the overall sense is that they [The Roots] have reignited him [Costello], the combination of one of England’s great lyricists and production from arguably America’s most forward-thinking band resulting in a crisp, funky, even dangerous sounding album as political and as relevant as anything this year.

Seems Unfair not only trumps No One's Coming for Us lyrically, but musically too. Yes the comparisons for Waxahatchee are still there, but now Jones feels more comfortable and confident with his style of song writing and is starting to come into his own.

The whole record comes in at almost exactly 30 minutes - a nice round number that allows for ten songs of in and around three minutes each - which keeps it punchy and makes the whole thing move: no time to get bored, here comes the next song, anyway

Like a beacon of light emerging at the outset of Spectres distorted vision, its audacious nature and ever-changing mood perfectly sums up Dying's idiosyncratic nature.

Five years on, BBNG stand poised to write jazz standards for the next generation. In some circles, you’d call that progress. But for folks that turned to BBNG as infiltrators, rebels, the razor edge of the new--in those circles, you’d call that a sell-out.

A Different Kind Of Fix is an evolution of baby steps for Bombay Bicycle Club and one which will leave you wondering if Jack Steadman and co are ever going to burst into full bloom.

Despite the aimlessness of much of FRR's second half, nailing it is what BSS do brilliantly. There are enough moments of standout glory in the first half to sate any fan of this band, whatever part of their work they admire.

If it is indubitably more soundtrack album than bigshot solo debut, this record certainly provides irrefutable, definitive, official proof of O’s talents as a songwriter in her own right.

It is ceaselessly pretty, breezy and undemanding (in the best possible way), boding extremely well for future material.

Before Spotify, this album could have qualified as a pretty decent starting point for anyone looking to bridge the gap between 'Friday I'm In Love' and 'Primary'. Now you can just arrange the studio polished tracks into a playlist, this kind of release is demoted to the status of fan favourite.

Pierce and company might never release anything as tight and high caliber as their debut album, but they are heading in a new direction while still remaining staunch pioneers of the heavy synths and reverb style that warranted them attention in the first place.

By completely altering their focus, Wolves in the Throne Room have both carried on the strong tradition of black metal reinvention and proved themselves as composers with a distinct, if not world-changing, voice.

As a complete body of work, the album stumbles in very few places.

These words have lost none of their clout and, in fact, Tom's reworking of the sounds that surround them only serve to underscore just how powerful they can be.

Legacy collects about a decade of Boo recordings under one roof, although there’s no obvious arc of progression here--he’s consistently out on a limb, and with very few exceptions (‘There U Go Boi’, ultra-pitched-up and relatively linear ghetto house), this could only have come from his brain.

Throughout Fantastic Planet her music sounds ordered and restricted. It’s a sound that suits some but, given that previous Noveller records thrived on unfolding at their own pace, the jury is out on how far Fantastic Planet benefits from being constrained by its determination to fit preconceived structural limits.

There's a delicacy, a deftness of touch throughout Total Loss that's wondrous.

This is an often bold and sometimes brilliant offering, even if its heart is more mechanical than you may hope for.

As a collection of well-trod leitmotifs, Fudge Sandwich functions more as further folklore in the Segall autobiography than a mere cursory look at the tracklist would suggest.

As a first achievement, the album it manages to inject a degree of zest into the songs from The King is Dead, jolting them from the somnolence which occasionally bogged their studio equivalents down.

Yorkston feels like a man who genuinely does this, not for fame or money or even to send a message, but simply as catharsis and because it means something to him. The Route to Harmonium is another chance for us to share that with him.

International is brilliantly pop in substance and spirit.

This isn't the best album John Legend or The Roots have made, but it's not going to go down as the black sheep of either canon.

A thorny, earth-stained treasure.

Big Doe Rehab is another valuable insight into the skewed world of Ghostface away from Wu’s taming Shaolin stylings.

I Never Learn is by no means a failure--the highs are grand when they come--but it has a tendency towards bombast and shallow self indulgence that sees it edge dangerously close to the fringes of mediocrity.

What stops it being Great, as opposed to great, is the feeling that Machinedrum's basically working his way through segments of his music taste, having a crack at one after another. That is to say, he's a follower, one now signed to a label that's often been a haven for innovators.

The outcome is both comfortingly retro and exhilaratingly fresh, a modern twist on a classic dish, the aural equivalent of Natalie Coleman’s 'pimped' roast pork belly and quail scotch egg that triumphed in the 2013 Masterchef final.

Women As Lovers is proof positive that if navel gazing was an extreme sport, Xiu Xiu would be its leading practitioners, wielding an earnest approach which, while occasionally proving scary and even moving, borders heavy-handedness and rapidly becomes oppressive.

In spite of its moments of charm, it’s a far cry from being either a fun retreat into 20 years ago, nor is it any indication that Weezer's reputation will be in better health 20 years from now.

The Clearing is a woody, creaky, but ultimately gorgeous folk record.

Okay, so it’s a bold change in direction, and while that’s laudable, there’s very little differentiation, which makes for a frustrating, often banal long-player.

