Each ["sides" of the double LP] is so good, it’s a toss up between which incarnation you'll end up liking most.

There is melody here, clear structure. The Blackest Beautiful is a pop record, of a kind. The kind that eats the other albums racked next to it.

They’re reborn, revitalised, and really rather good.

Cerulean Salt isn’t boundary breaking, but it possesses qualities enough to leave one charmed, if not consistently captivated.

10 tracks of soul-bearing introspection swathed in layers of rich reverb, icy chill and ephemeral echoes of 30 years of synth pop.

Running to an hour long, Magna Carta becomes exhausting, bumping familiar motifs with such frequency that, as the album nears its close, the senses feel entirely numbed.

House music’s fire will never go out. And this pack of rhythmic aces can only help fan its hypnotic flames.

What results is an impressive set of dark dance music that plays equally well at closing time or through your headphones at night.

These 10 tracks comprise a head-and-shoulders-above collection that immediately imprints itself as one of the best hip-hop records of 2013 so far.

If you stand back and appreciate the whole, like a Monet, you will be delighted and intrigued.

While not overly original, this album more than compensates for compositional complacency with its energetic delivery.

The whole exercise seems so carefully crafted and desperately needy that any joy found within The Weight Of Your Love wears off the more you play it.

With crisp cymbals, heavy guitars and gritty rock ‘n’ roll vocals, this album was meant for a pre-party party.

Other than final track ‘A Certain Spirit’, the clearest crossover of irked techno and David Byrne-d, samba deconstruction, the melting pot (remember those aforementioned ingredients) that has gestated for five years ends up being served cold as gazpacho.

A record everyone with half an experimental ear should experience, even if they run from it, screaming.

It’s a beautifully sunny, unashamedly melodic tour de force which pitches up somewhere between a fevered Beatles obsession and a well-loved pile of Go-Betweens records.

A truly stylish but somewhat overly long affair.

These sounds are heavier and Miller flows naturally in this element.

This is West’s most polarizing record to date, yet the discussion surrounding it gives a healthy charge to a rap game saturated with the same ol’ same ol’. So no, Yeezus isn’t a great record, but it doesn’t have to be.

While he’ll probably never eclipse the flaming star that is label boss FlyLo’s reputation, Bruner here shows that he’s both his collaborator and peer, fusing a multi-genre musical mentality with a brilliantly sharp edge of accessibility.

It duly delivers, comprising a first-rate electro set rich with the imagination of songwriter Katie Stelmani.

Ice On The Dune is patchy, and shows little progression from 2008 debut, ‘Walking On A Dream’.

It’s a dispiriting affair--a mishmash of glam rock, lad rock and heavier indie rock that fails to ignite.

Kodaline illustrate all the ingredients for greatness, with many a swooning chorus to invoke a thousand festival lighters held aloft.

No two songs sound similar and, while Jonsi’s vocals confirm that this is, really, the artist on the album sleeve, it is far from more of the same.

Everything suggests that, on the strength of this set, The Land of the Brave won’t need a referendum to prove its independence.

For TNP converts this will no doubt be regarded as a masterpiece. But for the casual listener, it’s simply another solid 21st century ambient record to help while away the late hours.

Sabbath have produced a muscular, urgent sounding record that does no disservice whatsoever to those early metal masterpieces.

It’s exceptional stuff.

Sad, weird, beautiful, fiercesome; music to move and excite. [Apr 2013, p.97]

Half of contains all the crackling, happy-sad flavour of Gold Panda’s past discography, but with harsher textures than before--it’s disorientating and inquisitive, physically uprooting you from your comfort zone.

Thankfully, they’ve saved their finest ideas for Tomorrow’s Harvest, which burns as brightly as anything they have accomplished thus far

Sometimes uniformity is no bad thing at all--when you get the formula right, that is--and Guy and Howard Lawrence prove just that on their debut LP.

It bursts with techno beats that jump wildly from deep and dark to bright and euphoric.

It sees the Canadian doing what he does best--welding samples together obsessively, and wailing a lot over the top.

Still flaunting in the grunge realm, the overall result is tough, yet accessible, including some deeper moments.

False Idols comes close to vanquishing the spectre of ‘Maxinquaye’, comprising a fleshy and nasally return to form.

It’s a record that will make you smile and swoon as it burrows its way into your heart. A triumphant return.

This is wonderful stuff, haunting neo-folk ballads of a gold standard with undulating saw synths punctuating throughout.

It is a bewitching, beautiful album, with no two songs alike.

Despite the density of the music, Obsidian is a wholly immersive experience, setting Baths back on course.

Without doubt, this is one of the folk albums of the year.

No real surprises spring out, but tracks like ‘Dye The Water Green’ and ‘You’ demonstrate an impeccable creative beauty that his juniors will struggle to match.

An unassuming and bewitching masterpiece.

Some of the tracks cry out for a bar or two to be spat over, but when you hear that hollow synth on Teeza’s ‘Rum And Coke’, you’ll be sold on the grime renaissance.

This set of tracks will stand with their most masterful.

Random Access Memories confuses, disappoints and grates.

Overall, it’s a hearty welcome back to one of Britain’s best-selling singers.

Sure, few will love everything on here but the hubris, yet the sprawling mess that is More Light can’t help but impress.

Four is an accessible album, filled with heavy questions about what love really means, posed through sensitive and dramatic arrangements.

