It's not truly terrible, but it does feel akin to a musical version of King Kong Vs. Godzilla, two monsters decimating everything in their path until there's nothing left, except the back catalogues.

There's still not enough testosterone on display for it to count as one of their very best, but it's not half bad.

The best moments remain the songs where the band moves as a unit, conjuring a sense of hope and elation, rather than falling back on tired, shouty punk cliches.

Glorious singalong hooks and unashamed sass dominate the debut offering from indie writer Elizabeth Sankey and indie cult-hero Jeremy Warmsley.

Building shifting ambient electronic compositions, there's no easy way into his world and Replica is a brooding testament to patience and investment.

After the impulsive creativity of Logos, Parallax, by contrast, is a much more refined listen.

The beautiful performances captured here, touching on all five studio albums, are more than enough of a reason to seek this out.

A pothead's dream and a supremely-crafted set.

Although this is his first foray proper into the medium of electronic music, it's a masterful accomplishment.

It has bassline crunch, and a very distinctive space-age exterior; so why does The Vision sound like it's playing catch up?

The only real criticism of Ceremonials is that this album is completely, relentlessly, Florence. Her fans will lap it up, while those who aren't keen on her will probably remain unconvinced.

Sounding fifty years out of time and traversing genres without concern, it is unlike anything else you will hear this summer. And you really must hear it.

Coldplay's electronic excursions may be more cerebral and less embroiled than those of Thom Yorke's continued influence on Radiohead, but their progress is to be applauded, for this is an excellent album with depths unexplainable within this word count.

Musically stripped to the basics, the set is engaging with an infectious charm, neatly adding to that capacious back catalogue.

Consistent ruggedness, the sort that brings wicked grins of appreciation, shows a toughening up for new employers.

Take both albums as separate entities and you'll be fine, and if alienation is the upshot, what a way to go about it.

Want to be whisked away on a euphoric high? You'll have to earn it. Sweaty smile to be plastered across your face? Then put the work in.

A work of pure, true genius.

He has fateful serenity tangling with rudebwoy pluck through crackly pirate radio reception, smuggling in head-scratching interludes - field recordings seemingly from the club's toilets/smoking section - and one '70s synthesizer pitstop.

Lyrically, there are interesting ruminations on the trappings of fame ('(I Wanna Live In A Dream In My) Record Machine') and his troubled mind ('Broken Arrow'), while the album is all the better for losing some of the bravado Noel hid behind while writing for Liam--but there are admittedly some clunkers.

Definitely for the faint-hearted.

The Great Escape Artist is one-paced, bloodless, and frequently blighted by Dave Navarro's ersatz Edge-isms.

Carrier isn't necessarily a victory for versatility or enigma variations, more the sound of Sully helping himself to bass culture's wide open buffet.

The results are mixed.

Yes, the album title is an apt one; but despite its predictability, it proves to be surprisingly fulfilling as a run-of-the-mill house album.

There's a lot of slightly tedious ambient wallpaper. Sure, it works to unite an otherwise diverse set of songs, but you can't help but think there's a much better play list waiting to be whittled down.

Tessa Murray's voice is gorgeously fragile and the backdrop will lift you out of encroaching grim winter evenings.

I Love You But I Don't Know What To Say perfectly concludes a haunting album that truly reveals Adams' bruised soul.

Given time, it's enjoyably addictive.

These tracks are both club and headphone worthy, insular and expansive, ephemeral and dense, lush and skeletal; their only uniting factor, Thom's voice, curling like a wraith through their intricate insistent landscapes. Captivating.

This music really doesn't need any window dressing because it's as good a collection of songs as she has put her name to in ten years.

A beautiful recording but an occasional listen.

It's hard-edged, it's proficient and most certainly smarter than the average band.

Nearly twenty years on from Suede's debut and he sounds pretty much unchanged.

Trans-Love Energies is a master-class of pulsating euphoric electronica from one of the dance fraternity's true pioneers.

Era Extrana is a collection of brooding, eddying and actually kinda loud indietronica that wears its Joy Division and New Order influences on its (mixing) sleeve and contains enough catchy melody lines to flirt with pop... and take it all the way to second base.

The London quintet have raised their game, with something a whole lot more classy, salvaging them from the landfill indie chute.

The Connecticut trio boasts former Lauren Hill and Alicia Keys touring band members--guaranteeing The Stepkids is as tight as it is lovingly reverential.

His voice is something of an acquired taste but, this minor caveat aside, The Year Of Hibernation is a genuinely unique debut.

Stepping out of the shadows suits her after all.

An excellent return.

Here they've created a retro cinema soundtrack to an '80s sci-fi romance.

It'd be unfair to tag Dreams Come True as merely a curio for Grizzly Bear fans. It's more than that--but only just.

The production is crisp and varied; Roots' warm vocal typically hits with soul without being too forcefully firebrand and constant changes in style and tempo gives 4Everevolution the energy to see it through.

The Long Island five-piece show a greater willingness to vary their musical palette than many of their contemporaries

A record for late, empty, lonely nights.

If you love Kasabian you might think Velociraptor! is a 9/10 album, but for the rest of us it's a salt-seasoned, Spielberg-sponsored 7/10.

So par for the course, it should come with its own small pencil and scorecard.

There's a clearly dynamism between the couple, resulting in a unified performance and all that lets them down is a weakness in some of the songs, where a greater commercial edge might have initiated more interest. Sophisticated Steel City pop.

CYHSY have created an album that is both jubilant and disarmingly vulnerable.

By stripping back the layers of overbearing electronic production of the past, they've recorded an album of lush and elegant pop music, beguiling and gloriously cinematic.

