Overall Menuck seems to have made a record no less personal than the first. Pissing Stars is mysterious yet relatable, and as always, a distinctly singular experience.

A resolutely minor key offering, it’s even less instantly gratifying than before, precipitating its one central flaw: that these songs unfold at a leisurely pace – growing in stature as they progress from unassuming beginnings to sweeping crescendo – is admirable, but a touch overwhelming; even a little daunting on first exposure.

Coconut, then, is a baffling, dirty, even exhausting listen at times, but never less than engaging throughout.

The USP of Attention Please lies in Wata, Boris' lead guitarist: she sings on each of the album's ten songs, the first time a Boris full-length has been entirely female-voiced.

The milquetoast, wholegrain rock of My Old, Familiar Friend never really rises out of the mire to become anything other than a pleasant and forgettable toe-tapper.

It will not blow you away and, though well balanced, it's not a 'dipper' in that proceedings are constant and hand-picking the best selections does a disservice to the remainder, which complete a strong but not astounding record.

The result is exactly what I Believe wasn't: tasteful, sensitive and containing a fair few memorable tunes.

The songcraft is back, but the romance is still missing.

Despite this not quite equalling the dizzy heights of their earliest recordings, there's an adventurous slake in its dysfunctional make-up to suggest this won't be the last time we hear from its evasive creators.

Temple sets out to tinker with rather than drastically disfigure his familiar surroundings and for the most part succeeds, with occasional flashes of casual brilliance. That these flashes occur with minimal fuss merely adds to the enjoyment.

In Heaven sees them take the scenic route to vindicating their claim to be pop with a capital P, maintaining enough of their atmospheric qualities without being in thrall to any genre's limitations.

As a whole, it’s a 3 [out of 5], but the first two tracks are worth the extra point.

There's no doubt that Skee-Dat-De-Dat...Spirit of Satch is a project of love, but by the closing stages there's no getting away from it; the album is a bit of a... drag.

R.I.P. suggesting a fitting final ceremony, where Ghettoville evokes Actress driven over the abyss, As an obituary, however, it’s a fittingly emotional, opaque and confounding conclusion for a project that has been an outlier amongst a scene of outliers from its inception.

With Trans Love Energies, Death in Vegas do well to avoid such pitfalls, instead creating an album that is musically and thematically filled with space, both roomy and outer.

The way it continues to go to the extreme within more conventional confines seems to have extracted both more emotional engagement as well as energy from The Mars Volta.

The Errant Charm is marked by subtle beats and expansive drones that underpin most of the tracks and add an interesting new dimension to the band's sound.

For the most part, Small Craft on a Milk Sea slots back into that forward thinking mindset, creating further realms of possibility for Eno to operate in.

Born Under Saturn sounds like what it probably is: a bunch of smart musicians having a great time.

As it stands it’s an indulgent and, at times, gorgeous listen that merely helps restate your concrete opinions about Muse.

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

It's a nagging feeling that despite the sheer addictiveness of the material, the stonkingly monumental percussion and the band's fledgling yet highly-accomplished abilities, it’s a bit devoid of that certain spark.

It might tend more towards solid songwriting than reinvention, and might not quite reach the heights of lunatic brilliance of its predecessor, but as far as most people's dream of what a proper pop album should be, Lupercalia certainly comes closer than most.

There’s a distinct lack of choruses, and if you don’t like the rest of Yorke’s ouvre it would be kind of bizarre if this won you over. But really, if you have a tolerance for drums that go ‘fzzz’, Tomorrow’s Modern Boxes is a lovely, lovely record, easily Yorke’s best non-Radiohead effort.

Fanfarlo are similar fare, and that’s a perfectly fine thing to be. The band make pretty, guitar and organ-led indie, with discreet swirls, parps, and trills of brass and strings.

Although not quite the timeless classic its creators had hoped for, Prisoner is a solid debut that bears all the hallmarks of a bright future for The Jezabels.

A truly elemental opus.

Restraint and getting to the point are valuable commodities in music, but Too True misfires in this regard.

Its minimal drum patterns and and playful touches speak of a deceptive lightness of touch, but four albums in and The Raveonettes are making plain they know what it is to have lusted and lost, and therein lies the key to unlocking Lust Lust Lust’s poignant pleasures.

While this isn't Wild Nothing stalling, Empty Estate never coalesces into anything as confident as his previous releases, leaving the impression that for now he's running on the spot.

It’s from hearing the brand new tracks that Jungle’s burgeoning songwriting mastery is really showcased.

Vek has channelled these emotions into an album that sporadically bristles and intoxicates with thrilling rhythms and fierce yet monotonously-delivered lyrics.

