Overwhelmingly luscious at times, Range Of Light is a record that musically embodies the art of escapism, even if that does means evading even the consciousness of its listeners from time to time.

Wavves have created their most varied collection so far.

There’s a consistent sense of déjà vu that accompanies every melody, a pleasant sense of cosy familiarity, but also a like-ability running throughout.

‘Trauma Factory’ is overlong and occasionally indulgent, but if those are the terms under which Joe is operating, then this daring, forward-thinking genre piece is worth the price of admission.

Just as the pair’s ability to create moods with just their guitars is impressive--it’s a bit much over twelve tracks.

An album worthy of repeated listens but limited by its inability to adapt and enrapture a change of pace often just representing a drop in quality.

They’ve still yet to find that album that feels complete. While their eighth album, Wallop, isn’t quite it, it’s the closest they’ve been for quite a while.

It’s not routine or mundane, but the second half of the album represents a disappointing fade in if not quality, excitement.

There are some meandering points on Caer, but Lewis Jr.’s sobering narrative on piano finale ‘Runaway’ ends things on a poignant high-note.

This record is completely free of direction changes but at least they are consistent.

All things considered Chuck Inglish hasn’t offered enough that’s new or high quality enough to truly make a mark.

Strange Creatures limps and sags habitually, never quite succumbing to Drenge’s wishful potential and ruthless attempts at crafting the idyllic garage-rock their previous releases showcased. It’s a shame when the promise never quite delivers.

Clash The Truth is an accomplished album that should see Beach Fossils leave behind lo-fi slacker pop's balmy evenings.

A group refusing to stand still, this is another chapter in a band priding themselves on forward movement while celebrating their storied past.

Two Gallants’ rulebook may be dusty, weathered and well-worn, but there’s a familiarity to what they’re doing that can’t help but make We Are Undone a thoroughly enjoyable listen.

It might not be perfect and it might be reductive in parts, but it’s not contrived or calculated.

Having made records with Johnny Marr and added all manner of elements to their sound, the band’s latest is a brilliant reminder that Ryan, Gary and Ross are at their most powerful when they strip back their sound to its scrappy core.

It's a record that lacks the structure and order needed to make it into a cohesive unit, one that can be listened to beginning to end without skipping tracks.

Tennis have served up an ace.

It isn't quite as defined or as consistent as his work with Gang Gang Dance, but through persistence it certainly comes close.

Express Yourself is an excellent return showing that Diplo has saved enough creative juice for himself and, despite the whole host of guests featured throughout, the EP feels very much like Diplo's party.

Tommy’s aware of her strengths, and she’s not afraid to brandish them: ‘goldilocks x’ is a little weird, a little dark, and it’s just right.

Steeped in blissful American nostalgia, Bleachers’ sublime self-titled fourth studio album embodies it all, from the rolling vistas to the warmth of distant city lights, at once watching the world pass by and deeply cemented in a moment. It’s rare for an album to capture a feeling so intensely, promoting a universal recognition through something so intrinsically linked to an individual’s time and place.

The richness of its sounds is what makes ‘Strange Dance’ a warmly familiar, if not entirely compelling listen.

‘A Goood Sign’ never really goes anywhere and gets a bit lost in its murky pool of synths, while ‘i.v.’ doesn’t add much to the record. But overall, the falsetto of Mockasin and the electronic sounds of Dust marry perfectly into something stunningly weird; the kind of marriage where’d you wear multi-colour suits and dresses and tuck into an inflatable cake.

If this album is your first experience of Wymeswold's favourite songs, it's unlikely you will forget them. If you're a veteran, this is a good reminder of their brilliance.

It’s simply the mark of a record that’s captured them exactly as they are at this moment in time. Although it’s tempting to call Instructions a ‘fascinating document’, it’s probably more accurate to settle for ‘rad record’.

There is a lot of polish to Moaning, to the point that it’s carried off almost with a bit of a swagger.

‘As I Try Not to Fall Apart’ is a subtle evolution for White Lies - progress, after a while spent spinning their wheels.

A well-rounded collection of songs, ‘Girlfriend Material’ shows Lauren as an artist coming into her own, and her enjoyment shines through in her music.

In this bubbling cauldron that refuses to be contained, Asher finds the liberation he’s been searching for.

