Self-assured and comfortable in his skin, Lee Ranaldo is properly striking out on his own and sounding all the better for it.

In Instrumental Tourist, Hecker and Lopatin have struck upon a secret chord, traced sacred geometries, and laid a foundation sturdy enough to build upon. It's sound as structure, structurally sound.

That remarkable square for detail is pedantic verging on obnoxious (charmingly so), but makes this his most captivating effort yet.

It's perhaps unfortunate that Guardian Alien fall into the cliché of extended, trippy freak-out at the last moment, as Spiritual Emergency toys with as of yet unheard musical syntax, touching upon some peculiar motifs and hinting at perhaps full future maturity and subsequent greatness.

Navarrete is a versatile artist, and Salvador is a rare thing: an emotionally candid, melancholic album full of bangers.

Birthmarks is a deft exploration of selfhood and becoming, and a marked step-up from an artist whose trajectory has promised a release that could stop you in your tracks.

Lustmord's music takes its time, but it's hard not to get absorbed into its shadowy netherworld, even if all meaning and sense in there stay resolutely out of focus.

Born In The Echoes is another example of Rowlands and Simons' magic way of making machines sing.

This is the pop we need; considered, vital, comforting, spiritual.

Highway Songs is David Pajo’s protracted gasp for breath, his slammed fist on the table and his most resounding act of defiance. As we await certain brilliance, it will serve as a very fitting departure in the meantime.

Despite seemingly throwing everything but the kitchen sink and every ounce of digital equipment they could muster at it, +Dome's spellbinding amalgam of jittery electronics, playful samples and conventional instruments--entirely charming rather than overbearing--strikes a fabulous pose.

The charm of Growing Seeds is, in part, to be found in its naïvety. Norrvide approaches synth pop not as something that should be subverted or detourned, but wide-eyed and unjaded

Dutch Tvashar Plumes is dominated by exquisitely expressive forms of abstract techno.

Soaring and swooping in all the right places, there's no denying the gorgeous ethereal shimmer and dizzying demonstrative pull of these songs.

The songs often sway back and forth; they are too structured and busy to be called ambient, but the music is often freeform, drifting in and out of its own meter.

This debut is possessed, for good or ill, of the sort of radio-licking, high-glycemic-index polish (courtesy of Arctic Monkeys and Adele knobsman Jim Abbiss) that will instantly raise the hackles of those who still care about appearing to be underground or whatever. It glistens. But crucially, that light is dancing with fleeting magic off the bones of some bewitching tunes.

Slightly less frenzied, slightly more polished sonic fuckfest, still drenched in sweat and reverb, with the occasional, slightly more soulful pillow talk between the more sensitive members of the orgy. No matter. The erotic ethos remains.

It's a fun slab of obnoxious rock-gone-mad, and sometimes that's all you need of an evening.

Transfer Of Energy [Feelings Of Power] serves as an experiment more than anything else, and one that's a thrill to boot. Still, it remains an experiment and without a thorough understanding of the technical jargon, our field of vision is very limited.

This is a record that reveals something new on each listen, a record that will secure Errors' place in the pack--part of a greater fraternity but with a formula distinctly their own.

Of Desire is the duo's most widescreen statement to date and one that blends cinematic sweeps with the post-punk sensibilities of Joy Division at their most glacial and The Cure at the height of their early 80s lysergic anguish.

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

Feed The Rats is gloriously over the top, tipping towards the precipice of ridiculousness, yet the sheer brutality of it is what steadies the ship here.

While there is the odd lapse into grisly power-riffing, the overall mood is sedate if haunted. It has the same effect as dormant memories or lingering dreams, seemingly placid and harmless but then suddenly coiling itself around you.

Love Jail is no masterpiece, but Wilson and his bandmates' instincts are most often good. There are far worse roadtrip companions.

Regardless, however you or I might feel about almost-literal computer music is beside the point. The strong sense of perpetual emergence – of listening in on an intelligent system gaining confidence – makes Blossoms an especially remarkable listen.

If to stir is to mix and combine, or to transform something that was one thing into something else, this shows what Kleijn and MacKay can do so remarkably when set to that task.

From relationship failings to poor comedic efforts and acerbic remarks aimed at his peers, Gonzalez is extremely charming in his boundless self-deprecation set to effervescent 80s synth-pop.