Lynchian undercoat aside...it's basically just a good old massive pop album, which can be a scary thing in its own right: the air of soulless, monolithic power and the unseen presence of shadowy string-pullers etc.

Ersatz GB still trumps most records released this year as, one suspects, The Fall always will.

While we often expect clarity of thought from our favourite lyricists, Wolf's admission that he doesn't hold all the answers makes these songs all the more relatable and poignant.

There's strange stuff here even by the none-stranger Black Dice's standards. But again it's more purposeful and propulsive than that appearing on their previous albums.

Chances are that after the initial thrill has gone, you'll be reaching for Indie Cindy less frequently than Surfer Rosa and Doolittle, more than Trompe Le Monde and about the same as Bossanova and that's not a bad return to the fray by any measure.

Almost to a man (there's the odd fail, but they're near misses not massive stinkers) the remix team delivers, transforming the borrowed materials into something not better, but of equal merit.

Musically the album is on-point and lyrically it's prone to Kelly's customary laugh-out-loud clunkiness. Despite all that, though, Kelly has made another really great album.

Oneida are really good at this stuff, always managing to ensure that no matter how frazzled they get the whole package packs a hard punch that can only be rock and roll.

It’s dark, unrelenting. ‘Almost Loved’ showcases the fictional Void Pacific Choir chanting like an Omen soundtrack, a song of regret becoming a pounding mantra. The “perfect lie” of ‘And It Hurts’, the “dying sun” of the Killers synth-pop of ‘Are You Lost In The World Like Me?’, the falling sky of ‘Don’t Leave Me’ – Moby’s worldview feels unremittingly bleak. It's not all spit and thunder, not quite.

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.

Neon Icon is that rare product of a rapper in the modern world--an album that perfectly encompasses everything they became loved for on their come up, amplified to the glorious maximum, aiming confidently into the future.

From its funereal ballads to its hook-infused jams, Innocents is uniformly satisfying and catchy as hell, suggesting a fascinating possibility--if this is the album that he has waited his entire life to make, then at the grizzled age of forty-seven, Moby is only now entering his prime.

Future This is a coherent, uniform proposition, a proper album, rather than a melange of posturing and botched experimentation, as was the case with A Brief History Of Love.

It's clear that this is easily Har Mar's best album. Sure, the lyrics are still hamfisted, but they're not as bad as they were in the past.

Uncanney Valley is an enjoyable and accomplished record.

[A] satisfying compilation with its lugubrious and luxurious electronic introspection created by an artist once again near the height of his powers.

It's a sunny, sweet, excitable record, but it doesn't forget a couple of moments of contrast.

Overlook is not her best record, but is an encouraging return to a sensibility marked by deliberation and sensuousness in equal measure.

Ten$ion's depiction of modern South Africa is nothing less than thrilling.

Recorded last October, and with producer Gil Norton (who produced the band's final three albums) back at the helm, EP2 immediately delivers.

The tracks crackle and shimmer with an abandon not heard since their debut.

This is Svenonius with just an electric guitar, a microphone, an analogue-sounding drum machine and a tape deck, creating the rawest and most stripped-back manifestation of his singular muse to date.

Some incredible songs also made it through, and if Minor Wave and Haunting and Daunting sound like perfectly listenable period pieces, then The Burdens of Genius and The Spiders are Getting Bigger are for the ages; timeless encapsulations of youthful frustration and depression, and the outer limits of a drug-warped imagination.