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

The band ensure they make music, which matches their aesthetic: airy, welcoming story-telling indie folk, which just happens to be painstakingly well considered and recorded. Ultimately though, where all this world building and curatorship comes to fall short is where it matters most: the songs.

The album comes in light lapping waves of melodic song. It doesn’t wash you away, it doesn’t lure you in to your death. It’s a nice album.

Even with these flirtations with violins and brass, Let’s Wrestle are still the band they’ve always been: self-deprecating, scruffy and charming.

It's more than a return to form for SSLYBY--it's potentially their finest hour.

The problem is that throughout the record there is the nagging sense that this is ground that contributors have covered previously, either as 13 & God or in their separate guises.

The record is alive. It has punch, guts, heart, all the things you would hope for really, whilst at the same time maintaining the central potency of what made Ghostpoet so great in the first place: that voice, delivering paeans to lost love and the reality of life like really no-one else can.

It's careful, like well worded advice, and typically careworn, but this ultimately can’t disguise a lack of lyrical spark.

As If is the album they’ve always hinted at, but never pulled off.

Folk-rock, synth-pop, and more mature delves into the post-punk spectrum of alternative rock are all explored in What Chaos Is Imaginary. Each song is a new chapter offering insight into the multi-dimensional world that is Girlpool--and every one is more intricate, more complex, more captivating than the last.

Sick Scenes isn’t a doom and gloom exercise, nor miserable thousand-yard stare. Instead it is the sound of a band doubling down on what brought them to their particular dance, peppered with unflinching honesty and conviction, all dressed up in requisite ‘take us or leave us’ glamour.

There is so much to go back to, beyond cheap thrills and catchy, yet dimensionless, hooks. An album for the ages.

A very special record, indeed.

Some Are Lakes is a record that grows in stature with repeated listens, whispering more of its secrets under the still blanket of late nights.

As a document of the (musical) times, a beautiful, sundry package and admirable unification of today’s very finest towards a common goal, Dark Was The Night is unbeatable.

Yes, this is a collection of Tracks and Traces, meticulously edited in the late-90s, and again more recently, so that none of the musical ideas outstay their welcome--in this respect, it’s not quite an album, and when the less melodically surprising tracks fade out, you feel like you’re moving along to the next case in the exhibit, whereas other albums by Cluster, Harmonia, or Cluster & Eno sustain a mood, and often a weird nervous energy, with their generally more urgent rhythms.

Now Mi Ami are making sense. Now you realise that this band is actually really good. Really, really good. And they make you want to dance.

Gimme Some delivers more than a few pop songs, a legitimate pop album written with the subtlety of a band that has come to appreciate, instead of run from, their hit-making ability.

This comes highly recommended as an appetiser.

Good Morning To The Night is not going to reinvent the wheel, provide breathtaking new revelations on Elton John's back catalogue or shine new light on Pnau's songwriting abilities....But for all of that, toes will tap.

Good rather than great, and enjoyable if rarely fully captivating, what's clear is that Barthmus has a talent both as a producer, arranger and writer that could well pay dividends a couple of records down the line.

This record shows that they have the unerring ability to craft a record that sounds exactly like its influences but remains exciting and thrilling.

All in all, Chiaroscuro is an engaging record that brings new flavours to the palette with every subsequent listen. Prepare to swoon...

If you want an album that is easily digested, doesn’t require much thought or attention, but still ticks all the right boxes in terms of beautiful guitar playing and vocal work, then it’s the one for you.

Every track has something distinct to capture the imagination, but it is the vocal range that is particularly interesting.

The more restrained, and slightly less expansive feel, of some of the tracks here perhaps makes the record as a whole feel slightly undercooked in comparison to its predecessor. Nevertheless it is another fine entry into the enviable discography of one of the most sadly underrated of British songwriters.

Florence isn’t Hayman’s most ambitious or thrilling work ever, but it’s not supposed to be. A moment’s rest can work wonders on a tired soul.

Musically Weaves is a hodgepodge. It opens with surf-pop synths that later give way to meaty, big and bouncy bass lines and bright colours shooting from guitar lines that slip and slide all over the place.

While Ween’s subtlety was never their selling point (but instead a delicious present undertone that added to the comedic effect) The Deaner Album also makes it clear that any poignancy and lightness of touch they did deploy came from Gene.

With this album we find Johnny Flynn striding comfortably and confidently into his own future, and whatever the reception to this record, it’s looking bright for this thoughtful and intrepid musician.

The album has a conceptual and sonic unity that goes a long way to explaining its greatness: The Lioness isn’t a collection of songs, it’s a state of mind, or a state of the soul.

