As an album Candela has everything: it's energetic and adventurous but these adjectives are synonymous with Mice Parade’s constant journeying through music.

There are some great moments on this record, but by the end they’re lost under swathes of synths and looking for a sense of purpose.

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

Despite something of a slow start, Letherette builds into an expansive, absorbing album, spanning a huge variety of influences and threading them together impressively within a coherent framework.

It is a blazingly enjoyable record, the most purely fun album the band has made since Fever to Tell.

Save Rock and Roll isn't life or game changing but it's probably the album FOB needed to make--if only for themselves--and as an honest portrait of the roller-coaster ride that is FOB's career, it finds them on a high.

As the Richard Harris exhibition showed, by enabling us to momentarily confront our own mortality, morbid artistic meditations on death can be oddly and overwhelmingly uplifting.

The Thermals are still a band in awkward transition resulting in a record that is reliably good by their own decent standards, but which fails to fulfil its very apparent potential to be great.

Whilst arguably Beam's most consistent album for some years, there are fewer moments of raw beauty here than on past excursions, resulting in a whole that is somehow less than its impressive component parts.

If you had the latest Pig Destroyer record high up on your ‘Best of 2012’ list, if you hold John Peel’s Napalm Death and Carcass sessions close to your heart then Abandon All Life will be a record for you to cherish. If not: move along, there’s nothing for you here.

Despite Jello Biafra’s best intentions, White People And The Damage Done seems to settle for righteous belligerence while falling some way short of being a worth soundtrack for the anti-globalisation movement.

It is a joyous, emboldened return to form and one that reminds us of what a treasure Edwyn Collins is.

Free The Universe reeks of chasing the success of Baauer’s 'Harlem Shake'--shich, incidentally, came out on Diplo’s Mad Decent label--like a rabid dog. As such, it’s just another notch on macho rave’s bedpost.

The playing is astounding throughout, with Barnes and Trost turning a dizzying assemblage of strange instruments into a strikingly cohesive whole.

Wakin' on a Pretty Daze is one of those rare examples of an artist’s uninhibited self-indulgence resulting in an LP which plays firmly to their strengths.

Paramore feels far more human and honest than anything the band have committed to tape to date, and even at its most intense, the record feels intimate (or at least like a gig happening in the back corner of your mind).

The sound of this record is one that may have gotten them a record deal, but will not get them much of an audience.

While it’s very much business as usual--groove-led-Stooges-acid-pop with added screaming--it sounds so gloriously Mudhoney it offers a thrill akin to Popping Candy fizzing in My Little Pony blood.

Depeche Mode’s biggest crime is that they're just a bit boring.

The Leisure Society have certainly woven a kind of magic here, but with all their era-hopping it falls a little short of the climaxes of their live performances.

Far more than with his first album Overgrown is focused upon his songwriting rather than his technology, and it’s much stronger for it.

Amygdala is a thoroughly immersive album, possessing so many layers that it seems to change upon each listen.

The Ascent doesn’t actually feel like a Wiley record. That’s mainly because it’s a struggle to find him amongst the gaggle of voices that spit their way across vapid efforts like the Chip and Ms D collaboration ‘Reload’ and the pedestrian Far East Movement-mauled ‘So Alive’.

A refreshing debut.

There is a lack of substance in the middle of the album as tracks fly by, melting into each other, and because the album bombards us early on, it doesn’t pick up until the final stretch.

Shaking the Habitual is an entity entirely unto itself; a warm chaos that drinks you in.

Further exploration and perseverance reveals a collection of tunes rich with details, awash with well honed musical ideas, thoughtfully arranged vocals and expression filled lyrics.

Unfortunately, Indigo Meadow is a so-so affair that never quite fulfills expectations.

Machineries of Joy is an improvement on its predecessor but far from a dramatic leap forward.

Many demons are slain at the altar of the Reverend in the course this album--wit, eloquence, incisiveness and originality to name but a few.

The North Borders is as ambitious a record as its predecessor, and it’s just as successful.

This is an album that maintains the joyless musical brand Hutchcraft and Anderson crystallised with their two million selling debut.

After it burrows its way under your skin, The Terror does genuinely feel like something of a dark masterpiece, the album you’ll stick on to discredit anyone who tries to claim The Flaming Lips are lacking in depth or darkness.

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

Division Street is Simon’s sweet step into the twilight sun.