Ironically, listening to most of EX feels like watching a film with the sound turned off.

Night Work is a pastiche of Scissors Sisters' former glories that sees the band desperately sewing together the leftover scraps of their idols in a vain attempt to recapture the pertinence of their debut.

‘You Are The Quarry’ sees Morrissey back in the ring, lean, limber and fighting fit.

This is Eminem’s best record in a decade--and one of the most impressive, entertaining and addictive hip-hop albums of the year.

It is an album which requires patience, which, once granted provides ever increasing rewards.

As ever with Themselves, there aren’t really highlights or many changes of pace – it’s full-on, all the time; you don’t get skits between songs, just a second, third or fourth gabbling vocal line within these ten, unconventionally concise songs.

If you’ve even the slightest interest in ‘heavy’ music, you simply must make Saturday Night Wrist an integral part of your record collection.

A covers record will probably never pique interest in the way that a fresh batch of new material will. But for those who do take the risk, fans and the curious alike, Imitations is a touching, tasteful and rewarding listen that will not disappoint.

The result is a warm, fuzzy embrace of an album; a release that will delight fans of James’s work as a solo artist and bandleader of My Morning Jacket, and likely anyone else who happens upon it.

Nobody expected Smith to reinvent the wheel on his second album, but anything is better than limping along on a flat tyre.

Despite the sometime over-the-top dynamics of its voice--the USP that’ll actually be the main appeal to certain admirers, anyway--this album is an engaging listen, one that builds on the promise of its maker’s debut and suggests that, with a little taming, My Brightest Diamond could enjoy the sort of recognition the likes of Bat For Lashes can attract--neither will ever be Björk-sized of profile, but each is creating engrossing, romantic music that transcends genres.

The erratic nature of this album makes it a near perfect soundtrack for these troubled times, where no one is quite sure what awaits around the next corner.

This is not the sound of the London underground (although the album ends with that particular sound); it sounds nothing like London. Not the London I know. London Undersound was made by a Wandsworth-ite so rapt by his own fears and insecurities, that he has completely lost sight of the bigger picture.

God is Good is a more confused creation, more like two EPs than a concerted record.

The music is returned front and centre for an album that's finer than the Biophilia source materials that spawned it.

A set of incredibly well put together takes on all of your favourite nursery rhymes.

So while Always Ascending is certainly a return to form in places, it certainly isn't perfect, particularly in its middle run. ... Overall, it's a pleasant feeling to have a good Franz Ferdinand record again, like a warm hug reminding one of a simpler time only slightly bastardised by ten years of regressive politics and is seemingly inspiring many of these bands to redress the balance.

Transverse is an exhilarating collection that becomes a new listening experience on every subsequent hearing.

Era is the sort of record you can just sink into.

Generally, though, its makers can count Common Existence a triumph.

What Wavves has created here is a collection of gleaming pop gems, laced with self-hatred and a keen sense of rebellion.

As a collection of songs and sentiments there is a nagging sense that Dulli is revisiting old haunts. Yet it feels reassuring, as Dynamite Steps continues the resurgent course he's been treading in recent years.

To cap things off, there's an untitled track that feels distinct from the rest of the album, it's recorded in a pre-war style and sees a guitar gently plucked next to Taylor's voice. It's a charming end to a stunning, yet intense emotional ride that Piano takes you on.

The record captures and remains stuck in a moment, circulating a narrative where memory serves and is replaced over and over again, like an acid flashback with a locked groove.

A welcome return, and one that hopefully signals a healthier and less troublesome existence in the future.

Love’s Miracle is an oddly enjoyable affair on the whole, although in a time when US bands are working through a Fantasy Football League-like transfer system (I’ll swap your an ex-Jesus Lizard singer for a Helmet drummer), it may take an album or two for them to completely work out their sound.

Destination Tokyo is something of a departure from the group’s previous sound, insofar as it is pared back and produced with more of an eye for clarity.

Ripe is one of the most unabashedly joyous and invigorating albums to have appeared in years. It’s a creative tour de force which marks the arrival of a new pop maverick.

What The World Needs Now... is solid proof that reformations never sound good on record.

This still isn’t for everyone, but it’s sounding less like a side-project, and more like a super-group.

It’s with a sense of relief then perhaps that Revolution Radio, whilst feeling a little like a pastiche of their forms selves, sees the trio steering a steadier course on more reliable ground.

Regrettably, there's little substance to take in here.

As an insight to a world within a world of black American music, Personal Space elicits interest. As a compilation, it fails to sustain it very long.

Charm aside, it's an album by a cat.