Thanks to the similarities in vocal styles, it’s easy to compare Widowspeak with other acts around, and it’s fair to say that there’s plenty here for fans of such acts to admire. However, there’s also more here for anyone willing to look deeper, especially if you’re fond of a little country-tinged drama with your reverb and wistful vocals.

It's been nearly two decades at the top for this seminal hip hop group, and on this evidence they show no signs of losing their edge.

By track five Hardwired has already showed off all its tricks, and I find myself quite tempted to show my discontent by going to listen to Slayer instead.

It seems they’ve not only gone and made that sensible and mature fifth album that every band past their sell-by date inflicts on their effervescently loyal fans, they’ve actually made a record that would be more appropriate in an old folks’ home than your local indie niterie.

The Lawrence bros do pull some new tricks on Caracal. But the album marks the end of Disclosure as a band, and the beginning of Disclosure as a hit-dispensing enterprise that manufactures durable, no-stain, easy-to-clean products to please every audience.

Sonically the songs are strong.

Putrifiers II is clearly a collaborative effort, and all the more delightful as a result.

If you want a record that sounds a little out of step with everything else around it, which brightens its corners with all sorts of musical curios, then it's a yes for Every Step's A Yes.

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.

Maybe at some points the eastern influences are more prominent, on tracks like 'Panic In Babylon', but on the whole it's classic BJM.

The twelve songs of Nightlife rattle by the listener with alarming speed, and at only thirty minutes long the record seems to be over just as soon as its begun.

Boo Boo is fascinating as an exercise for Bear, and proves that Toro Y Moi has yet another viable direction to take their music in. At some point, Bear may need to chart a clear course for the project but for now it’s fun to hear him freely experimenting with new sonic palettes.

The only real ‘surprise’ about Rihanna’s eighth album is just how challenging it is, not to listen to but to enjoy. Sonically, Anti is defiantly low key with very little to quicken the pulse.

She's made a solid album of pleasant, though slightly conventional, country pop songs, and done a good job of it. But after showing such early promise, it seems like a shame that more people won't get to hear what Alessi Laurent-Marke is capable of.

All said and done, it's the kind of enchanting, quietly literate indie rock record you could build an intricately compelling life story from, while retaining a fascinating jumble of half-told, quarter-understood anecdotes, stolen glances and sad, gleaming characters for leftovers. Lovely stuff.

Less pretension, more tickling the perimeter of pop perfection next time please, Planningtorock--you can skip the beer belly though.

She & Him treat what could be needless and indulgent with care and soul. Volume Two will surprise and charm in equal measure.

For a record bristling with ideas and extraterrestrial fervour the overall result is a little confused.

The album is recognisable in name only. Only a few songs register in their entirety as actual conceivable moments that the artist would have presumably been comfortable releasing.

This album isn’t for you if you like your music handed to you on a plate. It’s not for you if you want constant twists and turns. It is for you if you’re seeking a suite of songs to immerse, and ultimately to lose yourself in.

Considered as a retelling of McCombs’s career thus far, A Folk Set Apart mostly agrees with the original tale, but adds some new aesthetic information.

If you boarded the good ship 'Jaxx back in the Nineties, Crazy Itch Radio won’t see you throwing yourself overboard any time soon. If you were waving it away from the shore, though, this won’t see you splashing your way through the sea to catch up.

It may not be a timeless classic - much like a lot of his immediately great yet throwaway peers - but for all Baldi's youthful exuberance, he's proven himself an honest and remarkably mature set of hands.

You Were Right is never more than solid and, whilst it’s immaculately polished, tired and forgettable lyrics combined with a general sense of 'good enough' about the tunes suggest that Benson is looking forward to The Raconteurs’ return sooner than the rest of us.

Ellipsis isn’t a career-defining album. ... This is a worthy addition to their catalogue and a couple of songs are their in years. For a band on album seven, that’s still an achievement.

Tunng have been moving towards this downbeat place slowly, and their arrival here shows a real cohesion in them as songwriters and as a band. It’s less the sound of a band losing their edge and more the sound of them finding their zen.

It's Central Market, his second full solo release, that sees him coming of age in a manner that befits the familial myth.

If you love Zappa, Unknown Mortal Orchestra could be your artist of the year.

The truth is that, for possibly the first time in Yo La Tengo’s discography, they're a bit boring.

There is not much here that jumps out of the speakers, or that makes you want to scream with excitement; instead it is a release that slowly gets under your skin, and most importantly, doesn’t force its concept down your throat.

There’s filler for sure, but with the 13 tracks being sleek as they are such fluff merely makes for a more rounded proposition.

Though occasional glimpses of that trademark Beta Band brilliance appear, Astronomy For Dogs fails to act as much more than a reminder to listen to Anderson and company’s former glories.

