Even after having listened to this album many times, it seems no clearer as to whether it is a collection of underdeveloped song ideas or the well produced outakes of an intriguing idea.

Another summer album of frisky, playful, intelligent, tune-filled wonder from a great songwriter born to put a massive slobbering smile on yer face.

An album that doesn’t sell us short on the pop hooks of albums past, but one that also delivers a healthy dose of politics to the mix without sounding like a six-legged cliché-riddled embarrassment.

It’s Gengahr's commitment to weirdness on A Dream Outside that puts them many streets ahead.

A brilliant and riveting album.

What really impresses though is how complete all of this sounds: aside from the typically cocky lyrical references, there’s nary a hint that they’ve not been working together for the last few years.

It's a scatterbrainedness that makes Girls endearing and frustrating at the same time, and it's pertinent to remember that Elvis Costello often sang about more than just girls. Still, it's hard to begrudge a band their niche when they do it so well.

Similar to Ben Folds and Aimee Mann, Merritt revives the lost art of inventing captivating fictions entwined with personal reflection.

For something so sprawling, Field Music (Measure) is impressively cohesive, particularly when considering the styles of the two brothers are more distinctive than ever.

Ghostpoet’s vocals are delivered in a consistent, mumbled, emotionally-drained understatement throughout, lending the album a sense of authenticity that it could not survive without.

Here And Nowhere Else not only reaffirms Baldi as one of the most prolific and consistent songwriters of his generation--its hard to believe he's still only 22 considering the extent of his back catalogue--but also suggests there's much more to come in the future.

Effortlessly mixing pop aspects with electronic undertones, hip-hop influence and the occasional R&B nod, she has taken everything that's wrong with today's chart toppers and turned it on its head--producing a record packed full of inspirational, intelligent monologues. It isn't half catchy either.

Below The Branches is, maybe, the first perfect summertime album, absolutely brimming with brightness and charm.

It may have taken Long and Kroeber some time to crack the tough nut of a thoroughly radiant album but unlike their namesakes, The Dodos have only ripened with age.

Mothers is a good, enjoyable album. It isn’t the classic album that Swim Deep have been aiming for, but it feels like they’re tantalisingly close to reaching it come album #3.

A spokesperson for wearied souls, Waxahatchee leaves the rest of us intrigued but far from in love.

Given the gestation period and polish, the humanity that manages to shine through this tight, crafted record is a triumph; the sound of a band having a whole lot of fun in the hope that ultimately you will do too.

Some Say I So I Say Light is the attempt to merge a lone voice into the black of the vast, surrounding landscape, and it succeeds absorbingly well.

While Matt Bellamy drowned in pretension and tone-deaf bombast, Stickles astutely embraces the grandiose, distilling his troubles into some of the sharpest songwriting of his career and a spectacular display of ownership.

Once more, Ellery James Roberts finds himself with a unique project that may well burn so intense that there are no corners left to light.

Newcomers to the band would do just as well to track down The Ugly People vs. The Beautiful People, which gives a more cohesive impression of the version of The Czars that Best of... tries to convey.

It’s perfectly pleasant background listening, but it yields diminishing returns from close listening.

Like many of the tracks contained therein, Geneva ends up far from where it began. But this is not a record defined by where it starts and where it finishes--it’s what there is to take in on the way that counts.

Abyss proves that there's still much work to do in the dark side of alt rock. Chelsea Wolfe is surely ahead of the curve.

NV’s live shows are a true spectacle, bursting with human drama and storytelling, building an arc that is disappointingly absent here. It is not just the pop songs that have disappeared, but the sense of definition. ... There are moments of hope.

The guitar work almost borders on wankery. Space-rock elements of Sixties psych don't so much creep as stomp leaden footedly into your lugs. Does it feel a little out of place? Yes. Finest four and a half minutes of Let's Wrestle's brief career? Absolutely fucking yes.

Much as [Bjork's] presence is immediately arresting and enhances its charms no end, it's a testament to the strength of Longstreth's songwriting that Mount Wittenberg Orca wouldn't suffer were she not a feature.

Guider is an intriguing, viscerally stirring study in contemporary post-punk that holds attention like a fox in a headlight beam.

Now we have Accelerate; the actualisation of a new found urgency. Gratifyingly short at under 35 minutes, it’s a summation of much that is or was great about R.EM.: wordy proclamations by Stipe, ringing Rickenbacker trills by Buck and lush backing vocals by Mills.

There’s insecurity, certainly; self-reflection, yes; but more than that there’s resilience, romance, strength, sensuality and an album full of lurching, longing, lustrous pop songs.

You get the sense that all Sky Ferreira ever really wanted was for people to listen. Here, she gives them a reason. That's truth worth discovering.

Nouns is truly psyched, soaring sound.

Astro Coast is a welcome reminder of the youthful vigour and playfulness of early Pavement and Weezer, imbibing the Sixties rule-book of good pop without coming off as a bad pastiche.

