It's actually not a terrible record, really, but it's frustratingly complacent after two outstanding albums.

This record isn't exactly a "pleasurable" experience, and its relatively brief half-an-hour run-time may seem like a relief, but it actually somewhat undermines the tension in its brevity.

It wouldn't be a recommended entry point for Beach Slang, but the chances are you'd find one or two songs here palatable enough to seek out more. If you're a Replacements fan you'll either think this fills the Westerberg-shaped hole in your life or you'll tear your hair out and curse at just how audaciously similar some of these songs are. Still, whatever side of the fence you might sit on, it's probably worth a listen to find out.

He shares the ennui, dissociation, irony and unfulfillment of his particular celebrity destiny, coupled with a biting and original take on a more widely shared quotidian anxiety that listeners will note with nods and laughs and hums of recognition. But a hit or two would have been nice.

Eschewing electronic production flourishes in favour of some analogue authenticity, Any Day eventually settles into its groove. The melodies are intricate and layered, but the impressive musicality is outweighed by a lack of urgency.

While they may not have completely achieved seventh heaven here, 7 is still a solid first step heralding Beach House’s next phase.

Vive la Void can be intriguing and enveloping if given the time and space to truly immerse yourself in it, but otherwise might leave only a fleeting impression.

Too often for a 30-minute record do you find ponderous filler (Notes in a Bottle, Now or Never, Properties of Perception), in which even the ever-earnest Murray doesn’t seem to believe the lyrics he’s opining.

Twerp Verse is a polished, sonically inventive record that’s both playful and punchy, but its purpose feels unclear.

Too often the feeling remains that the joke isn't funny enough to sustain a whole record, especially one that follows a masterpiece.

While there’s a strange sense of timelessness surrounding Moosebumps though, it also takes some time to get into its stride.

This festival-friendly record attempts to turn Tom Misch (whether intended or not) from a producer and guitar-player into a pop star. It hasn’t quite paid off.

The tunes are massive and buried in strings, synths and stacked harmonies, but the subtlety of the lyrics is lost in tunes like the Gary Numan-esque In Eternity and Broken Algorithms' Appetite for Destruction obsession. It's left to album closer The Left Behind to offer a signpost to where the Manics could go next.

It’s true that psychedelia of this type is often frameless by its very nature. Yet, despite the album’s delights, one wonders how tight Neilson’s eccentric work would be if reined in a little.

Even when the songwriting falters, Lissie’s incredible voice elevates Castles.

Baloji often presents a grand, cinematic vision here that can be thrilling in short bursts. Taken as a whole though, the sheer scale of 137 Avenue Kaniama can be a bit exhausting.

Sallee’s songs tend to expand outwards, the feeling established at the outset spreading itself thinner as the loops cover more area.

Overall, Space Gun gives hope for the continuing future of a band that’s already died twice. While there’s a few bumps here and there, this is the sound of a group drunk off its own energy and excited to be alive.

While half of the tracks here would make for decent singles, the hodgepodge of styles ultimately results in an unbalanced and disjointed album.

At times, however, Violence is uninspiring; it lacks consistency on the whole, but their ferocious new direction results in Editors sounding the best they have in years. And when they get it right, such as on lead single Magazine, they're up there with the best.

Nap Eyes are mostly concise in their wanderings, but occasionally meander too far from the path.

The most successful of these joint efforts is Outgrown which was co-written by Bonobo; elsewhere, partnerships with the likes of Lil Silva and Tracey Thorn cast a pop overtone--a characteristic of FitzGerald's past productions, but here it feels overly saccharine. Ultimately, All That Must Be’s best moments are also its least contrived.

Felt feels slightly repetitive and overlong, but is an interesting and worthwhile effort from a band whose sound continues to mature and improve.

There are plenty of pleasant enough moments on the band's seventh record as there are on all of them, but one wonders if they'll ever recapture that magic that briefly made them feel a bit special.

While it's absolutely fine that he's not interested in making punk music anymore (or at least for the time being), hearing him run through the blues and rock repertoire of the 60s and 70s offers absolutely nothing that can't be achieved by just going and listening to all those great, original, records.

Whilst it's good Buffalo Tom are still around, and while there are enough moments that recall the highs of their vintage years, there is also a corresponding sense in which we and they have all gotten a little bit older and perhaps, just perhaps, they're not quite what they once were.

Superorganism could've been the perfect indie pop record if they'd have cut back a bit on the style and added a bit more of the substance.

With a tracklist as tight as Tape Recorder, moments of indulgence are hard to stomach. When a song comes together, though, Lionlimb give their inspirations a run for their money.