A fabulous album, confirming St. Vincent's status as a deeply talented artist.

A quiet, understated triumph.

Marling has transcended the nu-folk movement and carved her own magnificent identity.

There's nothing here for the existing fan base but enough to entice new arrivals and strong enough to furnish a fresh interest from them.

Sadly there are too many beats and samples that it can be hard to keep up with the ferocious pace, despite the obvious talent and flashes of genius on this record.

Some may have written them off already, but on the strength of their best album in a decade, I'm with them.

Everyone loves to reminisce, and we're suckers for well-crafted songs, but we also need to be challenged a little more than this boys.

It's not a difficult or aloof album, but there is a cool precision that feels different to the choppy punkiness of old.

Occasionally the momentum wanes, but only the cold-hearted could fail to forgive the odd misstep from a band taking risks, shaping their sound and refusing to stand still.

Fans looking for a haphazard exercise in DIY should revisit the band's earlier effort, but will nonetheless be greatly rewarded by this deftly crafted slacker opus.

The result is an album of intimacy, introspection and incredible beauty; a communion with the sands.

That this is both Beirut's deepest and most instantly enjoyable album is obvious.

Often it feels more like an overly conscious art project rather than an album that will sustain repeated listening; it's undeniably, admirably beautiful in parts, but ultimately too consciously cerebral and self satisfied to love.

Malkmus' third (or fourth depending on which folklore you believe) outing with The Jicks, is a disappointing collection of hits and misses--with the latter winning on points.

Music and performer as one, it's hard to know where I Break Horses begin and their walls of sound end. Vocalist and Swedish nephilim Maria Lindén is a calming apparition, yet indeterminate when overpowered by the huge celestial sheets of Fredrik Balck's new wave order.

The result is a joyous and soulful collection of summery pop songs and urgent sun-drenched ditties that grow with you over time.

A mixed bag that's perhaps polluted with Toddla's inevitable fame and fortune.

Sure, the combination of digital bleepage and raaawk! is nothing new, but few electronic bands have rocked quite so hard as these guys do.

For this, Fruit Bats' fifth outing, the Chicagoan took inspiration from a decade-old train ride.

It's classic Americana rock at its best, combining musical echoes of Springsteen and Dylan but crafted with a poet's eye for detail. Dreamy, infectious, and full of hope. A powerful antidote to all those who say the best days of American classic rock are well over.

Most of Welcome Reality is so in your face and predictable it feels like the musical equivalent of a Michael Bay movie: loud, crass, periodically fun, but ultimately forgettable.

Although just seven songs long, the third album from San Francisco psychedelic rockers Wooden Shjips is a remarkably dense, intense affair.

Everything here is gorgeously sung and this woozy, gently uplifting collection of songs is pretty close to perfect.

The songs are trite punk workouts without any real imagination and, whilst there's a reasonable amount of endeavour and vigour, they're unlikely to raise anything other than idle curiosity amongst the curious idle.

Azari and III are good clean honest fun, but not the future of music.

Far from breaking new ground, Through The Green is still standing on top of the hill revelling in the view, yet when you've got this much groove you don't need to prove much.

The only shortcoming is that Machinedrum lacks a definitive singular angle, making him amongst the frontrunners of dubstep/juke interpretation, but not quite ahead of the pack.

What's frustrating is that it's too damn enjoyable and not quite derivative enough to actively hate.

Ritual Union is the rich vindication of Little Dragon's slow burning upturn.

Dedication will raise more questions than provide answers. Exactly the 'out of the palm' manoeuvre Zomby wants you to eat from.

The sound of bliss.

Gone is the Primary Colours influences of Portishead's Geoff Barrow, or the punchy impatience of Strange House, and in that place stands an intellectually collective five-piece, fully immersed in the confidence of their own astonishing abilities.

Things are prone to occasional lulls with three tracks exceeding ten minutes. However, Johansson is capable of some beautifully stirring music, and when this album soars, it is a treat.

The darker, lilting tones of Oreja De Arena work better, but this album still sounds confused. As a result, its overall impact is diminished.

The album is a fine document of why Wiley was, is, and will continue to be such a cornerstone of the grime scene.

While end-of relationship heartache churns throughout You & I, there is enough twisted darkness to suggest these sisters are here for the long haul.

If you don't like vocal dance music, if you're going off funky or you don't like a bloke playing live behind a faux-Polynesian tribal mask then avoid. Otherwise SBTRKT will delight the droves of bass fanatics that want something a little more sophisticated.

While that constant jollity could become irritating, it manages instead to be endearing.

Lolloping along with little desire to vary pace or style, it is ultimately forgettable.

I Love You, Dude feels as blunt and oafish as its name, and weirdly dated in its sonic palette. Sporadically engaging, but sadly nothing more.

He's [Comet Gain's David Feck] in untouchable form here.

The euphoric, floating '60s guitar sheen and carefree swagger which dominates proceedings is utterly uplifting.

Fans may miss Wolf's habitual genre-hopping and eccentricity, but this is mature and compelling stuff. His best so far.

A wonderful, worthy follow-up.

Mirror Mirror is a raw, nocturnal and very northern record, and one that's nailed its bleeding, hedonistic colours high up the musical mast.

There is more maturity this time around, with an easier flow, such that the songs gel better as an amalgam. It's a shame then that the songs themselves lack the commercial edge to capture any sustained attention, giving the album too much anonymity.

It's All Real continues along the same lines: lush production, low-key bleeps and bloops, a hushed, lovelorn 2am ambience.