Raw, exhilarating and completely mystifying.

Packed with shimmering riffs, synths and loops which sees the Californian mastermind diversify his much-tipped take on 'alternative 80s'.

Occasionally it's beautiful--the acoustic breakdown in 'Thoughts' is unexpectedly sublime--and often beguiling.

'Matilda' is superb, squirmy avant-pop, 'Tessellate' sports a pleasing, stuttering, polyrhythm, whilst 'Breezeblocks' skitters beneath multilayered vocals.

Ultimately, Endless Flowers is a poppier, prettier record than Crocodiles have managed before.

The dreamy 'Clone' has a touch of the Cocteau Twins about it, while the title track's polished riffs are pure powerpop. Only occasional moments – the lame guitar lick on 'Breathing Under Water' being one – sound outdated, proving that when it's done well, a little nostalgia doesn't hurt.

It veers wildly between the divine and the comedic, but this is positively imperious preposterousness.

Occasional cringe-inducing lyrics aside, 'Dry Land Is Not A Myth' gets everything bang on.

'Never' walks a fine line between experimental and exasperating.

An album of controlled explosions that reclaims rock for the oldies and gives the kids something to mosh to.

As ever, his lyrics sound better the less you think about them, but you know The Killers are getting it right because most of the time, you don't need to.

¡Uno! is Green Day's least ambitious record in years and a return to what they do best: short, sharp, scatterbrain pop-punk.

Far more stripped back than the Charlatans frontman's previous offerings, Oh No flits between affecting moments (the rather gorgeous 'Hours') and repetitive down-beaters ('A Case For Vinyl') that seem to go nowhere.

On the whole, Tender Signs struggles to get beyond the level of an immersive period piece.

The overall feel is of a semi-fascinating compilation album, making Tall Ships easy to appreciate but very difficult to love.

No new tricks, but there's life in these old dogs yet.

A quantum leap it ain't--and Glass could do with putting her fangs back in--but (III) has just enough up its sleeve to keep Crystal Castles on track.

This is a missed opportunity, but it's commendable that when both parties are not at their strongest the results can still satisfy.

Whilst Hegarty's extended speech in 'Future Feminism' fails to grasp wholly, (but will probably fill a void in your pseudo-intellectual appetite), the collection as a whole is an impressively captivating soundscape.

O'Brien's voice is beautiful and his songwriting often adventurous, but there are times when the aim isn't as true as it could be.

All designs are firmly fixed on a glorious technicolour gem, but it's fair to say results are mixed.

Too often inaudible, the band’s uncathartic noise can still test patience as well as nerves.

[The album] is a natural progression from the first, as the band’s distinctively jangly, incessantly upbeat guitars are remodelled in increasingly eccentric ways.

At times it can be a bit round-the-campfire twee, but when they’re doing something as cut-yourself-sharp as ‘Wall Paper’, it’s easy to forgive Concrete Knives for the odd moment of artistic bluntness.

In the end, it’s all a little too demure to really shout out loud about.

So, all in all: not a bad album, but most of the time it’s more harmless midge than lethal mosquito.

The raspy sonics can’t mask some of their most shrug-worthy songs to date.

Though Brightest Darkest Day isn’t a world-changer, you have to admire this pair’s indisputable dynamism.

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.

It's the inconsistency of Future This--particularly the band's newfound tenderness vs. Their miscalculated explosions of noise--that make it a largely baffling listen.

Occasionally there are garish synths nauseating enough to induce a hangover on their own, and it's only then that WHB remind you why nu-rave is a genre best forgotten.

For a Tarot-themed rock album made by an immortal megalomaniac, it's actually OK. Especially the loud bits.

A riot of dumbness, 'Hot Cakes' is predictably brash and Queen-like.

The suave Londoner’s debut is a deeply ridiculous affair, but something about his Cave-meets-Cohen shtick endears.

It's largely uninspired and generic dance music, all industrialised dystopia and insouciant dehumanisation, making U&I an often prosaic return.

Form And Control is a pleasant enough offering, but there's nothing phenomenal on show here.

Sledgehammer riff-filled rock doesn't need to be clever, but it sure as heck needs to sound like it's driven by full-pelt, carnage-causing energy. And that's where Band Of Skulls' second effort falls short.

The Kasabian-ish 'Danny Come Inside', with its predatory stride, and the tautly atmospheric 'Had It Coming' are rallying gear shifts; disappointingly, the remainder of 'Milk Famous' seems to be on cruise control.

[An] intense, skeletal, and actually-rather-dreary debut.

Sadly, Siberia is lacking any genuine spark.

Although she retains the cool cleverness of an indie icon, this New Yorker's detached demeanour eventually ends up sounding, ahem, trullie dull.

At his best, Oberhofer packs emotional punches in the maniacal vocals of 'I Could Go', underscored by proggy synths, billowing flutes and a chorus that stomps around like a giant drunk toddler. Somehow, Oberhofer's melodrama makes getting dumped sound fun. If only he could keep it up over a whole album...

Initially it is exciting – the title track and 'Hips And Lips' pack a visceral punch – however, repeat plays reveal that 'The National Health' offers nothing particularly new.

A band so capable shouldn't have settled for a debut as average as this.

Grand and grizzling, 'Gossamer' begs for adoration, but too often leaves an uncomfortably bittersweet aftertaste.

The gripes of her debut album--chiefly that the quality of her songs didn't always match the strength of her voice--again prevail here.

Solo Piano II is an enraptured performance but, unfortunately, it's not always an engaging one.

Magic free and generally shapeless, TEEN have some real growing up to do.

Unfortunately, the result is usually a bit syrupy and mawkish.

When it works – as on the heartbreaking 'Together' and a barrelling 'The Magic Position' – it highlights his gifts as a songwriter, but on the dreary 'Bitten' and a seemingly endless 'Vulture' it makes you long for something simpler to mark his brilliance.

Surrounding himself with talent that far surpasses his own doesn't hide the weakness of many of these tracks.

The band's fifth full-length is a sluggish drone of guitars so muddy they sound like they were recorded in a bog married to pseudo-spiritual waffling from singer Dave Heumann.

So with their fourth LP, where they burst from the tracks with peppy numbers like ‘Holy’ and Biffy-esque choruses on ‘The Woodpile’, it’s a mite disappointing.

Secondhand Rapture feels overlong, hampered by a lyrical palette that seems to mirror the relationship struggles of a Twilight film.

It is violently un-confrontational, startlingly uninventive and no fun whatsoever.

Most of the tracks are about as blank and sterile as an airport terminal.

You'll only get a kick out of this record if you think all music made since 1976 is terrible and have absolutely no desire to hear anything new whatsoever.

Effectively, it is emo for Blacksmiths. This would all be semi-tolerable, were it not for the sickeningly overwrought poetry bobbing on top.