This is an album that knows just how toxically repellent it is and it's this self-assured ferocity that makes for such an enjoyable whirlwind of a listen.

More or less everything here sounds anaemic, lacking in body, squashed, diminutive, like it could be pushed over by a strong breeze--or, worse, drowned out by light conversation on the dancefloor.

For the most part, Unpatterns is slightly sinister, stretched out, anxious, fidgety house.

Another eleven baseless mehs that belong nowhere else than on a blog that no one reads.

Bloom is in part brilliant but maddeningly safe and, ultimately, is a decidedly unsatisfying listen.

Da Mind Of Traxman, rarely overly solemn and ever-playful, is still far from a middlebrow defanging.

While in a way this record sums up everything the Cribs are about, it fails to foreground their most exciting aspects.

The reach of these records [Loveless and Isn't Anything] makes bands yet to form sound hopelessly out-of-date.

MMX11 is unexpectedly loaded with similarly bomb-laden gems.

Tonally and generically, the album is not so much a continent as a small country. But it's a beautiful country, warm and vibrant.

In Standing At The Sky's Edge Richard Hawley has forged his most fully realised and heartfelt collection of music to date. This requires your urgent attention.

A Different Ship is another exciting chapter in the story of a band who continue to improve with every release.

Despite the many hugely talented performers involved, Dr Dee is less philosopher's stone, and more curate's egg: a handful of fine songs where Albarn plays to his existing strengths, but mired in a sea of over-reaching folly. And ultimately, both Dee and Albarn deserve better.

Miles away from the poppy happy clappy smiley lovey dovey vibes of Twenty One or epic choruses of Serotonin, Radlands displays a new direction and confidence.

The album is a lovingly crafted ode to Judge Dredd, urban alienation, the cinematic sci-fi masterpieces of the late 70s and early 80s, electronic music of both the past and present, and it all hits with the weight of a cadmium steak tenderizer.

The problem here isn't Dr Luke smothering Marina's idiosyncracies so much as Marina/Electra herself crafting them into something paper-thin and paper-cut annoying.

These are still audio waters containing complex depths worth diving into, revisiting, pondering over, dwelling over, dwelling in.

With clicks, thumps and such acoustic subtleties, Vienna Blue unfolds like a rapid sequence of silver-screen freeze-frames: each too brief to comprehend fully, but collectively long enough to spark whole worlds of fantastic imaginations.

As a whole Pre-Language appears a little unfulfilled--a whole lot of build up, with minimal release

Harmonicraft often strays into pastiche when they attempt to cling on to their past, but comes into its own when it strides confidently into new realms.

A soup of electronic interference, exhausting percussion and smothering bass-cloud. It's stultifying like a bad case of screen fatigue; tangled and sparking - the sound of frazzled, short-fusing nerve ends.

[Chamber of Light] is like an exquisitely constructed mosaic of UK dance music signifiers, perpetually re-shuffled into new configurations and never losing that sense of possibility that lifts this album beyond the realms of nostalgia. LHF's modus operandi may seem anachronistic in 2012, but it's a damn sight fresher than most of the stuff out there right now.

With occasional flashes of their previous excellence, Spine Hits has too many drab moments to make this anything other than their weakest work yet by far.

Each track is executed to perfection as Santi morphs with chameleonic pizzazz.

Ozanne's brand of tentative indiestep is a new form of music in a landscape of few, and a still-evolving artform. And The Keychain Selection deserves special treatment because, in its field, it's somewhat of a zenith.

R.I.P practically begs to be handled, examined, shuffled and rotated in every direction, the better to identify each tiny grain of sand and dirt that's gone into its construction.

It is, by some distance, Krug's best work as Moonface. It's riveted with some glorious, soaring moments and the taut motorik rhythm is a compulsive mesh for the album.

Lissy's insouciant delivery and impressive range, which scales the heavens one minute and fills her boots the next, marks her out as a singer of some considerable talent, and her voice is always engaging and likable.