[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.