The problem with having so many different voices writing and performing is that Record Collection sounds like just that – a lot of different things plonked on a shelf that have their time and place but sound distractingly disparate when grouped together.

By bypassing the commonplace put-downs of peers and proffering a very British take on pop-flavoured rap, is an accomplished and infectious introduction to some rightly rising talents.

It's a sometimes perplexing, often very pretty excursion into the recent past of a pair of gifted musicians, but Archive 2003-2006 expectedly holds little appeal beyond a limited audience.

A set that is rich with a sense of storytelling, sentiment and atmosphere, warm beneath its songs' occasionally chilly edges.

There's not quite an established cohesion from piece to piece--no flawless thread that binds these tracks together as a whole. But this can easily be forgiven, given that it's a debut (a better-realised packaging of the band's obvious potential will surely follow), and that the stylistic detours are always taken with confidence.

Syracuse art-poppers need to let their instincts do the thinking.

Etiolation and enervation were always key to chillwave/glo-fi's appeal, but this is just too pallid, too washed-out.

This is a band that never rests on its laurels, a band that embraces new ideas but also knows how to write killer choruses. The worry was that this record would turn out dull; the reality blows that concern out of the water.

[Singles] I'm His Girl and Friend Crush both appear here, and though they're highlights, they don't eclipse the rest of this generally impressive debut LP.

As it stands, the rich resources Acheson has at his disposal are sadly compromised and the orchestra is indeed hidden rather than exposed.

Formulaic it may be, but it is a formula Pitbull knows his way around – and though this aesthetic can't hope to match the boundless energy that the combination of his vocal with a Lil Jon production used to bring, there's enough of it here to satisfy once you turn your mind off.

This first album have produced something so beguiling, it's clearly been time well spent.

What is present is that instant-click connection between artist and audience that only comes with the most naked of performances--Monotony is one such riveting recital, sketchy yet complete--and Beal's commitment to documenting the minutiae alongside the meaningful in comparable detail ensures that even-handedness permeates the entire set.

Lyrically deep and musically adventurous, Michaelson has it all.

It's exciting, not self-indulgent; real, not affected. Far from being removed or pretentious, these are songs that pierce the centre of the hearts that they've sprung from.

Kid Sister is certainly on the right tracks, but Ultraviolet is a sadly patchy affair.

Liquid Love is undoubtedly impressive, well-honed and slickly produced, and it’s shot through with a glowing joie de vivre. But it’s too smoothed and tidied.

The real joy of this record is that, behind the sulking and swearing, the clips of sampled speech and toying yelps, are 12 gloriously penned pieces of unadulterated pop.

Philip Larkin memorably once noted, "What will survive of us is love". Whilst that's undoubtedly true, in Martyn's case there are also these glorious songs to savour and celebrate.

This is not music that hangs around in the brain, for reasons that aren't particularly clear.

Ray is a shining example of creating your own world and inviting the listener in with tunes you can whistle after the first play.

There may be arguments for Rusko's moves here; it's just that they're not very well executed.

Toro y Moi goes longer and harder than before, and the results represent an accentuation of the elements which appealed in his prior work.

Quite who Harlem can hope to appeal to, in the UK at least, when music fans here are evidently besotted with sci-fi nonsense one minute and cleverly articulated kitchen-sink dramas the next is anyone's guess. Best to quit the questioning, though, and get down with the rollicking jams they're kicking out regardless of how many people are listening.

Like Bashkirtseff and Pomeroy before them, Summer Camp's debut marks a sincere, wryly appealing turning point in the art of romanticised retrospection.

There's just too much noise here, and not enough cohesion, for a singular identity to sing clearly.

For the most part this album, while as slickly produced as the classic pop it references, only faintly smoulders without igniting.

Mescaline-soaked narratives woven through hallucinatory images of Americana.