Their music is full of joy, of sensuousness and sensuality, of acid wit and ambitious creativity.

It attempts to create a context of isolation from all that, an aquarium-like zone of contemplation, in which audiovisual detail can be savoured, in stillness and without fear of missing out for a few seconds on the relentless info-stream of modern life.

The Sword have stepped up a gear with this release, and ought to crumble the defences of more than a few cynics.

Each song remains a steady, stellar journey to the next piercing solo until the noise removes itself after a surprisingly brief 50 minutes and suddenly there's a big gaping black hole where Moon Duo were. All that remains is to re-listen.

As difficult as it is to take Edgar seriously at times, so earnest is he about his sexualised sonic seercraft that resistance is futile. In short spurts, Majenta's kosmische perv-core satiates.

Steel strings slick with gumbo grease and sweet gospel inflections.

Lekman has always had a neat turn of phrase, whether barbed, droll or plainly silly. Again, there's [sic] plenty of them here.

Not a bad album, but not one for the ages.

Fans of the band, and those with a rustling liking for a certain kind of beard-here-now Americana, will devour this like a bottle of the Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler referenced on the last track.

Falling Down a Mountain opens with the six-and-a-half-minutes of insistent, monotonal jazz of the title track. Mercifully, this fails to set the scene for what follows, as the album is dominated by the band’s whimsical, playful side, a usually dormant but altogether delightful aspect of their character.

He's blessed with a gift for clear language, rarely missing his point and delivering his thoughtful lines with flinty disdain.

Sea of Cowards works hard to dispel those not-unjustified notions of The Dead Weather being Jack White’s third-best band. What’s even stranger is that they appear to have succeeded, in spite of the fact 80% of the record proceeds from a fairly lumpen blues template which at first glance would seem to suggest a continued dearth of inspiration.

Her worldly-wise tone can still come over a little smug but give her time – she'll grow younger than this yet.

It's remarkable how purist a reenactment of three-decades-old LA hardcore this record is.

Should he ever stretch himself as a musician the results could be fascinating – think The Beach Boys before Pet Sounds, and what they felt capable of afterwards – but right now he's operating in a comfort zone that should guarantee continued commercial success.

For the most part, this is a fine debut and speaks of even finer things to come.

There's plenty to raise a smile over these 12 songs, and that's no doubt exactly what She & Him intended from them.

Even when it sounds routine – Simple Song sounds exactly like a Shins song written to order – it works, simultaneously mixing zippy and plangent, joy and resignation.

While slightly more subdued than before, the pint-sized sparkplug proves she can still churn a stimulating groove, and doesn't need cartoonish gimmicks to do so.

Black Light, their sixth album, finds them enlarging their repertoire to relax into wider influences. In the absence of a frontman they are aging well.

They sound like they don't just have a warmth for the genres they plunder here: they know them inside out.

The compositions are pretty formulaic and the lyrics aren't overly technical. Still, it works for Mill as a respectable effort that exorcises personal demons and moves him beyond illicit history.

Original it isn’t, but it trades innovation for let-loose fun, and wears its influences proudly.

A wonderful grab-bag of anomalous sounds that pilfers magpie-like from genre after genre as it charts its 41-minute course.

An album of thoroughly contagious, albeit fairly derivative, Strokes-flavoured gutter-rock.

It’s accomplished, mixing studied nostalgia with current concerns, but not a standout in its field.

It layers on the schmaltz but stops short of choking the listener with sentimentality by revealing a wickedly singular wit and some snappy expectations-eschewing cuts.

A very unusual blues record that's also a very unusual Kid Koala record, putting aside his typical playfulness and reminding us that he can truly move us with his turntablism, as well as amuse.