If in the meantime you've lost your copy of Loveless, you could do far worse than listen to Colour Trip.

Easy to enjoy, if not adore.

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

There's a profound lack of any surprises, anything you might not expect, any... inspiration.

He circumnavigates his more common interest in black humoured songs in favour of playful experiments removed of vocals but layered with electronic production.

At times, it is derivative, channelling everyone from Passion Pit to Bowie himself, but it subverts both those acts by being excruciatingly personal and that is where Milagres' real strength lies.

The album only features nine tracks, but somehow still contrives to feel over-long and lack cohesion.

The main flaw with Eno and Holland's collaboration is that words which, read on a page or spoken into silence, might have the space to spark a host of mental images, here frequently seem flattened by the music.

The rest is solid if rarely spectacular, with the Crazy Horse rumble making a welcome return to Young's modern day repertoire.

In the case of Sushi, about half the album is worth hearing.

Earrings Off! is undoubtedly a brave, intriguing release, and should cement Adult Jazz as a band you really can’t afford to ignore.

I wouldn't go as far as saying that Elson's debut is a flight of fancy, but it just doesn't engage the listener in any meaningful manner. An engaging artist should be inviting you to step inside their bubble, they shouldn't really need you to stand outside and wait for the pop.

While the likelihood of Surfing The Void achieving the same levels of critical or commercial success that Myths Of The Near Future enjoyed is debatable, Klaxons' status as one of the most confounding entities in the UK's languid music scene is cemented.

As it turns out, the defining feature of Out Of It... is this lack of a subtle affliction or blockbuster cataclysm with which to gel these 11 tracks together. Dig deep enough and you'll find a sketch of significance, a glimmer of greater worth but it's too ill-formed to really make out meaningfully.

With a soundtrack that captures the spirit of the comics with such fervency, conviction and discipline, Scott Pilgrim vs The World looks set to be a lot less dislikable than you might've hoped.

Elephant Shell finds the ambiguity created by this choice absolutely harrowing, however, and proceeds to run back to that basement with its eyes closed, one hand over its mouth and the other clutching its Bloc Party tapes.

V A R I A N T’s greatest strength is its palpable character, and his remix struggles to properly distinguish itself on an EP that is filled to the brim with varied and often unexpected takes on Frost’s music.

Don't get me wrong, this isn't an Emperor's New Clothes review, just an expression of concern: there aren't enough reasons for casual listeners to come back to this.

Though occasionally he could have done with his band mates to act as a quality control barometer, overall Odludek shows that Goodwin made the right choice to step back onto the treadmill.

It’s most thrilling moments are the ones you’ve already heard before.

Those aforementioned past tense references are telling, because that’s exactly where Go Away White sounds as if it belongs: in the past.

A little moderated, perhaps, but more mature too. For the first time in years, we are able to imagine that Ounsworth’s best work might still be ahead of him, rather than behind him.

So euphoric are the multiple highlights here that one can overlook the occasional dalliance with silliness.

Hesketh can write a damn good pop song, and whether that’s what caused the initial buzz, it's something hard to deny when presented with the cold, hard proof of Hands.

Taragana Pyjarama is unstimulating, oddly soothing in an anesthetized way, hypnotic in the most guileful sense.

The most positive thing to say about Walk the River is that it shows that Guillemots are still capable of producing beautiful, indefinable pieces of contemporary songcraft when the mood takes them. The most concerning aspect is that they're finding these diamonds increasingly scarce among the dirt.

No other band could legitimately produce this record without being accused of extreme plagiarism, and perhaps that goes some way to explaining why, despite its shortcomings, it is still likeable.

Rivers and his Weezer buddies are oddballs but finally they're our oddballs and Hurley more than makes up for sticking by their side through one of the rockiest relationships in recent indie rock history.

And there's a pleasing strand of experimentation running through The Fragile Army that, even though it could have been developed slightly further, suggests that the Spree are more than a one-trick, um, choir.

The Family Jewels seems to be to be symptomatic of a broader trend at the moment to demand our female artists be both credible and commercial at the expense of achieving anything great in either camp.

While Rebel Heart is greatly superior to her last set, MDNA, it suffers from the same malaise of of overabundance.

There’s also an over reliance on the sonic pallette of their Nineties forebears, but those feel like nitpics because Ratworld, despite wearing its influences on its sleeve, presents a world that is uniquely its own.

What makes Coachwhips bigger than the rock n'roll n'amphetamines and extreme petting that inevitably gets etched on them is sheer, dirty, bone-corroding, untamed noise.

