintained that level of consistency it might have shaded into genius, but sadly the rest falls short, frequently lapsing into a pleasant but slight flexing of Thundercat’s considerable chops.

As far as second albums go, this is quite brilliant--enough of a departure to render it excitingly fresh, yet still tinged with all the bleeps, pulses and slides that put the magic in Magic Arm the first time of asking.

It’s the longest and best Laura Marling record yet.

It’s a sensory experience throughout.

Throughout, Niblett’s lonesome, PJ Harvey-like voice and grunge-bitten guitar are central, while disorientating snare cracks serve to underline her forlorn tales of domestic crises.