Breathtaking[ly] experimental.

Piramida is undoubtedly the band's most immediate work to date and it might be strange to be writing it, but nearly each and every track would work standing on its own.

Wracked with doubt, contradiction and existential despair, Mama, I’m Swollen strikes out as a weighty, superbly realised endeavour which, for all its oppressive nature, is as eminently listenable and brave an album as any the band have produced.

It's the interpretation of a human voice that elevates this record beyond a curious obscurist record and makes the simmering (but never boiling over) electronica truly shimmer.

The result is an often crushingly heavy masterpiece that has true meaning with or without the music. It’s a rare thing these days but Porcupine Tree seem able to do it time and again. This album is no exception.

I Used to Spend So Much Time Alone is pretty in its sonic gloominess and witty in the way that it wears its anxieties on its sleeve, but what makes it special is the way that all of that is grounded by the sturdiest of anchors--the quiet optimism that friendship inspires.

The resulting work, and meeting of two minds who admire and compliment each others creativity, is something of rare, imaginative depth.

It's a record which brilliantly lives up to and even exceeds all the hype, mystique and hyperbole that has surrounding it since it's inception, and it's essential for anyone with even a fleeting interest in rap music.

It is a refreshing, sublime, and exciting work of art.

Occult Architecture Vol. 1 makes for a sorcerous entreaty to dig that little bit deeper when weighing up the relationship--and clearly quite inspiring power--of the inner world and the outer realm. Here’s hoping the second installment delivers just as forcefully.

Rattle’s greatest accomplishment isn’t to just write music for drums, but to write songs that capture AND transcend this modern era we live in.

If you can name me just one rapper that made a more complete record in 2003 than either of these two Southern boys' efforts, I’ll call you a liar.

It is a beautiful result that, through the austere and effortlessly enchanting tunes, leaves you feeling the emotion infinitely more than any self-professed ‘emo’ might.

Superchunk have made a record that ties experience to the present, instinct to wisdom, youthful vigor to aged knowledge, everything in the world to a passion for music.

The Monitor, then, is a boisterous, eloquent argument that rock music need not be dumb in order to be enjoyable, moreover, that we should be questioning and analysing our heritage rather than precariously stumbling onwards. But mostly, it's just a stupendous collection of songs; one that demands to be listened to as loudly as you can possibly get away with.

A record built on restraint, tinged by poignancy and wrapped up in poetic human emotion. Quite wonderful.

Bad As Me sees the performer reaching back into his bag of tricks to pull out a few favourites in a characteristically exhilarating, terrifying, heartbreaking, tear jerking, bone-rattling style.

The improvement in sound quality on the re-release is remarkable; the songs, incredibly, sound even meatier and more imposing now. ... The nine 'new' songs, which comprise disc three, do feel a bit like fan service for those who were upset 19 years ago at the absence of the ‘Sunshine Woman’ sessions.

The Distant Sky EP is what happens when a lone wolf suddenly needs to reach out and touch. It’s the chaotic scream around loosing a child. It’s a careful help me into the darkness. It’s an invitation to come closer, to hold hands--at last, be close to our St Nick. And it’s fucking glorious. It could have done with a better mix, though.

Bruner/Thundercat has tamed (to some extent at least) his scope and ambition through his various influences and thoughts to make his third full-length album a joyful, crazy, substance-fuelled epic in an area where most of his contemporaries would take themselves endlessly seriously. Here, Bruner has harnessed all that into maybe his best record yet.

From the Sea to the Land Beyond sees British Sea Power operating on a different level. A wonderful hymn to the island we call home.

An hour of music which can be moving, transcendent, invigorating and relaxing all in a matter of minutes.

This is an album that could easily be subtitled Mission Accomplished, but for once, it feels like bowing out on top would be ill-advised. That, in itself, is quite the compliment.

Overall, Journal For Plague Lovers is a strident comeback that would have been a worthy direct successor to "The Holy Bible" had circumstances been different.

Bejar's reckless approach to romance is almost certainly one of those things you'd live to regret, but that's the appeal of great artistic endeavours: when the writer can pull in his audience so completely that we experience all the adventure while risking none of the consequences.

Every note is considered and played with joy, care and a sense of craft. Together with the record's beautiful packaging, Cervantine feels like a personal historical document, speaking to and from the soul.

Rather than sound like two guys in their fifties messing around with some expensive equipment to recapture their past glories, it’s strikingly modern.

Asobi Seksu are a band possessing talent and ability far beyond their years and with Citrus they have fully realised their potential in a particularly short time. It is difficult to see how they will be able to better this sophomore release, but you wouldn't bet against them having a few trump cards left up their collective sleeves.

The record sounds like a seamless amalgamation of the three Hole eras (punk, grunge and rock), with Dalle’s ska roots almost entirely supplanted in favour of a grungier muse.

A very special record, indeed.