Murmuration’s darkness is a source of foreboding, curiosity and yes, comfort.

With Better Ghosts, Mazes have proven they’ve got staying power.

The rest of the album has its moments, though mainly it seems like a chance for the GusGus gang to showcase what other electrified trickery they can muster.

Chasing Yesterday [is] an exceptionally easy listen that manages to stay just the right side of Easy Listening. An excellent record for Sunday mornings or autumn car journeys, staring at the landscape going by.

This self-titled album isn’t bad, and certainly far from unlistenable. But in refusing to risk being something other than middle of the road, they have become arguably worse. It’s boring.

Holly Miranda makes nice music, sometimes really pretty, but it doesn’t say anything real or move emotions to anywhere even nearing an extreme. As a result The Magician's Private Library fails to tick that most important box: evocative.

In your [Tricky's] other albums, the landscape would scuttle and drift, and you’d blink in and out as you willed; here the room remains a room, and yet you remain... well, I still don’t know what you are now. But that’s for the good. I like you better when I can’t define you.

It’s pleasantly like listening to a lost Bobby Darin or Andy Williams recording session where they took the wrong medication for shits and giggles.

Atmosphere play an autobiographical angle affectingly well. It’s an approach that’ll lead some to conclude When Life… is a little on the dull side, but with six albums under their belt seems the duo’s formula is not about to let them down just yet.

Fortino may not have hated the world away, but she possesses a similarly intuitive ability to block everything out so she can operate in her own peculiar vacuum. It’s an admirable quality, but the desperately sad nature of her music makes it a place that’s difficult to visit with any degree of regularity.

So, yeah, Tyvek (on this album anyway) are pretty trad-punk. Which is not all that bad. When one wants to listen to something that sounds like old punk rock but isn't actually old punk rock, one could do a lot worse than listen to these guys.

It's fine. It's well-rounded. It's cosy.

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.

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.

It’s clear that, especially now they’ve released Lacuna, Childhood are indeed making the right kind of noises that’ll ably assist them in making that important career leap from dreamy infancy to artistic maturity.

Much like binging on Haagen Daas ice cream when you’re depressed, a little bit of Marjorie Faire is really rather great. Too much can only make you feel bloated and regretful.

It may only weigh in at seven tracks--one of which has already been released elsewhere, the remainder previously offered only as merch table CDRs--and a little over a quarter of an hour long, but Portland-spawned Blitzen Trapper’s Black River Killer is easily substantial enough to be mildly confusing at times.

It is curiously and enjoyably irregular.

Lysandre justifies its own existence by virtue of its own wide eyed wonder, its own vulnerability, and its giving sense of heart.

Dos! is a reliably fun, garagey treat--and should be viewed as no more than that.

This is a record that nurtures and works around feeling, clawing its hooks deep wherever you lay most vulnerable. Sensual is most definitely the word.

It's true that Love at the Bottom of the Sea does oscillate sharply in terms of quality, though the stature of its finer moments comfortably overshadow the lesser offspring.

Bainbridge’s intentions are of course only known to himself and perhaps his collaborators, but there are enough moments here to make the listener believe that staying the course with Kindness, regardless of his seemingly wilful obtuseness and contrastingly puzzling adherence to cliché, might be worth it in the long term.

This is the sound of a gang who've never been tighter, and a postcard of their journey that couldn't have captured them at a higher peak.

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

Slightly less shambolic guitar playing and overall song craft seems reasonable for two musicians now decades into their careers. Lots of lyrical double entendres are a request, but if they can’t be ribald, then witty will suffice. It’s really only at the third post that V for Vaselines falls.

There are moments of heart-stopping beauty throughout, as well as a newfound optimism that propels the songs to swelling heights.

Like most earnest attempts to reimagine the past, it’s an entertaining indulgence. One that exists to stave off the nagging question: what comes next?

Older, wiser, maybe a little less caustic in the execution - but as still sharp as a knife.

If he's not yet unanimously considered the greatest cardigan-stylee speccy-sporting dweeby loser type songwriter-man of recent decades, he's surely on his miserable, merry way.

Centred on trippy improvisations, this is a record which moves whilst going nowhere.

HHowes’ debut album infuses swirling soundscapes, muted beats and nebulous bass into 43 minutes of forward-thinking electronic music.

The fact is that Boys Forever rarely changes pace. Small musical variations in tempo or atmosphere such as on ‘Things’ and ‘I Don’t Remember Your Name’ become ultra significant breaks from the Boys Forever norm and I would have liked to have heard a few more of them. However, the shimmery diamondness of the album still remains.