Mason might have a lot of worries on his mind, but he’s managed to express them beautifully here.

Despite many excellent tunes, a continual emphasis on effects makes the album slightly grating in parts, feeling a bit like a Wire and Frampton Come Alive! recurring super group nightmare, in which the best and worst aspects of Seventies rock music are forced to combine to beat the Russians.

Over and over again What About Now pitches itself at the same commercially anthemic middle ground as U2, ideal for talent show montages and inspiring moments at award shows but ultimately anemic, soulless and forgettable.

Even when downcast, Love & Devotion is a sensual, lively record and anyone mourning the death of Air France should find much to enjoy here.

Clocking in at just under an hour, its occasionally harrowing contents rendering it an uneasy listen, maybe if BRMC had taken a leaner approach Specter... may have ended up on a few more commercial radars.

All My Relations isn’t a replacement for a brand new Lightning Bolt album, the last one of which dropped in 2009, but it scratches many of those itches, while also fully justifying existence on its own terms.

The Strokes will never get back the raw magic of Is This It? but, with Comedown Machine, they’ve cast a different spell entirely--one that’s almost joyful.

Off the Record is of more interest as a historical document than for the music itself--something Bartos would probably admit.

Whilst it in no way compares with the leap in ambition we saw between his first two albums, The 20/20 Experience is nonetheless another interesting inter-genre move, this time into alternative R&B and neo-soul.

All Hail Bright Futures withers under the glare of its own garish spotlight, and no amount of zest, pep or joviality can save it.

An album as beautifully conceived as If You Leave is one you follow from start to finish, riveted by the story it weaves and the emotion it bleeds.

Like the most memorable trips, this one creates some sublime eidetic imagery.

So swings and roundabouts, then, but for all Bloodsports’ faults, it’s still pretty good.

His work until now can only be seen as preparing the ground for this body of work, an album so satisfying, accomplished and beautiful.

Brand Brauer Frick are unquestionably a force to be reckoned with, yet they seem unsure exactly what direction to take: whether to continue to interpret dance music using classical apparatus, or to move down a darker, more avant garde route.

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.

Despite the occasionally more personal tone to Tooth & Nail, he continues his role as social commentator magnificently.

It’s the sound of Low passing up the opportunity for a twentieth-anniversary blow-out and opting instead for a quiet get-together with old friends.

He’s definitely establishing his own niche with Punk Authority.

With Images Du Futur, though, the band has stretched into unknown territory while remaining true to its own sound.

It is an album that demands attention, not to mention repeated listenings, to draw out the beauty.

There are no duds here, though Bowie definitely misses the hipster mark on occasion.

Musically, she leaves things deliberately underwritten, rooted in bass or scratchy guitar as opposed to the shiny-shiny production of her earlier work. It lets the songs speak for themselves, though it does occasionally expose their flaws as well.

A few clunkers aside, the songwriting is sensational throughout. And Jones’ voice is more cat purringly perfect than ever.

There's the occasional dud, and occasional dull moment, but Pale Green Ghosts mostly succeeds in expanding Grant's musical palette, and his wry, knowing observations and lyricism remain as sharp as ever.

For all its many laudable attributes, Tales from Terra Firma proves ultimately frustrating: a skilled, capable and talented band still unaware of how best to channel and control their creative energies.

Almost everything here is pretty good when you sit down and concentrate on it, but there little that jumps up and demands your attention.

This an attention-grabbing debut album from a unique and fascinating talent, who has more than demonstrated her validity and potential as a solo artist.

On this record it’s all too common for the songs to merely float by, neither enticing you to pursue nor burdening you into reflection, which is a shame as Ólöf is more than capable of writing stunning songs.

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

As rich and enchanting as the source material undeniably is, the winding songs of Child Ballads ultimately get locked into an unfortunate paradox: the magic of the narratives require a focussed and concentrated listen, but the sparse arrangements and repetitive melodies don’t invite the ear in nearly as closely as Mitchell’s recent LPs.

It's one of those hard to grasp music forms--listen to it on headphones and the acuity of it improves, listen to it on speakers and another side is revealed.

For the most part, though, debut album Between Places cuts and pastes a series of well meaning but unengaging pop vignettes.

Ultimately though, they don’t commit enough to the sonic range which they eventually bring to bear, focusing too much on middle-of-the-road indie-folk.