The feel is consistently of an eerie twilight, perched high above a near-future city.

Overall, Modern Vampires Of The City conveys one hell of a sense of permanence from a band that once seemed ephemeral and frivolous.

You can skip the cinematic intro and the uncharacteristically dour ‘Late Night Final’, but for the most part, Inform - Educate - Entertain is fresh and fun.

The results here feel somewhat less spirited.

In a way an ideal sequel, but it’s a missed opportunity to find out more about the man.

This band has succeeded at writing an exceptional album that’s both intimate and full of pop-hook goodness, all without using over-the-top production techniques.

There is a modern, angry masterpiece in here--just skip the manifesto.

Packing a brassy punch, the tracks still manage to twinkle elegantly, rich in harmony with hymnal touches.

As unconventional in approach as ever, the set extrapolates from their previous ventures and results in a confident and competent continuation of established qualities.

Home walks the fine line between commercial viability and musical integrity with confidence and flair.

Lacking both the complexity of the Super Furry Animals' playful psychedelia or the intimate warmth of Rhys’ solo work, it’s nevertheless an appealing curio and trailblazer in the small sphere of biographical concept albums.

Thr!!!er hits with a fresh, single-minded purpose.

For all of John Kowalski and Rian Trench’s accomplished textures and impressive ’80s sci-fi sheen, it’s these [songs "Happiness Is A Warm Spacestation" and "A Sky Darkly"] simmering, slow burning heavyweights that give Supermigration the thunder it needs.

A time-bridging release that stands as an essential and timely reminder of just how rock ‘n’ roll ought to be played.

At their best though, Junip’s exotic folk gems have a slow-burning charm and are an impressive step forward from Gonzalez’s easy listening cover versions.

It’s little surprise that Bankrupt! is as meticulous, likeable, and danceable as its predecessors.

The songs are simple sing-alongs with some lovely hooks--but trying to open his sound to random ideas and new styles just doesn’t seem to suit.

Mosquito is a much-needed return to the days of ‘Fever To Tell’ and ‘Machine’--it embraces the band’s early, reverb-heavy sound but also tips its hat to the dance feel they’ve been honing in recent years.

Spine-tinglingly brilliant.

Major Lazer stands for firing on an all cylinders but doesn’t warn against the oomph taking leave of absence, though it does play off the shoulder of the first LP just lovely.

A pleasant, occasionally saccharine listen.

Taking his time, as much of the album does, is no bad thing when the melodies are this compelling.

Overgrown remains closer knit, and paradoxically less fragmented than its illustrious predecessor, ideas rotating core values guided by an affirmatively unseen hand. Which ultimately makes this an even better record.

There’ve been worse assaults on the ears, that’s for sure. But for fans of the original eski sound, it’s a shame that Wiley has his eyes fixed too intently on his Ascent.

Self-possessed and uncompromising, this is a record with regal bearing.

This is a beautifully blissed-out record, coloured by minimal rhythms and Lewis Rainsbury’s isolated vocals.

The North Borders is a triumph--each listen is a revelation; seemingly it’s a breadth of work that marks a new, exciting era of electronic music.

Compelling back-story aside, Understated--Collins’ eighth solo album--is a magnificent set of songs.

The freshness comes through in the delivery, which is as loose as electronic music permits, delivered with the bluesy rawness that frontman Dave Gahan wanted from the album.

Prone to playing one too many familiar games--the compressed vocals and the clunky convergence of beats ducking down--though as the sole Brit on Brainfeeder, you can’t knock him for being a team player.

They’ve returned with their most thought provoking, strange and sexiest record yet.

Useful, thrown-back fun, comfortable off the cutting edge.

It will inspire obsessive fandom and moisten a few eyes, but Henson’s voice is something of an acquired taste.

With powerful juxtapositions of connection and disconnection, hope and despair, life and death, possession and loss throughout, Life After Defo is an absolute thesis on pop experimentalism.

This is a photocopy of the original Britpop blueprint.

Rest assured, his remarkable voice and grasp of melody remain undimmed and while it may not sound exactly as you were expecting, it is a bold, distinctive and genuinely excellent record.

A beautiful outing in hauntingly pastoral heartbreak. Impressive.

A chilling example of naked ambition prioritising production style over songwriting substance.

Somewhere between the elongated delivery of Joanna Newsom and the peculiarly soulful croak of Karen Dalton, this is a clear case of the voice as an additional instrument.

Despite a disappointing and fatigue inducing third act, standout tracks such as ‘Careful’, ‘Big Things’ and ‘Step Ahead’ reveal a level of innovation beyond mere nostalgia.

As a body of music Exai lividly pulses, possessed by a half-life of disturbing magnitude.

Everything about the record restores the belief that Stereophonics can remain relevant in a world of troubadours and try-hard indie bands.

This is a contemplative, confident record which will only strengthen with further listening.

It's a gem for Harcourt fans and the sweetest of introductions for new listeners.

It has moments of greatness, some bits even a bit Animal Collective, but as a whole it doesn’t gel into an album you can lost in.

Fionn’s great rocking out and full of energy, but here, just voice and guitar for most, he’s just so listenable.

Marr’s vocals are indistinctive, although his song-writing abilities are clear. What does stand out is how fine a guitarist he has become.

It’s a dense work that’ll be discovered thriving equally happily in the niche of teenage bedrooms as in underground cults and a nebulous haze of mushrooming Mixcloud communiqués extending over the horizon.