A dark and perilous experience, one just hopes there’s light at the end of Adams’ tunnel.

IX is a finely detailed exercise in establishing and exploiting excitement levels, at points telegraphing its trajectory but always delivering substantial payoffs.

This is the closest we’re likely to get to a new Sonic Youth album, and The Best Day is a great reminder of what made that band so special.

While the sheer breadth of Wait ‘Til Night can’t fail to impress, the album lacks certain cohesiveness. That said, there’s an honest creativity here that ripples through proceedings.

There’s little here to alienate his fanbase: these 10 tracks might sprawl in length but they’ve a familiar mesh of earnest words and slow builds, autumnal in hue but with a fireside warmth.

When we’re not soaring we’re wrapped in ambient solemnity, all the while fixated on Nika Danilova’s voice: theatrical, confessional and, perhaps for the first time, totally unafraid.

There are some surprising hooks amongst predominantly ugly arrangements, and its ambition is admirable, but Plowing… proves woefully lacking in coherency, and fails as its makers’ next evolution.

It’s by no means a bad record, but won’t be the trap pioneer’s most memorable either.

The ’80s sci-fi pastiche meets early-’00s girl power wears thin over 11 tracks, but there are still moments for the dancefloor.

Sweet, intimate and tender, Trick is a tempting treat.

Latin lamentations and oscillating interferences spin sinful tales of transgression and violation, with a flagellating undercurrent of austerity, to create an uneasy, intuitive, idiosyncratic masterpiece.

It’s immediately likeable, but loses distinctiveness later on.

DOOM, sparing on the mic, rustles up his usual funk finds with samples sprayed willy-nilly. Teenage sensation Bishop Nehru slots in; assuredly, naturally skilful, with the right amount of NYC, street cypher confidence putting up an all-rounder’s game.

Hozier is an authentic portrait of an artist--soulful, spiritual and seductive – and is a deeply impressive first step.

She imparts yearning with such controlled restraint and lightness of touch it’s sublime.

It doesn’t challenge expectation, but equally it does nothing, puts nary a single step wrong, to risk their reputation as a preeminent act of their kind, and of our times.

There’s nothing nostalgic here--it’s the sound of a band reborn, rather than one reformed. And yes, it’s well worth the wait.

The great just gets greater.

Marrying a bewildering array of influences, Shaker Notes presents a probing, unified voice on what could well be White’s finest album to date.

This is a slow-burning, deeply resonant collection with a stirring potency and the capacity to truly wow.

Our Love is a record that feels distinctly his own, accessible yet containing minute touches that you’ll need to listen to many times to appreciate.

At times it’s sketchy and frail, at others decidedly defiant.

This, his fifth album, is also an overt ode to limbo, the halfway house of consciousness and true death. And this is where all 19 tracks dwell, in between the failing light of traditional jazz and the bursts of neon emitted from his polyrhythmic, nocturnal electronica.

If this is post-rock, it’s in the purest sense of that prefix: it’s rock that goes beyond expectations for the genre, even while working within its confines, to somewhere that you sense its players aren’t quite accustomed to yet.

Largely though, this is the sound of Casablancas giving a middle-fingered salute to his past.

Green is never going to be a gritty rapper--but even taken as a straight-up pop-rap record, Growing Up In Public is disappointingly tame.

Restless, furiously inventive and resolutely original, Tricky shows no signs of thawing just yet.

Reticent yet resplendent, SBTRKT is a master craftsman, humanising the digital and effortlessly shifting the shape of sounds.

While the trap state of mind may be a bleak one, it makes for a stunning piece of music.

The bared teeth and balls that made PABH so loveable in the first place are still splattered all over Blood, but for the first time it sounds like they have a plan.

The material more than matches the ambition on these 11 bewitching songs.

On the whole Encyclopedia is a bit of a misanthropic drag.

It’s an effortless comeback, then, that almost plays like a greatest hits set.

Myriad magical traditions and exemplary musicianship are boiled up in a big vat, like a transcendental potion.

Utilising his own crude, handmade instrumentation to full effect, Punish, Honey sees Vessel firmly digging heels further into his own brutally rewarding corner of noise.

The rollercoaster ride of his delivery makes it an enjoyable experience rather than a textbook headache.

Clocking in at almost 72 minutes, Sukierae is a bloated, if lulling, listen.

Accomplished again, then, and greatly engrossing throughout. It’s just lacking that crucial aspect of singular appeal to stand aside from a fiercely competitive pack.

Dark Sky, three shape-shifting bass heads from London, have turned in a belter of a debut album.

With more attention paid to plucked triads and syncopation than packing any sort of resolute punch, This Is All Yours just can’t see the wood for the trees.

A searing, soul-searching jewel.

From opener ‘Cheap Talk’ onwards, this is never anything but the purest DFA1979, served flaming hot. Which was just fine back when--but it’s definitely a disappointment to not hear the band even hinting at an expansion of their stripped-raw sound, just deep-groove bass and heavily hit drums.

Every track is excellent, ruthless, relentless.

Despite A New Nature’s ominous sound feeling hackneyed at times, EATW retain the fearless, forward-thinking ethic of their first two records through themes of finding strength in adversity, impassioned vocals and unpredictable sonic outbursts.

Brill Bruisers should finally see the band obtain the commercial success to match the critical acclaim they’ve accrued over the course of their last five LPs, as this is an almost perfect soundtrack to what’s left of the summer.

This LP is hopelessly devoid of ideas.

This is principally a marriage of simple, forlorn fretwork and O’s deliciously otherworldly vocals: impossibly, she manages to sound simultaneously seductive and indifferent; emotive yet also strangely detached.