There is enough in the moments which don’t quite astound to suggest that Lawrence Arabia is on the cusp of making a real classic of a record, until that time arrives, go check out ‘Beautiful Young Crew’ and drool at the prospect of an album which tops it not once but twice.

In these 28 minutes, Badwan underlines his determination to expand beyond traditional patterns, creating an album that's absorbing and rewarding.

This record is better placed alongside, rather than in opposition to, Chardiet’s prior two releases. It’s another excellent entry in her catalogue of searingly distressing, and physically exhausting, noise.

While it’s fair to wonder if they can ever top it, their growth from record to record indicates that they may indeed have another even higher gear.

Expect the Best stands out amongst other reverb-drenched indie rock for being exceptionally well composed.

Phases is a useful entry into Olsen's back catalogue with heavy stress on the 'back'. For those new to her work, this is a good introduction to her older work, and moreover, yet another example of her incredible talent as a storyteller and composer.

There’s certainly nothing anywhere near as anthemic as ‘Even When The Sun Comes Up Her’ and later material, particularly Are We There, is far more fleshed out. But here we get the most incisive look into the soul of Sharon van Etten and that’s hard to replicate.

Even though this is a relatively concise Truckers record, it does still have a little flab around the midriff.

Grant might just be taking the piss here, but his impish spirit reflects a writer with his fingers on the pulse of what’s really magic in this era: an understanding of humanity and all its feathery mess.

It remains to be seen whether A Swedish Love Story marks the beginning of a new era in Owen Pallett's career. What it is for certain, however, is a small glimpse of the extraordinary range of songs he is capable of writing.

An exquisite album by anyone's standards.

Far more than a simple exercise in rock as violent fury, or as political vehicle for that matter, Gnod’s latest effort is yet another important musical statement from a group firmly at the forefront of everything good about British underground music. That it arrives in time to soundtrack such troubled times as these is, of course, a welcome bonus.

It is not monotony but repetition, not sing-a-long surface but deeply-felt rhythms, shunning songwriting convention for more fertile ground.

For now, Tegan and Sara have reached the end of a thorny, awkward path to pop perfection. Those years of uncertainty have only sweetened the realisation.

That’s not to say they don’t come across like an all-singing, all-banging Life Aquatic armed with pots, pans and whatever instrument comes to hand, but from the raw, stamping folk-punk to the string layered sea ditties, All We Could Do Was Sing is much more than it initially lets on.

It grows and grows with each listen, and though it has less of an immediate impact than their debut, it has a true sense of journey through its beginning, middle and end, an element often disregarded in an industry gluttonously obsessed with hit singles.

Five Roses is certainly not a poor album--it's largely enjoyable, in fact--but it fails to inspire awe or create any sense of joy. It’s too slight, and too meandering

The genuine article, Sets and Lights brings coldwave a step closer to realising the vision of the sub-genre once proposed by Blank Dog's Mike Sniper; a new underground form of internal transmission Sniper christened 'Impossible Folk'.

While that argument over the art of the singer-songwriter may be embedded in a lack of originality, Villagers have managed to craft an endearing record, glowing with a heart-warming level of nostalgia.

The resulting record is, given time to grow on you, really rather loveable. Like someone taking all of your favourite Eighties 12-inches, remastering them and making you your own extra special mixtape.

Take Care is dense and takes a while to digest, but once you're in Drake's world there's no escaping.

It is exactly as you would have expected it to sound, and ultimately that isn't enough for anyone who doesn't rush out on the day of release to buy their albums.

It is arresting, but not desperate for your attention like an invalid. Coming down or getting up, Coracle will do the trick.

If you're only half paying attention, it sounds exactly like the stereotype of techno as nothing but an hour of kick drums. This mix delights in small, fiddly details that demand your attention for their enjoyment.

While there will undoubtedly be some who bemoan the same failing within Rock n Roll Consciousness, there’s no way Thurston Moore is going to stop for anyone.

This is a seamless, and often glorious, album, one that showcases a profound peace and melancholia through a focus on ambient washes. Its lack of flourishes should, therefore, not be condemned but celebrated. Recommended.

All the same, nothing hits with the same succinct and simple impact as early wins like ‘List of Demands’ or ‘Black Stacey’.

Five or so years ago, it felt like they were shedding relevance. This is the sound of them rediscovering importance.

Regardless of the songwriter, the lyrics overlap from track to track, and no doubt there will be a few erudite folks campaigning to weave a singular poetic storyline for our edification. Whether this is by design, or simply the product of the fanciful imaginations of Wolf Parade fans, the casual listener is rewarded with a batch of songs that works best when taken from a beginning-middle-end perspective.

Artists who operate within a distinct or limited musical template can risk getting stuck in a creative rut, but on this evidence Junior Boys are just too damned good at this game for any such risk.

There appears to be no point or cohesive structure to it whatsoever.

As second albums go, though, this is exactly what we want to see--a clear a development, a sharpening of powers and a defining of sound. What happens next could be truly spectacular.

