The bubbly cartoon funk of single Cell Phone's Dead is a winner, but tracks like 1000 BPM and We Dance Alone are mid-paced, cautiously funky numbers with neither the bare sentiment of Sea Change nor the ribald lunacy of Hansen’s late-90s bombs.

[Finn's] smart, poetic, unashamedly adult lyrics... almost guarantee this is the best arena band that’ll never play an arena.

Shorn of the orchestral lushness that distinguished their previous effort, The Dears now have little to recommend them.

Bewildered newcomers will soon be entranced, old fans won't be disappointed.

While it’s a bit hit and miss, the sheer bullishness of this album is impressive.

Shot through with attention to detail and the lush production typical of Dunkel’s main concern, Darkel might have its moments of archness but it knows how to shake it’s booty, too.

It’s a winning combination, with the Prince’s shambolic charm still intact but lent clarity by the new additions that make this infinitely preferable to previous efforts.

Heartfelt but sometimes overly polite.

A less angular, more grown-up album - something that won’t rattle your nerves.

At 77 minutes it’s no sprint, but YLT’s mellifluous serpentines are never less than involving.

A welcome reminder of the Brummie art-poppers’ lighter, brighter past.

The confessional micro-detail of Darnielle’s minimal indie-folk songs – and haunted whine of a voice – remains stoically unchanged.

Ward’s band kick back with a looser, rockier feel than previously, yet his dusty, wistful voice still inhabits an age all of its own.

Waterloo To Anywhere is more pro and muscular than former endeavours, chiming more with labelmates Razorlight’s ambitious professionalism.

The translations offer many witty surprises.

The Eraser’s sound lies somewhere between the roiling beat soup of Amnesiac and a poppier sensibility.

Not all of Dangerfield's maverick ideas work - he should steer clear of under-accompanied singing for a start - but when they do take off, Guillemots really soar.

It’s a one-trick pony album sure, but what a trick.

An ultra-sensuous experience.

Their second album continues in a similarly delicious vein, melding wonky electronics, pillow-soft soul and lyrics that manage to weave strange violence into gorgeous soul songs.

A complex yet controlled fourth album of astonishing beauty and perfect strangeness.

Warm and quirky. Pleasantly bizarre. Sophisticated and daft. Herbert at his best.

Though it still errs toward a languid late-60s template, Cabic’s songwriting is now crisp and effortlessly melodic.

This Japanese power trio possess a lurking sense of Metal traditionalism, producing a scabrous wall of guitar noise, crunching, dense and turgid.

This is woozy Americana wrapped fast in thick swathes of serrated menace.

Just Like… is no classic, but it’s enough to make for a teary goodbye.

The freewheeling garage bangers of Original Pirate Material have receded into the distance and we’re left with stabbing high-range synths... resulting in an album that’s charming and witty, but not as exhilarating as it might have been.

Five albums in, The Coup have just made their best since their debut.