A fine balance has been struck--along with no little gold.

Shelter is a haven that tugs you out of your comfort zone.

Sure, it’s not as good as ‘Turn On The Bright Lights’, but c’mon, it was never going to be. But as an exercise in getting back to where you once belonged, El Pintor is highly successful.

Perhaps lacking the urgency or unity of the label’s first instalment of 10th anniversary comps, Hyperdub 10.2 nevertheless successfully celebrates the diversity of a neglected side of its output.

The sugar is here, but teeth will get itchier.

They’re worth the minor missteps along the way.

It’s all over the place stylistically, but then no one ever said that feelings had to make sense.

An electrifying introduction to the future of the blues.

Lyrics like “I’ll stay young to be saved” (‘Be A Kid’) come across as self-indulgent and frontman Sam McTrusty’s reedy vocals get lost in menacing tracks like ‘I Am An Animal’.

It’s okay that this seventh album has no obvious breakout or festival showstopper.

Drenched in trademark rosy glow, it’s all tender and consolatory.

The pair still aren’t in that DFA1979 category of combatively brilliant, just yet.

All one can do is let the album play through again, though, is indicative of the great power this exhibition of completely engrossing, electrifyingly ambitious avant-dance(hall) possesses.

A surprisingly cerebral triumph.

It’s sometimes a little scratchy around the edges, but mostly honest, tender and wonderful.

[The music] shows you the lengths he’s still prepared to go, criss-crossing in lo-fi and between human conditions.

While they felt the need to force the issue, beneath those jarring, incongruous riffs lies some rock ‘n’ roll of the purest kind.

Fragile, heavenly and utterly compelling; this debut paves the way for boundaries-pushing pop. This is music that shatters you with a single tap.

It’s direct, unflinching and explicitly pop: rarely have Slow Club sounded this full, this bold.

A more than worthy gesture from a distinctive, engrossing voice.

EX will neither enliven classicists nor win new fans. We need challenged by this artist, who normally thrives on doing exactly that.

Thumping Mark Hollis-style piano and ominous scuttling backbeats add another satisfying touch to a recommended collection.

While at times lacking in lyrical insight, Fink’s ability to maintain an atmosphere, to build up gentle, soothing bubbles of sound, is largely unmatched.

While not entirely successful, this set’s spontaneity is its greatest strength.

The band’s dependable grasp of instantly joyous hooks still shows no sign of deserting them, and Britt Daniel’s raspy voice continues to marshal the tight groove at their core.... Only ‘I Just Don’t Understand’ hits a truly bum note, sounding eerily like Beady Eye.

The undeniable influence of Krautrock in the drone, dirge and motorik beats interspersed with passages of ambiance make for a deliciously diffused, shimmering, summery psyche salad.

Fortunately, these successes do not overwhelm 1000 Forms Of Fear, with tracks such as ‘Big Girls Cry’ and ‘Fire Meet Gasoline’ more than matching the output of her past clients in terms of captivating, powerful pop.

With lyrical viewpoints and musical references more diverse than ever, this set is his finest solo release to date.

If you’re after blunted beats and wordplay that reaffirms your belief in rap as urban folk music, then you’re in for a shock. But for anyone looking for a mind-expanding trip to the outer edges of the solar system, these rap futurists are your guides.

[A] joyous debut album.

Peter Katis’s production can at times strangle the band’s live thrash.

Conversations is an impressive album, in many ways a unique one in this current landscape--though you sense that the best may be yet to come.

Zaba is blessed with musical facets that will blind you with their splendour.

This polished set is pure aural candy from front-to-back and firmly re-establishes Jackson as one of Britain’s premier pop talents.

So the bleakly beautiful is still there, but the flashes are sporadic.

This is more Ben Frost than Burzum, more interstellar overdrive than terrestrial church torching. And it’s just a bit brilliant, basically.

There’s nothing inherently bad, but the whole venture feels akin to buying a Lamborghini and then driving it in a way that will maximise fuel efficiency.

When you see Jungle live, it takes very little provocation for them to extend their songs into euphoric, funk-laden, instrumental prang-outs that mesmerise your mind’s eye. Unfortunately, the album lacks a little of that psychedelic deviation, and instead chooses to quite politely proffer 11 great and concise songs, with a whistling instrumental mid-point.

Funk’s career-defining skill for making worlds collide, in the heart, the head, and the studio, continues majestically.

Futurology is the Manics doing what they do best, with added Krautrock, Georgia Ruth and Green Gartside.

Playful and melodic, Clash suggests that you take this on a Norfolk country ramble ASAP.

Meteorites is the sound of a once-great band bursting into flames on re-entry.

Older, wiser, still rocking: Mould’s sounding as electric as ever.

Krell’s fragile innocence and tenderness remains as touching as ever, though, with a string of grand, sweeping numbers occupying the album’s heart that underline his power to galvanise the deepest depths of the soul.

Lo-fi, yet simultaneously gaining glossed strength.

Eagle’s skill is in being relatable to the listener, approaching issues that could otherwise be interpreted as controversial with a soft-spoken and melodic flow that never comes off as preachy or aggressive.

It’s studied, sure--these guys are superbly technically proficient--but never is the fun obscured by fretwork pyrotechnics.

It’s a fine collection of intimate, slow-burning, understated songs.

Love Frequency sounds like a blended milkshake of ‘Experience’-era Prodigy and The Rapture, spiked with your upper of choice.

This album might satiate the seasoned Kasabian fan, but for anyone else it just comes across as the dated output of false prophets.

This third LP’s motley magic merits the coveted breakthrough that these Celtic chancers deserve.