Pearl Mystic just happens to be one of those records that embodies perfection.

Bold in intention and quiet in confidence, they've gone back to basics here and for the most part, the results are sublime.

A beautiful mix allows the elements of each of the tracks to truly breathe and settle in their own spaces.

Self produced by Ben and his drummer Chris Bond at Start Point Farm Studios in Devon, I Forget Where We Were is a grand, serious affair. It’s a somewhat major departure for the artist, and with the far longer running times (only one song clocks in under the four minute mark).

Alvvays were the perfect band to listen to when a need arose to forget about life. Despite its title, Antisocialites doesn’t manage to accomplish the same thing.

Mutual Horse is a feast for the senses, demonstrating Miranda’s potential. She is truly an underrated artist with exceptional talent and imagination.

Perhaps a little soft in places it is nevertheless beautiful and gently bruised, a welcome rush of emotion blowing across the borders of adulthood rather than a visceral shove between one state and the next. A solid album from a band beginning to bloom.

With Highway Hypnosis, the cool kid sets the trend yet again--now floating almost entirely away from the bass, Moolchan cranks down the tempo for a decisively more urban flair that draws from the streets of Lisbon, Atlanta, and London in equal measure. And somehow, even with all this new swag, our sneaky protagonist loses none of the prankster wit that turned heads in the first place.

Jinx is a much more personal record than its creators have cut in the past.

While most artists would dread having to juggle the pressure to hit the mark, plus the weight of their legendary influences, Dream Wife have delivered an album that is refreshing in its clarity, its simplicity and its runaway quality.

It comes across more as a work that’ll maintain their admittedly excellent level of consistency, rather than proving itself to be the defining album of an already blessed year for music.

Fundamentally, this EP is the sound of a very good band becoming a great band.

This might not be their finest work, but it’s the best thing they’ve made in at least a decade.

Both songs [Vapor and RIPP] provide interesting interludes in an otherwise pretty average album.

three of the five new tracks are worth getting hold of, but the rest will be familiar. Does it hang together as an album? Definitely--it's a pretty accurate summation of the band's career so far, and would be a terrific way to introduce yourself to them if you haven't already done so.

Now stripped of their manufactured aura, WU LYF no longer have a platform but instead stand naked and shivering alongside hundreds of other bands with debut albums that don't satiate the need for instant greatness.

Human The Death Dance is a little too boastful, a little too obvious; the subtleties that made Francis’ previous offering so enjoyable and provided it with plenty of longevity have dissipated somewhat.

As with any good experiment the failures are almost as important as the successes. The old school reggae and the auto-tuned idiocy are utterly redundant, as pointless as water in whisky. There are four or five properly innovative and exciting tunes here.

An album which traverses exhilaration, desire, despair and loss and sees a songwriter finally completely on top of his game.

Jurado's strengths--ability to tug at the heartstrings without seeming mawkish or sentimental--are intact, but bolstered by what you might assume is Richard Swift's input. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. The rest of Saint Bartlett isn't bad, it just reverts to type to such an extent that it pales in comparison to the earlier moments.

They have always had an unabashed sensibility for writing three-minute pop songs and this record is stuffed full of them. The Futureheads have made exhilarating order out of The Chaos.

Serotonin makes its intentions pretty clear – it is a pop record, it has themes, it knows where it wants to go, it knows what it wants to do. It does those things – it is melodic.

Their next release might be a whole ‘nother curveball, but this is a treat on its own terms.

Though refreshingly bold at key moments, Brighter Wounds still doesn’t challenge itself enough to be considered a radical and departure from its predecessors.

Given his richness of experience before he entered the studio, it makes sense that the nine tracks here are as so assured.

Here Panda retreats to inscrutable, heavenly distance, and while force of emotion might not suit an album whose foundations are laid on force of sound, I still find myself wishing he'd fully explore his more human side someday.

It’s one of those growers. The lyrics are clever. The running-order is immaculately conceived - it's practically a concept album.

"In Reverie' is the record that sees STD (*snigger*) grow into their rather obnoxiously large boots and writing the sort of songs that sound less like =emo=tional pap and more like the nerdy, malnourished American cousins of Ash's biggest hits.

Like classic Stereolab at their very best.

If At Echo Lake hit the jackpot, Sun & Shade is more hit and miss. Still, I wouldn't have it any other way.

It’s beautiful and utterly captivating in its own way and, after all the band and Lytle have been through, that’s triumphant enough.

For a band so obsessed with invoking their past, you do wish the Manics weren't so reluctant to throw in a bit of the old grit and ardour. It's a very nicely put together record, but there are moments so far away from the music that drew you to this band in the first place that you wonder if it's wrong to question what you're actually doing here.

Asleep on the Floodplain is billed as a return to that pared-down sound, and it is as close as Chasney has come since to capturing the simple beauty of For Octavio Paz.

Why Love Now is the first in a potentially endless stream of politically charged punk rock records this year. However, it’s extremely hard to see any of them trumping this glorious, if uncomfortable, masterpiece.

