The arrangements here are certainly accomplished, but it's still that voice which makes the whole thing glow.

Like Syd Barrett or, more recently, Euros Childs before him, White Fence continues to make the peripheries seem oddly accessible.

Everything they touch holding a vintage sheen of some kind, but it’s such a broad and masterful selection that there’s no sense of pastiche. The lyrics across the record let it down - they match the random patchwork of the sound, but take a step too far in the direction of gibberish for the most part.

‘Actually…’ delivers a fairground of gleeful unpredictability populated by usual Deerhoof tropes: elliptical song titles, a whole gamut of biblical references, and disjointed rhythms that prance majestically between tempos and motifs.

For all his wayfaring tendencies, it’s refreshing to hear an album from Mattson that feels as though he’s found solace in something or someone, and the richer instrumentation never compromises the album’s overall sense of intimacy.

A record that pushes each of its contributors to stamp their own mark, uniting them under the banner of heartbreak but leaving room for each vocalist to twist the blueprint to their own shape.

In her journey to rediscover her own strength Banoffee has created a remarkable pop opus unquestionably destined to empower the marginalised.

It’s a largely hit-and-miss pop record.

It’s a perfectly pleasant ride to go along with him on, too, and given that ‘Turn Blue’ sounded a tired effort pretty much from the get go, this return to his roots will hopefully bode well for the band when they eventually reconvene.

Insouciant, effortless cool; shimmering, effervescent melodies that cut through the street-smart danger; the ability to sound vitally alive whilst simultaneously not giving a fuck: all the traits that underpin the band’s best songs are present and correct, from ‘Dancing With Myself’-aping recent single ‘Bad Decisions’, to the twinkling, yearning ‘Selfless’.

Ultimately, it is very, very hard to dislike Hour Of The Dawn.

One blast of The Physical World and BANG, the doubt is gone.

The Hold Steady are very much a band for their existing fans. There’s not anything here, whether the bar-room blues of ‘Blackout Sam’ or the jazz hands-aloft ’T-Shirt Tux’ that’s likely to win outsiders over.

Like punk Doogie Howsers, MOURN use intellect and talent beyond their years to muscle their way in amongst the grown-ups and blow them all out of the water.

It’s got moments of music that sound like life. And when the songwriting is interesting and the melodies evocative, what you need is something to keep up what they’ve built.

It’s the same melodies and patterns as the group have long favoured, but even the potentially cringeworthy ‘Screens’ (a song about, of course, how we’re all glued to them) barely raises a shrug when surrounded by such luscious, bombastic sounds. By focusing on minutiae, too, what is ostensibly a lockdown album (hello, reference to Zoom interviews) avoids cliche.

Spend any element of time with it and each passing play opens the album up, showing it off as the special, if often-understated record that it is.

A sense of an increasingly assured outfit emerges, shifting tempo with offbeat irregularity, their earlier inclination towards indie-leaning jangle-pop falling by the wayside, substituted with a definition that sets the band on an ever more consistent path.

This is an album's cutting room floor yet each song still retains Hutchison's instantly recognisable Scottish drawl, infectious hooks and intelligent lyrics.

Sometimes gloriously messy, sometimes just simply glorious, it is probably the most fun you'll have all year rhyming with harpists.

Because ‘You’ll Pay’, ‘Read Em And Weep’, ‘Only Love’, ‘Fever Tree’ (a charming cover of William Bell’s ‘I Forgot To Be Your Lover’), and ‘Don’t Let Me Go’ are all peppered with a shimmering strut, and the kind of euphoria that’s surely only a well-filmed choreo sequence away from the kind of virality enjoyed by Jungle of late. And this is a lane that fits The Black Keys like a glove.

The record is a first full effort bustling with ideas, characterised by the dual voices of Sean Armstrong and Jack Mellin. Sean’s voice is a tender, swaying one, while Jack packs more punch, and brings urgent stabs of guitar.

The weight of the album and the somber nature of its subjects can nearly get too much at times. Yet it’s the lightness and dexterity in Nadine’s voice and songwriting that means she has created an album of stories that will warm you and keep you company.

Masters of their craft, this grand exploration could probably go with some cutting down and honing exercised, but these are fresh faces heading out into the great unknown.

Featuring minimal hooks, guttural yelps and harrowing production, Government Plates sounds like nothing else this year--so in other words, it sounds a whole lot like Death Grips.

There’s a gorgeous familiarity to the record, but it’s also one peppered with adventure.

‘Social Cues’ is a study in US radio - or so it seems, each song a suitable soundtrack to faceless car journeys along nondescript roads: think Imagine Dragons in leather jackets and ripped jeans, if you will.

With overwhelming confidence the Brooklyn-based trio present 11 songs of unerring quality and an almost uncountable numbers of flicks and tricks.