The man's bid for a place in the pantheon of gifted and fascinating greats is still on course.

It's neither particularly accessible nor a nostalgic feast for fans of 90s pop-punk. Instead, it seems like part of an as-yet-incomplete whole.

This is one mainstream marshmallow with an acidic coating worth a lick.

The only complaint that can be made--that several of the shorter tracks here could have been developed further, rather than left to merely loop and fade--isn't really a complaint at all, but rather anticipation for what this inventive producer will do next.

It's not easy to inject humour into songwriting but Merritt does it seamlessly, peppering sweetly sung melodies with just the right amount of acerbic lines--the cynical and the sentimental balanced beautifully.

The jaunty melodies and jagged incisors savaging them into bite-size shapes remain engaging for the full 45 minutes, proving that the loud and voiceless do not have to sound ineloquent.

One of the most rewarding albums he has made in recent years.

Downbeat words are buoyed up by light pop textures, leaning heavily for character on the fragile virtues of a voice that, while full of expression, is not designed for pop.

Monkeytown is the sound of two men working in harmony, perfectly in control of their machines. And it may just be one of the albums of the year.

The band’s lack of a defining musical style has proven an advantage here, as frontman Damian Kulash and co. were clearly able to explore their boundaries, unconfined by audience expectations.

A joyless listen in and of itself, sure--but moreover, this is a puzzling eyesore exemplifying quite how this process of constructing and immediately normalising eccentricity can still have an appeal.

His second EP after a Young Turks-released four-tracker of 2010, does a lot with little: three tracks contain vocals, but each hits a sweet spot with incredible accuracy, doing in a few minutes what some bands take an album to deliver.

Overall this is a shiny penny of a debut, and it would be a terrible shame if Columbia's mishandling of this band resulted in it being forgotten.

This third solo album is a cracking collection, one that rings with the depth of twang comparable only to the likes of the legendary Ry Cooder.

Strange, hypnotic and utterly transcendental.... Om's teachings have always been less about finding a goal than the overwhelming richness of the journey, and, with Advaitic Songs that journey is more glorious and all-consuming than ever before.

It may only be a stopgap before the official follow-up to Jewellery, but like all the best mixtapes, it's a telling insight into its creator's unconventional mind.

Let It Break is a fine achievement, certainly, and only faulty due to some of the more by-numbers pieces within.

+ will give Sheeran's rabid fanbase a lot to love, but it'll also make him an easy target for critics hungry for new directions in pop, as it fails to really gel the man's loves of folk and rap.

It opens the door to tantalising, exciting possibilities, but it's also fragmented, distracted and indulgent.

Over a distant wash of keyboards chords, Plaid create a multilayered drift of what sounds like piano and tuned percussion notes. The effect is, literally, scintillating.

Free Time improves when the band tones down the simpers and demonstrate the lessons of 30-odd years of playing as a touring punk band.

The lack of standout hits here is disappointing, but All of Me's Achilles heel is its conversational interludes.

This home-grown loveliness... melts your soul.

Sure enough, complicated, esoteric and, yes, really quite bonkers, it turns out to be. By the same token, Tomorrow, In a Year is also a work of vaulting ambition whose ‘seriousness’ is written on its metaphorical sleeve and whose sense of gravity and ascetic rigour give Scott Walker’s Tilt or The Drift a run for their artily uncompromising money.

Some Clark fans will be disappointed with Iradelphic, but many others will see the promise in this little treasure.

The less they do big dumb bravado, it seems, the more there is to love about this London bunch.

While no longer the carefree creatures of their early records, Mystery Jets sound as bracingly hit-and-miss as they've ever done on Radlands, and for that much alone we can be thankful.

Despite this motley bunch, the album's sound hasn't become a random genre gumbo.