Welcome to Condale doesn't fetishise the past, its love-gone-wrong lyrics and snatches of chillwave lending Summer Camp a sound that is theirs alone.

Those who like their Will Oldham albums straight-up, sparse and intimate will find Wolfroy--the Kentucky singer-songwriter's 16th-odd album--right up their street.

It's not a successful union: the songs are too close to aimless, unfinished jams, Reed sounds as if he's trying too hard to be controversial and at 95 minutes it's far too long.

Ceremonials never comes down off the high precipice.

Full marks for devotion to "authenticity", but, sadly, authentic doesn't necessarily mean interesting.

Four years on and they have made a witty, hooky dance record in thrall to the rock operatics of Led Zeppelin and Queen.

Bad As Me's 13 tracks fairly rip along, alerting a new generation that there are few as fine as Waits.

It's a bit uplifting, but ultimately insipid.

[The album] is an intriguing work: dark, seductive and as hard to pin down as its creator.

For now, then, Gallagher's High Flying Birds are merely coasting.

Never shy of delivering an electro cri de coeur where a simple chord progression will do, Anthony "M83" Gonzalez fully indulges his fondness for the grand gesture on his sixth record.

On the self-produced Revelation Road she's gone minimalist and acoustic, most of its songs documenting the pain of lost love, veering between southern soul ("Even Angels") and MOR country ("The Thief").

There's nothing here to match the wildly brilliant ambition of their late-80s/early-90s peak, but "Underground" packs a hefty punch, while frenetic closer "Words Right Out of My Mouth" sounds like an ornithophobic Stooges.

s self-titled 2009 debut introduced the band's hazy, Byrds-derived jangle; this second effort reimagines the bucolic pastorales of the 80s indie movement, given a Fleet Foxes skill set.

Her voice remains the main attraction on this second album but its prettiness often sounds thin against the sort of arrangements that invite the description "plinky-plonky".

Strings and expensive-sounding gloss are applied by producer Bernard Butler but unfortunately it's Duffy-era Butler, rather than the sweeping soul of his mid-90s David McAlmont collaborations.

His first album as Neon Indian was sun-struck and woozy; the mood, on the follow-up, has grown a little darker and on "Future Sick" the wooziness veers into nausea. Which makes the sunnier moments, when they come, all the more heightened.

Wild Flag sees Brownstein reunited with S-K drummer Janet Weiss, plus Helium's Mary Timony and keyboard player Rebecca Cole in an effervescent celebration of the fun of being in a band.

It hasn't the shiver factor of his debut but there's pleasure in such smooth, elegantly crafted songs after his recent strainings.

Biophilia is no clever-clever cacophony. Like the natural world from which it draws inspiration, the album has structure and convention. And there is always the anchor of Björk's voice and her words, which conjoin emotional forces and elemental processes.

The urgent-sounding "This Day Is Mine" is the pick of their largely impressive full-length debut, the melodic choruses offset by barked vocals and shred guitar. The more restrained "Roads" merely sounds earnestly plodding.

Even with Frankmusik included among the production credits, these one-time synth-pop pioneers sound lifeless compared with all the 80s-raiding whippersnappers so indebted to them.

An entertaining exercise, though of Hank's celebrated yodel there is, alas, no sign.

This duo's assured, accessible third album builds upon their reputation as omnivorous digital stylists

Its louder moments--and there are plenty--are even better and feature stomping incantations that demand air and company.

It's all very accomplished, but lacking in variety.

Not all of 4everevolution shines--tracks such as "First Growth" feel like Manuva by numbers--but there are some gems here, and it's good to hear the veteran south London rapper adapting his gruff tones to such a wide variety of material.

It may not rank among Wilco's boldest works. It could have done with more wig-outs. But it captures the art of the almost with both hands.