I Go Missing In My Sleep is a collection of beautiful songs made infinitely more beautiful by the way they've been meticulously put together. The lightest touch lets Wilson's exceptional vocal sit effortlessly close, without sacrificing complexity or interest.

While there may not be any surprises here, this is a small record holding some big thoughts--and Beam doesn’t need a big band sound to do them justice.

It's to Mercer's credit that Port of Morrow, which could have so easily veered off into soulless corporatism or self-indulgence, manages to remain nothing less than both a universal and personal joy to listen to.

Ultimately this odd couple have made for a very merry musical marriage, artists from seemingly disparate musical backgrounds proving themselves capable of collaborating on music that is worth listening to in its own right, as opposed to merely being a interesting genre-crossing exercise.

Augustines is a record that was born to run, taking hearts along with it as it goes, and is, to these ears, one of the great rock records of recent years.

Plague Park possesses an unsightly surface layer of cluttered sound and alien screeches that require swift penetrating to enjoy the sticky gooiness that resides within.

Although Blood only features ten predominantly short songs, the myriad flashes of brilliance render the album’s brevity irrelevant.

There is a nagging sense with this attempt that they are leaning on their influences even more than usual, however this is also stands as their best-produced and most accessible record, so there is a balance struck. Whether those outside of the proggy, psychedelic set will acknowledge that, remains to be seen.

Life Is Sweet! veers so frequently from densely orchestrated to intimately raw and back again - often within the same tune - these little throwaway breaks tend to work as conveniently placed little palate cleansers.

While '...Ghosts' is all very pretty and nice, there isn’t quite enough to get your teeth into.

If Lovers Know initially feels like it’s dipping into the golden age of the American songbook, then this must be the most fruitful panning for gold to be released in eons.

Black Dice still belong in the DIY basement space but with Load Blown they’ve made their most accessible album yet.

13 does what you’d expect it to, no more, no less.

As long as sincerity still counts for something and melody remains king, we'll let these qualms lie and lap up a record that's chock-a-block with comfort food choruses.

This is Butcher Boy's finest hour to date, but by the signs of it the best is yet to come.

A compelling record then all told, and one which should hopefully ensure Marshall has the benefit of a label suitor for his next release if there's any justice.

A strong bottom line is that Whine of the Mystic is, above all else, an enjoyable album.

By providing himself with a narrow set of parameters, he’s discovering what he’s capable of in a less-than-optimal creative environment, and if Intermission is anything to go by, a protracted lay-off from Ghostly releases whilst he pursues other avenues would be a real shame--nobody’s capturing that midnight mood quite like Shigeto at the minute.

They are not in tune with trends, or even an aesthetic, so much as something earthier...the seasons perhaps, because there’s no denying that Gorgeous Johnny has a latitude and a longitude... it’s the sound of a fading summer.

Alegrias never sips the same poison for any length of time, like a cocktail that doesn't care how it gets drunk. It should be noted that like anything meant to satisfy innumerable tastes, Alegrias is likely to impress and frustrate in equal measure.

Weekends is an inspired assortment of astutely executed ideas packed into 12 flowing pieces that deserves a wider audience than its likely to receive.

Despite the immense joy of the final five songs, the prospect of a repeat play is a discouraging one when the first five brought forth a cynicism entirely unwelcome among a collection designed to elicit wonder.

A darkly glistening, deeply attractive and unexpectedly intelligent use of the album as storytelling device.

It’s OK, it’s not bad, but it’s largely standard Weezer and the stand-out tracks are fewer and further between.

Although largely interchangeable with its predecessors, Cloak and Cipher still sounds fresh enough to please Land of Talk loyalists, and engaging enough to showcase their appeal to new listeners as well.

This is not an easy album to listen to and digest. It is all the better for it.

Through the heartache, there is a sophisticated definition of sound; this is no guts-on-the-floor album of raw country blues.

Although not quite possessing the gobsmacking "WOW!" factor of Veronica Falls' debut, Waiting For Something To Happen is an often revealing and utterly compelling follow-up that is sure to feature in many an end-of-year best of list come December.

While the album at large maintains the lusciously rich production levels (a marked improvement over their prior LP, which was a stodgy and undercooked thing) there are frequent moments where a self-conscious attempts to inject ‘maturity’ into the song writing undercuts their former charms.

Foreign Born feel like they should have more staying power, even if there’s less flash.

The I Am Arrows project clearly has potential, but at 14 tracks, Sun Comes Up Again can feel like a trudge through the outback of mediocrity rather than an exciting exploration into new territory.

Sure, there are those who might be after an In Ghost Colours part two who might be alienated by this album's evident ambition, but for most of us, this is going to be a serious upping of the game.