Though it is not articulated directly, the heart of this record is about the potential for a genuine and communal response to that hopelessness, and about an empowering, defiant joy that can be forged even in the depths of despair. Soundtrack to a soon unceasing summer.

Honey, when it works at least, is the sound of piecing together the night before: a love letter to not making it home, to the Tequila salt still stuck to your hand, to hands brushing under the cover of the smoke machine. Unfortunately, half of the time, it says precisely nothing and if that unquestionable potential is to be realised, Kathleen Brien has to make a choice.

The album is at its best when the margins are jammed full--tinny tambourine here, guitar feedback there, a wash of cellos dipping into the mix.

Cluster had rewritten the linguistics of modern sound and then turned away without any further heed. Somewhere, someone would always be playing live in der Fabrik from here on.

It is decidedly pop in parts, both accessible and innovative, reaffirming Hubbert's standing as one of Scotland's finest and most treasured artists.

There's a dryness that inhabits this music; and listening to to these future-past musical reliquaries (especially the fragile--and aptly named - end track, 'Death Of The Ego') you wonder whether it could all crumble away if subjected to the slightest breeze. Regardless; there is also a sense of an extraordinary concentration at work.

They haven't quite carved out new territory here, but if the best moments of Nocturnal Koreans are anything to go by, the wheels have started turning.

It's a sparse, isolated and overlong affair that's more difficult to love than previous solo outings like the lush The Forester or the sweet Wild Dog. However, for an artist with the vision to take such on such a huge subject as the three-pronged relationship between one woman, her gods and her planet, even managing to squeeze it down to a mere 22 songs is achievement enough. That the album is spectacular, introspective and terrifying all in equal measures is just a bonus.

A respect for the original material is clear throughout, and the emotional power of Badalamenti's tunes is identified and played up wonderfully.

Malamore is an album full of standouts, and a step in the direction of greatness.

It needed to be a Blackstar, not a The Next Day Part 2. Instead we're left with a lightweight affair that reminds us all that John Carpenter is far from infallible.

Dead doesn't so much kill Spectres' songs with these remixes as reanimate them and turn them loose on their creators, and the world.

While sonically the music does not possess the 'hard' edge of neighbouring Tuareg rock groups, there is a great fluidity in which the desert groove unfolds over spiralling guitar riffs and propulsive rhythms.

It's good to know that, like you and me, he's swimming hard against the ever increasing tide of shit and still, in the main, coming up smelling of roses and refusing to back down.

Even if fans of Pere Ubu take Pere Ubu seriously, it is clear that Pere Ubu aren't entirely serious about Pere Ubu. The quartet of LPs contained on Architecture Of Language highlight this more so than perhaps The Modern Dance and for this reason should not be left aside.

It's Venetian Snares going back to the root of his influences by means of a longer-established medium. An admirable idea well executed, but as a listener I'm just not ready for a drill & bass revival and as such this album beggars few repeat plays.

BBF is a rare example of an album that invites both arty introspection and head nodding. Much like Blunt himself, BBF is not always easy to love. But that makes the eventual rewards even more satisfying.

Laid-back philosophies punctuate this album, which again suggests a kind of bemused contentedness with life. There's nothing too highfaluting or over-stretching, though musings are thought-provoking enough.

Above all, it represents a bold, sensorily majestic step in the right direction by an artist no longer content to tread water.

It doesn't always work, but that's what makes Grapefruit live up to its name--the epitome of an acquired taste; one that, when hooked on the intricacies and possibilities of its flavour, opens up so much potential for the future.

Nisennenmondai will fill your head with strange, billowing thoughts as their compositions sprint towards infinity. Approached in the correct spirit--principally an understanding that this is music that will ask questions rather than provide answers--their conjurings are irresistible.

This apparently punkish slam out, is their finest to date. For it seems to capture the very essence of Islington Mill which, coincidently, is situated in the darkest corner of Salford.

An album on which Underworld reestablish themselves as supreme dance music architects.

Mind Of Mine is an impressive enough debut, with excellent, laidback production and assured vocals. It's lyrically stunted, it's too long, and the overall sound is not starkly original, but the subtle elements of South Asian sounds set a promising tone of fusion.

I AKA I is eclectic and forceful, but always at the service of melody, atmosphere and, if you listen hard enough, emotion.

Atomic is a conceptual artwork that is overshadowed and at times overburdened by its subject matter. Yet taken in this context it holds a brutalist, otherworldly thrall all its own.

There was a time when Primal Scream were considered essential, an acclaimed element of the indie rock landscape, and more than anything, Chaosmosis simply confirms that those days remain firmly in the past.

Both Iyer and Smith perform exquisitely throughout (and yes, Manfred Eicher's clear production captures them perfectly), but also apply their notes, chords, solo flourishes and textures with intellectual aplomb and emotional potency. This is music from the heart performed by the brain.