Merritt has lifted the curtain JUST enough to draw us that bit more into his world, while still maintaining both his brilliantly singular world-view and style AND enough distance for us to look on in abject admiration.

Not only does Sneaks survive the sophomore slump, she dances circles five circles round it without ever (EVER) skipping a beat.

Return To Cookie Mountain is a party soundtrack for a fucked-up generation and an opus that inhabits the midpoint between the scarcely conjoining circles of eclecticism and enjoyability whilst maintaining consistency throughout.

This is Crimes refined, sculpted so that its edges aren’t as jagged as many sound-clashes past have proved to be; it exhibits managed eccentricity enough to stoke the furnaces of intelligent, demand-more punks worldwide.

To have taken the most complex psychological crisis and distilled it into a record which is not only so powerful but also so coherent and assured is awe-inspiring. Malody is a towering testimony to the power of song and marks the (re)birth of an exceptional artist.

Adventurous and bold yet distinctive in execution, No Time represents Dan Reeves' most essential body of work to date.

A good deal of the success of C'mon is down to its solid foundations – its quality song-writing and deft sequencing.

Everything about Beak> is a cohesive, ambitious and thoughtfully-executed murky delight. A godsend of a record in these times of landfill indie.

The great magic of this record is that while acclimatisation to Zombyland is taking place, there's so much depth to explore, be it the bizarrely effective tonal shifts, the diversity of musical style, the sense of simplicity that, no doubt, veils immense complexity.

It's so proud to be pop and hopefully this'll make others realise it's never a guilty pleasure to enjoy songs that make you happy; songs that make you wanna dance your ass off and songs that perfectly fit the criteria for pretending to be in a music video.

Fans of Jesu will enjoy the boisterousness of some arrangements here, the incessant crushing of the listener’s resistance.

There’s the same pent up aggression and wall of sound production, but Pissed Jeans have taken that blueprint and given it grunt and bite, via Korvette’s insurance-salesman-by day-everymanism and Bradley Fry’s knack for turning guitar sludge into genuine riffs.

As we approach the centre, the violent and promiscuous impulses usually reserved for men bubble into view, reclaimed firmly in terms that Trent Reznor only wishes he could convey again. Caught undertow in this wreckage, you might mistake such a layout for entropy; step back, however, and the boarders and subdivisions wrought by EMA’s hand become clear.

Severant's biggest strength is its optimism--very few of the tracks here fall into introspection, with nearly all of them boasting a crystal ball looked into by the meanest of hawk-eyes.

He's had it rough (or as rough as can be for one with his level of talent and success anyway), but once again he's managed to take his adversity and turn it into perhaps the album of the year.

It sees Mono edge closer still to the classical spectrum, incorporating strings to great effect.

Is Merriweather Post Pavilion the flawless album that it's been willed to be? Taken as a whole I'd say it's pretty damn close.

A Place To Bury Strangers have managed to strike a perfect balance between noise and tune, and as a result created one of 2009's most ingenious records.

A magnificent album where every verse fills you with excitement for the next chorus, where wide-scoping fields of sound work in unison to stage the perfect pop-rock riot and where every meticulously crafted melody comes back to haunt you when you least expect it.

Heaven takes another firm and measured stride forward in what is rapidly becoming a celebratory jog towards brilliance: a re-affirmation of what heart, skill, craft and guile can birth given time and experience.

Burst Apart deserves all the plaudits that can be thrown at it; albums are rarely as unashamedly, gut-wrenchingly, genuinely emotional as this.

This is a faithful and staggering tribute to a state executed with passion and originality, and it's one of the finest records you'll hear this year.

They may have churned their sound into something new, but their heart and their character is still very much in the right place, and that’s what makes Heartthrob more than just a brilliant pop album, it’s unarguably a brilliant Tegan & Sara album and it’s very, very close to being perfect.

What makes Native Invader a work of genius--a kind of Great American novel, perhaps--is that it seamlessly blends the personal, political, natural and cosmic into the same story.

There’s just so much going on, so much to wonder at.

Beyond genre lines, racial lines, sexuality lines, any lines you can think of, it's that all-too-rare gem: a universal story you'll come back to long after the hype's been and gone.

This really does come very close to the top of the pile. An essential opus from a truly essential artist.

Fucked Up Friends is a blissful reminder that the practice of absorbing rather than regurgitating influences--innovation and invention--is alive and well.

It'd be reductive to try and describe a timeless album like Smother as a step up from its two predecessors, or even as a surefire Mercury contender--although it is, on both counts.

With giant gyrating reverberated guitars and a grandiose brass section, this is the sound of a rock band attempting the sweeping gallantry of Sibelius or Tchaikovsky and getting away with it. It represents a smugly victorious ending to what is a phenomenally strong and well-polished album.

Whichever road they happen to tread next, it'll be worthwhile following in their footsteps.

