What's frustrating is that it's too damn enjoyable and not quite derivative enough to actively hate.

Ritual Union is the rich vindication of Little Dragon's slow burning upturn.

Dedication will raise more questions than provide answers. Exactly the 'out of the palm' manoeuvre Zomby wants you to eat from.

The sound of bliss.

Gone is the Primary Colours influences of Portishead's Geoff Barrow, or the punchy impatience of Strange House, and in that place stands an intellectually collective five-piece, fully immersed in the confidence of their own astonishing abilities.

Things are prone to occasional lulls with three tracks exceeding ten minutes. However, Johansson is capable of some beautifully stirring music, and when this album soars, it is a treat.

The darker, lilting tones of Oreja De Arena work better, but this album still sounds confused. As a result, its overall impact is diminished.

The album is a fine document of why Wiley was, is, and will continue to be such a cornerstone of the grime scene.

While end-of relationship heartache churns throughout You & I, there is enough twisted darkness to suggest these sisters are here for the long haul.

If you don't like vocal dance music, if you're going off funky or you don't like a bloke playing live behind a faux-Polynesian tribal mask then avoid. Otherwise SBTRKT will delight the droves of bass fanatics that want something a little more sophisticated.

While that constant jollity could become irritating, it manages instead to be endearing.

Lolloping along with little desire to vary pace or style, it is ultimately forgettable.

I Love You, Dude feels as blunt and oafish as its name, and weirdly dated in its sonic palette. Sporadically engaging, but sadly nothing more.

He's [Comet Gain's David Feck] in untouchable form here.

The euphoric, floating '60s guitar sheen and carefree swagger which dominates proceedings is utterly uplifting.

Fans may miss Wolf's habitual genre-hopping and eccentricity, but this is mature and compelling stuff. His best so far.

A wonderful, worthy follow-up.

Mirror Mirror is a raw, nocturnal and very northern record, and one that's nailed its bleeding, hedonistic colours high up the musical mast.

There is more maturity this time around, with an easier flow, such that the songs gel better as an amalgam. It's a shame then that the songs themselves lack the commercial edge to capture any sustained attention, giving the album too much anonymity.

It's All Real continues along the same lines: lush production, low-key bleeps and bloops, a hushed, lovelorn 2am ambience.

Utterly lovely.

Their commercial star has long since waned, but there is enough here to suggest that Gomez's creative light still flickers on.

Production is loud and punchy and even the quiet bits aren't quiet, which makes all sixteen tracks in one sitting a bit like hard work.

An audacious, adventurous, unclassifiable fourth album from the newly expanded Austin natives: this is a seriously self-assured sonic experience.

His camp fire ramblings and angry rants soon become tiresome with much of Turner's fourth album feeling like material he has trod before.

It's identikit jangle so packed with perfectly poised personality that I find it hard to take it even vaguely seriously.

It's so steeped in New York's musical cliche of disco and glammed-up dance that it struggles to take flight under its own power.

My Morning Jacket should be celebrated as a band that tirelessly deliver value for money--there's enough in here to keep you listening for months on end, and loving every minute of it.