And my sixteen-year-old-self waits with baited-breath, wracked with the same nervous excitement I had a decade ago except this time, there's anticipation and expectation, justification, even, for an album I've waited almost half my life for.

It won't be everyone's cup of tea but this could well be a guilty pop pleasure for many.

Over the course of the album, the grandiosity gets wearying, and Jamie Sutherland occasionally sounds like Vic Reeves in full club singer mode. But, at its best, Let Me Come Home is a thing of troubled beauty.

To the uninitiated, this kind of '70s-inspired thrum-rock might sound a bit AOR, but given time it reveals its nuances, placing Vile somewhere between a rougher-edged M. Ward and a bluesy Ariel Pink.

Patchy with flashes of killer bee sting.

Collapse Into Now suffers somewhat. It's good. But it's no Reckoning. Or Document. Or Automatic For The People. Or...

This is cheerful childhood innocence come to life - candy-floss dreams and rainbow rivers.

Quick on the draw, Beans bosses a bite-sized blitz of syllable practice.

We're New Here is a psychedelic atlas with which we can all sonically voyage upon. A great way to start the year.

Lykke Li seems to have made it work for her.

Beady Eye are at the beginning of their own musical adventure - DG,SS, though hardly full of surprises, is a compelling way to start.

It's a solid and honourable return for a singer who has rarely disappointed.

Yuck is a satisfyingly catchy re-enactment of what would happen if J.Mascis, Kim Gordon and James Iha had formed an early Pavement tribute band.

Dark, deluded and dangerously danceable, Paris Suit Yourself are the inspiration for wild dance floor seizures, or, at the very least, lucid gonzo dreams.

Joyous, pensive, cathartic and hymnal in equal measure, this is the human condition set to music.

A dizzyingly ferocious support slot on the recent Gold Panda tour proved that London-based producer/remixer Alessio Natalizia's one-time bedroom project is now fully-formed.

A shift away from the sampling of his debut, Underneath The Pine keeps things sweet and traditional, leaving you lazily grinning from ear to ear.

The second Telekinesis album suggests that Michael Lerner's gift for hooky, college-radio friendly indie-pop shows no signs of abating.

Delicacies proves that this aging duo still have the fire in the belly of their hard drive.

Fragile but far from frail.

While these musicians have no problem coming together to craft a solid, emotional record, the sound is far from being their own.

The Golden Age ultimately comes across as try-hard penthouse party than wild warehouse rave.

Still confused but back on form, The Streets' final album (Skinner wants to make a film) sees a return to garage beats and square-eyed observations from a life staring at pixels on screens.

The album is a promising sweet-treat.

Nothing here transcends either songwriter's back catalogue, but Jonny is a welcome blast of warmth that shows the fires still burn bright.

Hotel Shampoo shows off a simpler, stripped back Rhys - whose lyrics are placed front and centre of beautifully arranged tracks, each imbued with an infectious energy.

Authoritatively potent, bitterly bleak and beautiful, this record is an unexpected but essential punch in the face.

Bolt on an undeniably zealous execution, a set of simple yet well-written songs, add an element of confident adventure via some experimentation and diversity and the rebirth of indie may just have found its leading protagonists.