There may be reference points aplenty throughout Nonagon Infinity and its creators make-up but King Gizzard & The Wizard Lizard sure know how to put their own spin on things. And in doing so have created their finest body of work to date.

A thrilling ride nonetheless, unlike many others you’re likely to experience in 2013.

‘The Wolf’ demonstrates it is still essential for a rebel rock n roll record to compel you to punch the air as if Motley Crue were making a comeback, Vince Neill and all.

While Wild Light correctly prioritises focus over twists, there are sections that catch you by surprise.

Sound System really is the definitive article, and with Christmas on the horizon, is sure to feature high on several wishlists.

It’s got something for everyone, providing everyone is at least a little fucked in the head.

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.

You wouldn’t want one track or note to be changed or left out. It’s a genuine masterpiece: complex, funny, sexy, bleak, uplifting, inspiring and enthralling from start to finish.

Crack-Up is perhaps Fleet Foxes' most epic and inventive record yet.

The OOZ creates a brutalist and beautiful terrain, one that we can wander vicariously through King Krule; it’s nothing short of a masterpiece.

What gives this album more depth is the focus, the rolling symmetry and cinema.

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.

Stage Four is quite possibly Touché Amoré’s best album yet. They have once again one–upped themselves into crafting a fierce record which would do all their families proud.

Simply another shimmering LP from a truly original band.

The mood is buoyant, the instrumentation is varied and the childlike naivety runs rampant throughout.

Much like Actor, it's the contrast of tendernesses in both the red-raw and Elvis senses of the word, that marks St. Vincent's music out as something more sophisticated and enthralling than it might first appear.

It’s full of the minute anxieties of life that keep you awake in the early hours, but set to some of the most life-affirming sounds you’ll have heard for a long time.

A surefire contender for metal album of the year and certainly worthy of some crossover recognition, Sentenced To Life deserves some adulation purely for reminding us that metal doesn't need bells and whistles to be thrilling, even in 2012.

In Colour stands tall as a bold and renewably-exciting triumph.

It's an assured collection of 11 songs that capture a mixture of exhilaration and heartbreak that is all their own.

Songs for Christmas is beautiful.

For a band still very much in its infancy, Sports is an astonishing body of work far beyond any kind of expectation you'd put at its creators' feet.

Imagine The Mars Volta's swollen red super-giant bursting beyond the constraints of mass and time and finally contracting to an all encompassing black-hole, sucking in Lightning Bolt’s heaviest riffs and The Boredoms’ most intense drum work after hurtling them to ‘n’ fro against all manner of cosmic debris.

Grievances is yet another remarkable record from one of the UK’s most consistently remarkable underground bands.

Precocious, other-worldly and vividly ambitious.

The LP as a whole is a remarkable collection of ideas, which manages to be overwhelmingly creative, but intrinsically listenable.

The rich production and ambitious, multi-faceted arrangements provided by White’s Spacebomb crew are the perfect foil for Prass’s soft, exquisite voice and expressive, tear-stained songs, such that the overwhelming impression of the LP is, against the odds, one of triumph; of beauty both wrangled out of and amplified immeasurably by loss.

It’s rare to find an electronic full length that manages to feel so varied, and yet also so harmonious in its uncompromising vision.

TVOTR splurge slabs of strange sound into almost freeform structures that draw on jazz sensibilities, alt-rock peculiarities and the whole NYC infatuation with cool.

This reissue is a welcome reminder of an album that has never quite gained the classic status it deserves, but despite this the vital ingredient--the intimate feeling at the heart of Painful--remains agelessly undamaged by the passage of time.

Where the split-personality of Cryptograms hinted as much, a cohesive effort on Microcastle delivers the goods in its entirety.

If Oh, Inverted World and Chutes Too Narrow were like ADHD-riddled cousins, unable to inhabit their own thoughts for longer than a few seconds at a time, then Wincing The Night Away is the Ritalin-gorged riposte. Its bounce is more bleary-eyed; its euphoric bouts tempered by a weird, waking-dream sensation that some dark presence is stalking the peripheries of its foggy vision.

Copia is the sound of Cooper surpassing himself, combining his patented minimalist drones with beautifully rendered piano.

Some people are going to think this is a masterpiece, the equal of "Hissing Fauna." Others will call it a self indulgent mess that pushes indie-rock somewhere it really wasn't meant to go. Personally, I think both those sound about right.

Black Noise manages to navigate the tightrope of expectation and creative vision with aplomb. It’s rich and meaty, the kind of album you can really get to know over a long period of time.

While the quality and beauty of The Golden Age can stand confidently beside those two classics ["Everclear & "Mercury"], it stands alone as another distinct chapter in the life of this band, precious to those who know them.

As the inclusion of the Neil Armstrong quote suggests, this is a step back towards the sunlight. Where that step leads remains to be seen, but this process has already produced a classic debut album.