For all their weirdo mangled machine noise, it feels like they’ve reached a beautiful plateau--a perfect crossroads between all their disparate elements, finely tuned and full of vigour.

It's simply another great album by an indescribably great band.

Any fears of a dangerous liaison are soon sent packing as opener ‘Deus Ibi Est’ thud-thuds its way to attention.

This effort is laudable, but she sounds best when pushing the envelope. A lively talent like hers shouldn't be so concealed.

A record for bedroom chilling that has more than enough clout to slot into dance floor sets, it’s a refreshingly vital take on the heavily worked over source material.

May embraces the darkness and finds slithers of light shattered within. And while it might be haunted by a black dog, in Broken Twin's company, it's one that you too will want to walk alongside.

If these four tracks prove anything, it’s that even when working from off-cuts, the band continue to thrill with their unrivalled promise and exuberance.

No one will begrudge him returning to his day job with Grizzly Bear, but anyone who hears In Ear Park will be hoping he takes another working holiday as soon as he gets the chance.

Seventh Tree, though in some respects an organic redrafting of the autoerotic Goldfrapp template, picks up where Supernature left off in its setting of the controls for the heart of the mainstream, and misses badly the slickly subversive tone that lifted the band from the realms of coffee table mediocrity.

What Xiu Xiu demonstrate throughout Always, is the way in which they can lay down so starkly how terrible life can be and how fucked up one can feel and create something amazing, angry, political, fierce and defiant out of all of it.

Never before has a band name been more aptly descriptive of their music.

To give The Boss his due credit, the progress leading up to his debut album could not be better fleshed out.

You’ll need a breather or two, for sure, but that’s the nature of great horror, regardless of what supernatural forces you choose to worship.

Thirty years in arguably the most significant act to come out of the American alternative underground of the Eighties has clearly not dimmed Moore's desire to explore new territory, and this record is as much testament to that as any of his many others.

In essence this is their most fluid recording, unbroken by exploratory concerns.

There's no doubt that the familiarity of Dear's style after several records means Beams has to work a bit harder to hold your attention than previous efforts..... The good news is that until that issue is resolved, there's plenty here to hold your interest.

The record’s grip does start to loosen as it progresses, and while they have made less of a leap than their previous effort, Mother nevertheless demonstrates what a vibrant and fruitful partnership the two musicians continue to enjoy.

Having slowed down five per cent, you could imagine The Chronicles of Marnia appealing to anyone who liked Sleater Kinney, or Battles, Dutch Uncles, or even Foals, without having the acquired taste for bands as squirky as Deerhoof or Ponytail.

If All My Friends Are Funeral Singers has said one thing at all to me, it’s that Califone merit further investigation, especially for someone who tends to write off ‘folk’ music. And if that doesn’t make it a success, then I don’t know what does.

Instrumentally, subtle use of synths, keyboards and strings now embellish the sharp arrangements and add a new, more mature, depth to the bands sound.

Toward The Low Sun finds Dirty Three functioning at a consistently (and characteristically) high level--offering nine varied and concise pieces showcasing the gauntlet of their past successes, performed with a vitality which decimates any accusation of retread.

While Ma Fleur is no better than The Cinematic Orchestra’s previous scores, it is equally gorgeous in how it responds to and ekes out intellectual quagmires of song.

Gang Gang Dance, however, have found their voice in a world of retro revivalists and fly-by-night trendhoppers. It's whatever they want it to be, and it's awesome.

Intelligent indie-rockers, look nor listen no further for your possible album of the year.

Paperwork a is worthy listen because it contains all the elements that had us take notice of volcano!

You can’t help recognising a kind of supreme inspiration behind the thing, fuelled alternately by manic rage and exultant gratification.

Certainly, on early listens, it appears to lack some of the strange staying power of the band’s very best releases, as if there’s an indefinable something missing. As a result, this is unlikely to jar experienced Wolf Eyes listeners as much as it is newcomers.

Resultantly, while the textures are nostalgic, the album is a very contemporary experience. Since you're unlikely to ever get the same 20 plus artists on the same page again, it's best to enjoy the album for what it is: a one-off experiment, more of a happening than a record, that can't (and possibly shouldn't) be repeated.

If ‘April’s Song’ is the low point of the record’s wanderlust--an affectless instrumental track that goes nowhere--elsewhere it blooms wonderfully.

The lack of cohesion is not a criticism per se, but rather a recognition that The Air Between Words is not really an album in the classical sense, as its parts are greater than its sum.

The Follower is a decent enough record, and is worthy of your time, but lacks that special something that sets The Field apart in the techno world.

Unlike its predecessor, this isn’t quite a thrilling record; its energy and invention, though, points to big things for Parquet Courts, especially if they can continue to adhere to such a ferocious work ethic.

By now, Frida’s come so far from where she started, you will have been won over, and it’s possible to see the early schmaltz as a necessary counterpoint: a musical analogue of the innocence to be lost, and/or transformed into experience.