Why Oneida need a concept to rock out for two hours is still a bit of a mystery, but it never tires... if only all shameless self-indulgence sounded this good.

It’s a beguiling mixture of the unknown and well established, and as a cohesive whole it demands your utmost attention for the duration.

Where Adele sounds like a method actor, Marling weaves secretive threads of thought that suggest she’s agonised over things long enough for them to come together with a thud in plain-spoken full stops.

The lack of any real experimentation does mean that it fails to match the very best of the Joan Of Arc, but the consistency and restraint on display puts Life Like in a lot, lot better light then some of the group's hugely varied output

Solo Piano II's classical leanings and modernistic execution are testament to the piano's ever-lasting ability to dazzle the masses.

Unplugged is another in a very long line of R.E.M. live releases you wouldn’t exactly call essential, if only because they set the bar so high with their concert films Tour Film and Road Movie. But things don’t have to be essential to be worth owning.

They seem satisfied enough with their place as one of the underappreciated underdogs of the American alt rock scene, and it's hard not to get a kick out of hearing such an independent spirit raging through this album, even if commercially, Simple Math doesn't quite add up.

Magic is a strong record, riddled with sad emotion yet a noble intent to carry on.

This is comfortably the best effort from Matt Mondanile to date. A tribute to the power of not just belief but also the idea that patience can be your best weapon in terms of creating your best work.

Lavished with luscious keys and gently chiming guitars throughout, ‘The Trial Of The Century’ tickles and teases the listener, offering subtle hooks that take time to appreciate.

It’s incredibly satisfying to hear a band reform and sound completely reinvigorated--every second sounds like it’s been pored over for hours, and Erol Alkan’s encouraging production sits perfectly within the music, never intrusive or stifling.

While Observator may be no step forward, it is affirmation of a great formula.

Throughout ‘The Orchestra, Sadly, Has Refused’ runs the coherent theme of creeping, haunting lullabies, and that furrow which sees The Silent League ultimately master their own unique beauty.

Often collaborative projects end up being an average of its participants, merging in the middle in a grey mulch. Dark Night of the Soul escapes all of that, Sparklehorse bringing the songwriting genius, and Danger Mouse the production, and the details - the watery sounds, the effects, the atmosphere.

It’s not a game-changer of an album, but the game is certainly changing and Apparat is playing for the right team.

Unreal's feel is of the hangover following the hedonistic romp that was Yuck--reassembling a broken self into a positive whole, and taking an auspicious step in a new direction.

It's that all-too-rare example of a band combining myriad shared influences (early Blur, Radiohead, Suede... The Faint?) into something that seems to exist only in its own brilliant context, regardless of trends or cultural norms.

Parts of ...Cheap Seats feel either disposable or a revisiting of old ground.

A debut album containing no filler whatsoever, and a record that mirrors the ferocious intensity of those live shows to boot.

It’s one of the best late-night albums of the year so far, and deserves to be remembered in the best of 2009 polls.

The Delta Sweete Revisited probably isn’t destined to be anything more than an interesting footnote in the career of anybody involved. But it certainly has something to it: a mood, an ambience, an ethereal sultriness, chilly northern mists turning to hot southern steam.

Attack Decay Sustain Release defies such trite categorization and, ultimately, what it is or isn’t doesn't really matter. All you need to know is this is quality.

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

h each subsequent listen, the readout dial wavers more wildly between the 5 and the 9 mark, never quite deciding on where it will come to fall. The enigma that is PVT, then.

The Bears for Lunch is business as usual: more songs about airplanes and beer, as David Byrne would say.

It’s one almighty journey through realms uncharted by The Futureheads thus far, and it’s done in fine form.

As an album, Poetry Of The Deed is a listenable, more than competent collection. The difficulty lies in it's lack of character.

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.

We Are The Pipettes is possibly the only pure-pop record you need own this year.

At Best Cuckold isn't an explosive game changer, nor is it particularly different to what's already out there, but it sure as hell earns a proud place above its peers.

Threadbare’s generous, circular nature is to be applauded; it’s rare that studies of loss are as authentically moving and sensitively played as this--and even rarer they’re so completely endearing.

This is powerful stuff, showing that not only is Anders Trentemøller one of the best in his field but also a master of the album craft. One for the long haul.

If they cut out about half of the songs and focused more on the parts that sounded less like Sigur Ros, Riceboy Sleeps would be a much stronger record.

She writes beats and creates streetwise slithery DogPop with b-lines and brawn and occasionally shows us that wide-open vulnerability is as vital and visceral as virulent heartsteppin’ sin-sharing.