Foo Fighters are providing the map, it’s up to the audience to explore. Therein lies its beauty.

Had the duo chosen their vocal contributors more carefully, Divine Ecstasy could've been something special. Instead, we're left with an exciting showcase of potential and a few legitimate 'avant-bangers'.

More a culmination of all that’s come before; a band confident in their own skin, their identity clearer than ever, their mission unchanged since those transatlantic tapes at the turn of the millennium.

They promised a great leap forward, and this isn't it.

Maze Of Woods occupies a different plain, a more embryonic one that finds its stand out moments in a subtler way.

By playing it too safe, Animal Nature isn’t worth recommending. It’s just sort of fine and that won’t cut it.

Spend the Night With is rough around the edges, but it thrives under this approach.

It’s hit and miss, but Here’s Willy Moon kind of does what it says on the tin.

It’s nice enough to pass the time with, but certainly not a staple record worth revisiting time and time again.

Something’s Changing isn’t without flaws--‘Soak It Up’’s shuffling tempo jars, whilst the orchestral leanings of closer ‘I Can’t Change It All’ are at odds with the rest of the record--but it sees Lucy Rose easing into the next stage of her career.

For the most part the Angels charitably continue to breath life into a ragged genre with a looseness and playfulness that belies their serious business name.

Broaching love, lust, power-dynamics, jealousy, and heartbreak along the way, Years & Years bring that all important human touch to their massive pop anthems.

There is a naïve charm to their rudimentary rock and 'Tosta Mista' is a sporadically great introduction to those charms.

On ‘Motordrome’ she returns fresh and reinvigorated. No longer simply living to survive, MØ is having fun being herself.

Aspects of the record come off slightly muddled.

Cemetery Highrise Slum is a maze; disorienting and satisfying in equal measure.

On their sixth LP, unpredictable Californians Foxygen are less up for a bop than an attempt at settling some scores.

While each track is meticulously crafted, you can’t help but feel a sense of familiarity and perhaps repetition settle in the last half of the album.

On occasion you may feel that Trailer Trash Tracys could benefit from keeping things a little simpler, but fans of the band’s first record have plenty to enjoy here.

Like all good records, it has its magpie moments too - the Justice / Daft Punk tinged one-two of ‘Celebrate’ and ‘Surround Sound’ especially effective in the current climate--but fundamentally Ice On The Dune is the definitive Empire Of The Sun album.

It’s all largely inoffensive and wholly listenable. Which is fine, but we’ve come to expect more from La Roux.

Lenses, despite its four-to-the-floor tendencies and impeccable imagery, falls flat.

Young Dreams have created a collection that compacts all the sunny sounds of youthful hopes and expectations into one blissful whole.

Eucalyptus is a dense and challenging listen, but while it might alienate post-‘Merriweather Post Pavilion’ converts to Animal Collective, it might bring back those who loved ‘Campfire Songs’ but have felt disenfranchised since.

If there are faults with the record (aside from the mis-step of the fairground organ-esque 'Waltz), it's that while it works well as an album, it almost works too well with tracks all-too-often passing without leaving a lasting impression, with some of the shorter songs not always being given the space and time to develop as you'd perhaps expect them to.

Competent. Completely forgettable.

Kyla La Grange still has a voice you want to listen to, but two albums in, it seems like she’s still searching for the best music to set it to.

As a taster for her imminent third album, Emmy has newly positioned herself, distancing herself from the ‘anti folk’ sound she once claimed with 2009 debut ‘First Love’.

Cold Pumas peddle a kind of post-punk that’s long since been done to death by this point; it takes real ingenuity to find a way to imbue this particular template with genuinely new energy, and on this evidence, they haven’t found that yet.

Language could afford to lose a few numbers--particularly the low-energy likes of ‘Body’ and ‘Girlfriend’--but there’s more than enough evidence here that MNEK is a potent force in his own right.

A mixed bag.

There’s a real cleverness about the contrast between these very modern themes and their throwback sound, a sparklier take on garage-flecked indie that proves wildly catchy.

Capturing the highs and lows of womanhood via catchy pop, ‘Sorry I’m Late’ may have been a long time coming (see what she did there), but it’s worth the wait.

Four is better [than debut album, Silent Alarm]. Or at the very least as good.

As a debut, Melbourne is about as honest an expression as it comes.