It doesn’t quite retain the piss and vinegar, lightning-in-a-bottle feel of its predecessor. But then of course it doesn’t: that album was turned out in a matter of days by much younger musicians, while this release spanned years and several recording sessions and it’s still absolutely exhilarating.

While The Eraser might not be a genre-busting classic like Kid A or OK Computer it's a good, solid record nonetheless.

It’s not that Rave Tapes is disappointing, it’s just underwhelming--but it’s beautiful enough that maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe.

However, as difficult second albums go; and given the circumstances Something emerged from, difficult would be the operative word; Chairlift can be proud at what they've accomplished.

La Roux returns on its own terms, with at least five minutes and 40 seconds that capture tremendous artistic growth and expression.

While it might not be a consistent classic like Heartbreaker or Gold, there's flashes of those earlier triumphs from Adams' career on Ashes & Fire.

Shorn of Brownstein's intricate guitar playing, Weiss' wonderfully impatient drums and her USP: The Tool, The Voice, Tucker is operating at brave distance from her comfort zone. In doing so she's unveiled a whole lot of other things she's good at.

Representing UK production at its best, SBTRKT's self-titled album is playful yet gritty.

So with six months worth of perspective since their debut album's first release, Azari & III didn't quite create a storming LP to match the promise of those early singles.

I Know What Love Isn't is a classy break-up record rather than just a classic one.

That sunrise-smile that hits before the first half-minute mark isn't blighted by the slightest smudge of cloud right up to minute 45, this is one of our best writers and the soul and centre of why he's always mattered so much. Heartily recommended.

There’s no doubt that Few More Days To Go is an intriguing record by a very promising band--but it also feels like this is just a taste of their true power.

The moments of unity sound accidental and haphazard, ambient music with the occasional breakcore eruption, as if a child was operating two stereos playing each artist and alternating turning the volume up and down on each one.

Ruins is a thoroughly pretty piece of work, lovingly presented. The question hanging over it, though, is how long First Aid Kit can get away with making revisions to the original model before the law of diminishing returns begins to kick in hard.

The album is no Robyn and it doesn't quite match Body Talk (Part 1) in terms of the sheer number of highs.

Shrines is the sound of the air beneath your bed whispering when you rest.

This feels like Holmes’ record--a studio-created melting pot of awkward approaches, inspired instrumentation, the occasional colossal flop and a few genuinely unique moments. More power to Gallagher for giving him the reigns here and allowing himself to be guided into territory that’s often fresh, sometimes really interesting but, above all, utterly atypical and bizarre.

Despite Mazzy Star sounding as good as they always have, Seasons Of Your Day only goes to show that the rest of the world has finally caught up with them.

Magnetic North seem to take you to another place entirely with what seems like very simple ingredients--subtle, dare-I-say tasteful instrumentation, and languid, slowly infectious melodies.

Some might sneer at its twee nature--especially in light of the extraordinariness of the recently departed, but Spilt Milk captures an ageing songwriter catching a second wind and reflecting with wit, charm and humility.

Julia Holter’s is a talent best shown stretched, pulled-out and free-flowing in live performance. This recording environment suits her just right.

Davies’ solo output would increase in the Eighties, yet like his day job band, the quality began to vary markedly. Here we have a snapshot of a time when he was at the top of his game--but overshadowed in the public eye by his brother’s more easily digestible (and, let’s face it, available) work.

What's really satisfying about Go is the way the soaring architecture of symphonic hipster du jour Nico Muhly's compositional work looms just as large on the more effervescent numbers as it does in these quieter spots - it really drawing everything together into a wonderfully coherent whole, despite the record's ever-shifting tides and Birgisson's violently affecting knack for distilling every emotion known to humanity into a single echoing chord change.

On A Mission is on its way to turning that mildly grubby dream into reality.

Confess isn't just steeped in the sounds of an era, but in its films, feel, stories and sense of aspiration. It's an album about love and lust behind the bleachers, in the dark of a multiplex, on the back of a motorcycle, in bathroom cubicles, under the neon glare of America's bright lights - and it's wholly, wholly brilliant.

Hearing one of these songs by chance would be perfectly inoffensive, but listening to an entire album of them just feels like a chore.

By its very nature this is a more cohesive work than "Cassadaga," and a fine, true one at that: evocative, sporadically inspired and resoundingly enjoyable, repeat plays paying dividends.

Truth and parody meshed together in an altogether confusing and ill-conceived manner.

With the current renaissance of the one-man band genre, it's pleasing to see that we now have a modern-day figurehead worthy of rock’s glorious past.

12 immaculately crafted slabs of grandiose sound.

At times the record does dip, as some tracks don’t seize your attention quite as strongly as they might. But all-in-all, BSS have made an album that trumps any cynicism that they may have faced, and in the process Hug of Thunder is as hearteningly unguarded and positive a record as you are likely to hear this year.

Despite the album peaking early, though, there's more than enough evidence here to suggest that Hauschka, thrillingly, is just getting into his stride.