This one takes a few listens, but in aiming for less, Girls Names have easily achieved as much as they have in previous albums, if not more. Time should be kind to the invention on display underneath all the layers.

Like a lot of great records, Masters Of The Burial is minimally arranged, slowly performed and quietly recorded; but there's never a spark here because Millan doesn't give enough of herself to it.

As such, this is largely Southern Rock-lite: it is not brash or brazen--it is uninteresting and tedious.

Musically, this is a pleasant record, one that’ll soundtrack many a packed yet ultimately sensible party.

Starboy is fine, it’s grand and it will do, and it really should be so much more.

It's damn smart and it's damn catchy.

Sure it’s trying to mimic something it can never truly be but it’s lovely nonetheless and credit where due will probably be rewarded with more than a few listens.

Everything Infinite is perfect for summer, it has a few beautiful tracks and is constructed masterfully, but you can almost hear the fan chatter describing the outfit as 'that band who sound like Tame Impala'.

x's first third is not without its issues but there is charm, not to mention the feeling that Sheeran really is trying to raise his game. A pity, then, that the remaining 35 minutes is alternatively as generic and simpering as it gets.

Similarities in vocals will mean that Lazy Shins Comparisons are inevitable, but when Rogue Wave break out of the confines of indie-by-association they prove they are a fine band indeed.

Little Comets have some energetic hooks and straight-to-the-point post-punk choruses that would make many of the resident bands in their native North East proud. There just isn't quite enough to get carried away about.

The music goes over old ground, with none of the inspiration found in Finch's material after-...Burn. Then a post-rock-influenced guitar break arrives and they start to gather momentum.

Where the separate parts of the first half didn't gel – the chopping and changing of different styles too much to take in, perhaps, in too short a period--the second part is much easier to handle, and whilst the strong finish isn't enough to stop it falling short of "Z," Evil Urges does find its own place given time.

On the opening ‘Distant Dream’, where a nagging, urgent keyboard line recalls classic Halloween-era Carpenter, until the creepy effect is undermined by some big, thumping power-drums that come off as more dated than retro. Its an ongoing problem across a record that is often enjoyable, but just as often frustrating.

On the whole, Noise Floor is a fascinating concoction of delights that documents the rise of one of underground USA's most prestigious talents.

You get lost in them but not in a good way, and the hypnotic nature of SOHN’s music makes it very easy to phase out, which is a shame, because the closing song, 'Harbour', is a raw and vulnerable gamble that pays off well.

Advaitic Songs shares a lot of the same strengths as the recent output by Earth--every listen unfolds another texture, another line gets embedded in the brain.

A small and totally unpolished gem, sparkling and anti-lapidary.

The man wants so much to create a ‘70s-apeing epic, but fails. Yet that's not to say this is a bad record per se, it's just that Knapp's whole Son, Ambulance project has a good few obvious clangers dragging it down.

This is not a record of ballads for emo fans.... This album is a collection of proper songs.

Some of the ramshackle charm that pervaded their Christmas record is missing here too--the major label money and the massive orchestra having presumably buffed the edges, which feels a shame. Still, all in, it’s a hard heart that dismisses a solid record of wonderful songs done well.

Heady swirl, indeed: much of Come Into My House unfolds with all the knacker-shrivelling underwhelmingness of a tepid bath.

This album suggests that there’s gas in the tank yet, especially when such pondering is matched to the spiky, inventive instrumentation on display.

Their most restrained and finely detailed record to date.

So they missed the bullseye. But that's no reason to yell "sell out!", or to deride them as poseurs.

It's always impressive when the ballads on an album neither slow down its pace nor detract from the rest of the album. It's a true testament to how well-rounded this album really is.

Genius, as you know, is all about the detail. The backing vocal on 'Revolving Doors' – if you're still struggling with the 'song' thing, this and 'Amarillo' offer consolation in the form of two of Albarn's loveliest unfinished melodies.

While there are moments that have the summer days – and daze – of ’99 flooding back, too much of this sixth long-player proper sounds disjointed and manhandled.

With such an unbending focus on intellectual ideals, Asiatisch is as erudite and wildly impenetrable as its maker.

While The Enemy Chorus may not launch itself into the night sky and explode like the great big sonic firework it wants be, there are enough bangs on display here to warrant taking it out for the occasional stroll.

Telling Tales gladly succumbs to its own whimsy, has no stylistic compass beyond the inherent tones of a female vocal harmony group and is a delightful series of songs that are both beautiful and bizarre.