When compared to each members’ regular output, there’s not a lot to take seriously here. That’s quite all right though.

Louis' new-found confidence oozes from the songs here; it may just be his first steps in the quest to emulate his old rock 'n' roll heroes.

Titus Andronicus have always melted together the music of their heroes, but this time it feels completely without inspiration.

'2:54' is the sound of two Fallen Angels back to steal what's left of your soul; it's sultry, it's mischievous, and it's damn near magnificent.

A patchy debut effort.

It’s so ludicrously colourful and loud and just the right side of ridiculous and whatever the mission may be, domination is the likely result.

TV en Français is more a more muted outing.

There’s so much to take in, it’s almost hard to know if it’s even any good. Between these sensory overloads, however, we get the funky bop of ‘All Wordz Are Made Up’ and the acoustic lullaby of ‘Think Before You Drink’.

The most interesting element of his chosen samples is the way that more classical instruments and acoustic guitar strums are looped, while his vocals occasionally get the remix treatment and judder along.

By all accounts, it’s in the crucible of live performance where this duo excels. But put on record, it all feels a bit lost in translation.

While they do make for a well-structured collection of songs, individual tracks are often disappointing and the result feels like a half-hearted series of Doctor Who; its audience sustained more by thrilling trailers and the promise of fulfilment than any real substance

Originality may not abound but Green Language still remains an undeniably fun record to sink your teeth into.

It’s possibly not to everyone’s taste--no doubt fans of the definiteness of ‘Pleasure’ may turn on this one--but it’s more confident and upfront, less immersed in background noise.

The Tourist isn’t ‘the worst’, but it’s far from the journey its designer hopes it to be.

[Walk the River]is not for the faint-hearted but it's certainly for the soft-hearted - three albums along, they still feed our hunger for the big, the wild and the honest.

Ratworld is that rarest of beasts--a debut album that’s got a backstory running deeper than all six seasons of Lost, but still sounds like it’s delivered without any requirement for effort whatsoever.

An experimental collection of recordings that shows just how well they are progressing.

Thieving like a magpie from his own box of tricks, there’s no denying that Gallagher is a songwriter from the very top of his class.

It flits from doomy death marches to frenetic, fuzzy psych rock freakouts like the fantastic ‘Choco Plumbing’, while indulging in some quirkier elements including a stomping cover of The Beatles ‘I Want To Tell You’ and a sweet, Casio keyboard run-through of American standard ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’.

Weak and boring are never words we’d have ever thought apply to Poppy’s music, but alas here we are – hoping for the ‘Zag’ to come.

The album’s strong-enough opening does little to distract from the toil of the tail end. The end result is an album that feels far longer than its sub-40 minute runtime.

Whether it be these jacked-up moments or those hazy, sinking flurries such as the freakish downer ‘Merry Nightmare’, everything Scott has written on Sunshine Redux encapsulates all of his best qualities. This time though, those qualities are amplified, pristinely-recorded and have even caught the sun a bit.

This is music that desires to be clutched to youthful hearts and fill sun-bleached fields or golden coastlines; a hunger to delight that is so insatiable it’s rather tough to question.

Like a pop phoenix rising from 2011’s ashes, ‘Let Her Burn’ is Rebecca Black showing us just what she’s capable of.

Falling somewhere in between the sophistication of Everything Everything and the flamboyancy of Maroon Five, it isn’t until the halfway point, and ‘I Feel the Weight’ that the familiar chill of previous releases is restored.

Last Night On Earth is filled with guitar licks that manage to sound ferocious and friendly at the same time, marrying a slightly avant-garde persuasion and tight focused songwriting with something instantly warming.

Comedown Machine has done the best thing The Strokes could have done.

With its muggy, lo-fi atmosphere, Be Your Own King works best at its most carefree.... [But] The tail end of the record does come to a bit of a standstill.

It cements ‘Going To Hell’ as a celebration of personal freedom, and the unwavering right for people to be afforded the opportunity to be comfortable in themselves.

Perhaps most impressively, is the record’s consistent hooks.

Lysandre frequently charms. It is a primarily low-key statement, but does enough to suggest that Owens' future post-Girls may be very promising.

This is pop music at its wittiest and most concise, yet for all its maturity and refinement, it's hard to believe that an album so youthful could be made by a group of forty-somethings.