With some clear-minded editing, a workable pair of EPs could have been forged from New Moon. As it is, the cumulative effect of lumping so many competing ideas together is a mess. A frustratingly muddled mess.

By no means reinventing the wheel then, but not about to carelessly buckle it either.

Despite her numerous contemporaries, Torres stands out as a distinct and compelling performer.

Sometimes you are left wishing that the songs could be left to breathe a little more for themselves.

They may not live on as eternal alternative classics, but they feel emphatically, explosively alive. While preserving his natural nonchalant charm, Thurston sounds more vigorous, bellicose, twitchy and forceful than he has in years.

The result is Mogwai’s most vital release in years; a collection of fully realized pieces that could be the closest they’ll ever come to an unplugged greatest hits.

It’s a little overlong and occasionally flirts with being a vanity project, but What The Brothers Sang draws great strength from how much Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy and Dawn McCarthy clearly cherish these songs, and how much pleasure it gives them to share them with us.

So Palma Violets get a pass this time, their lack of focus and their naivety balanced by their charm. 180 is a record they're only allowed to make once--next time we're going to need some substance.

If Cathal Cully's aim was to leave the past behind then he's succeeded resoundingly, and created one of this year's most ungainly beautiful records in the process.

A lot of the magic of Kavinsky was the box freshness of his reimagining of the past, but across these 13 tracks the allure of Beverly’s Hills Cop high-tops and alien blasting game soundtracks begins to sound tired and worn out

Amok is, above all, a very pleasurable listen, basically just the sound of some talented middle aged dudes enjoying themselves. Let it wash over you, and you’ll enjoy it too.

For the most part it’s a successful approach, etching out real depth from twisting jaunts like the excellent ‘Ghosts’ and ‘Jamaica’. But as soon as they tread away from the angular indie pop paradigm, Theme Park begin to lose their edge.

As an observer however it’s tempting to shoo him away awhile into the redwood forests, just long enough that he might wrestle with something a little meatier, a work as gently heartbreaking as it is cerebrally seductive.

Anthems is a confident, solid and ultimately hugely likable debut; Carter and Carroll have succeeded in producing something that on occasion genuinely lives up to its ambitious title.

Although at times Thirst does a very good impression of perfect throwaway pop, it is just an impression.

Despite this run of two poor(ish) songs, the album is largely excellent--a record bridging the gap between country music and popular music’s less derided genres perfectly.

The result is a collection of workmanlike indie-rock songs that fall some way short of being a good album and a long, long way from being the work of a Godlike Genius.

These tracks might frequently sound like the frameworks of songs yet to be written, or the initial throbs of melodies yet to be crafted, but the earnestness and warmth of the thing succeeds in making the record almost as addictive and loveable to hear as it clearly was to perform.

Push the Sky Away, then, is not the Bad Seeds at their zenith, but pretty bloody spectacular for a fifteenth (or seventeenth, or twentieth) album.

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.

Flume’s decision to try his hand at everything, whilst demonstrating his evident enthusiasm and frequent successes, comes at the price of the album’s coherency. Nonetheless, there’s a lot of potential here.

Overall, Clash The Truth isn't so much a departure from Beach Fossils' playful innocence as a more a mature statement of intent documenting Payseur's coming of age as both a musician and songwriter.

Out Of Touch In The Wild feels like an album album, with the tracks naturally feeling their way to one another, but with enough stand out moments to show how far Dutch Uncles have progressed since they recorded that debut in Germany.

Ultimately where Jamie Lidell falls down is its lack of originality or sense of emotional honesty.

Despite its abrasiveness, You’re Nothing is resolutely conservative in its insular aim of pleasing the only audience that matters: Iceage themselves.

This ultimately is Untogether’s crowning victory: despite being mapped by its lack of psychological surroundings, this firmly inward-looking record transports you head-first to Blue Hawaii’s special place, a serene vista where alien syllabic whimsy feels genuinely spiritual, and fuck-giving is most strictly forbidden.

PVT still frequently show flashes of promise and brilliance, but soon undercut themselves through the poor balance between vocal and musicianship.

Honeys is a savvy, all-inclusive slab of disenchanted rage that doesn't hold back at any juncture.

The album’s major problem, more than anything, is that such a flabbergastingly brilliant end stretch hints at a better record that might have been, a furiously abrasive set of drum’n’gaze (sorry) that would have completely blindsided all of us, rather than the enjoyable grab bag of dreamy old and in yer face new that we in fact get.