Napalm is a long ass 18 track slog, and the pointless thug boasts scattered throughout the album.

Sometimes an all-encompassing desire to satisfy the album’s eccentric premise causes musical havoc. Alt-J have always revelled in a penchant for vocal distortion, frenzied percussion, cinematic strings, and reverberating synths - attributes they largely abandon in lieu of offering more traditional hip-hop elements. And sometimes it just doesn't work.

By and large, fans of We Have Sound will find a lot to love about Leisure Seizure, as Vek mostly remains true to the style he patented in 2005.

Psychedelia with a southern soul lean, it’s a seriously heady piece of music.

A solidly built celebration of interchangeable ordinariness.

The best love songs are the ones that make you want to dance and cry all at once; and Bad Love has them in spades.

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.

Although White People doesn’t break any of the barriers ‘So…How’s Your Girl?’ did, it is none the less a graduation.

In truth, The Sun won’t be the hype-extracting second coming of Fridge. But it is infinitely more modestly spectacular than the majority would have dared hope.

Some of these songs would spring to life if they were less restrained, and adding a tactful but solid rhythm could be one way to achieve this. As it stands, there is enough here only to convince listeners of Selway's emerging talent as a songwriter if he sticks at it.

This is not a classic – each high is paired with a low of similar scale, so whilst ‘Down In A Rabbit Hole’ scales heights previously thought unreachable, ‘Ship In A Bottle’, with baby samples screeching over the top of the most base-level beats, is plain annoying.

Whether it's their best collection to date would be open to debate (and to these ears it isn't; Union still takes that accolade by a fair margin). In any case, it should serve them well both for the present and the future.

The unashamed enthusiasm and fun in 'Elephunk' makes BEP the true heirs to the legendary De La Soul.

Whether thrashing out punk anthems Bikini Kill or turning out dancefloor-ready disco pop as on ‘This Island’, Hanna has always had something to say, and never has her message sounded so clear.

Familiarity breeds contempt, and Spinnerette makes its strongest statements when flobbing a big loogie onto the grave of past endeavours, not when laying out fresh blooms at the side.

On its own terms, Ear Pwr is a record that, while occasionally poorly structured and a little draggy, offers a rapturous sundown forestfull of perfectly nice pop nuggets, and perhaps the most unexpectedly 'normal' album of the year; a breakneck jolt and a right-turn for the conventional.

If you love Shonen Knife wholly you will probably enjoy Osaka Ramones to some extent.

Intriguing regardless, and almost guaranteed to capture your attention for a short time at least, even if it isn’t as engaging as it perhaps should be.

Whether or not the band are more than just a gumbo of their influences is debatable, but in all honesty, OCD Go Go Go Girls is so damnably fun to listen to that you really couldn’t care.

[It] leaves this bizarre aftertaste – one not of immediate dislike, but one that’s pretty far from appealing enough to warrant a second sampling.

It might just be one of those rare treasures which keep us reluctantly, unstoppably, coming back again and again.

Drawing Down The Moon marks a welcome return for Azure Ray, and makes for an oftentimes exquisite listening experience. It's just a shame that, when it comes to the songs themselves, much of the beauty is only skin deeP.

This is something of a missed opportunity.

Too often songs come across as a pastiche of the Atlanta group, with none of the splashes of colour, none of the real sense of building atmosphere.

There is never a singular anecdote or scheme with Kozelek, as he bounces around from topic to topic, providing a kaleidoscope of information in one song.

Music is supposed to be a form of entertainment, but ‘Long Gone Before Daylight’ feels like a collection of aimless lullabies.

Indeed with such a raging fire burning through their bellies, this stands up alongside 60 Second Wipe Out as possibly Atari Teenage Riot's most potent collection of songs to date, and what's more, in a climate besieged with apathy and despondence, their relevance today cannot be underestimated.

Whilst Islands displays nuggets of well executed nostalgia, one can’t help but wonder if they have any style that isn’t old, borrowed or depressingly blue.

A Weekend In The City is the aural adaptation, a digital manifestation, of what it’s like to be a twenty-something in Britain, today. It’s dirty, dishevelled, unsure and paranoid; fearful, easily distracted, boisterous and ashamed; reckless, wild, nervous and terrified; graceful, thought-provoking, clumsy and contradictory. And it’s very nearly perfect.

Sure this album may well sound awesome if you’ve just snorted a metre of charlie or recently breakfasted from a menu of ‘shrooms and LSD, but for sober ears it’s enough to drive anyone to drugs.

The tracks may not be anything particularly bold or new, but this formula has been honed for long enough to make them successful, largely at least.

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

So a game of two halves, with enough excitement from Arbouretum to keep it interesting--but cosmic Americana fans may find more solace in their (excellent) previous two records The Gathering and Song of the Pearl than they will here.

This is easily as good JoFo’s debut.

By no means is this album a disappointment, rather it’s an attempt to fill a particular niche for a specific audience.

The announcement of XOXO, Panda And The New Kid Revival heralded if not a double-footed leap of joy, certainly a raised eyebrow and fuzzy, dual sense of a) knowing exactly what to expect and b) being pretty happy about it.

Another Happy Day creeps you out, sucks you in and gracefully spits you back again, with a renewed sense of comfortable discontent.

There's enough on Chaosmosis to keep even the most casual fan occupied over the months ahead. As for those already worshipping at the altar of Primal Scream, prepare to be consecrated once more.

Hayman's production has resulted in a noticeable evolution in the band's sound. Unlike the off-roading experience of their previous albums, Beer In The Brakers is an often much smoother ride.

Some of the tracks struggle to hold the listener’s interest.... Nevertheless, there are enough highs on here for this to be considered a very good, warm record.

Instead of building on what went before, or providing clues as to a future direction, Sakura sounds like a collection of B-sides--and forgettable ones at that.

Ultimately, while the record will prove to be an enjoyable distraction for ardent fans, it’s hard to shake the feeling that these revamps might have been better saved for the live setting.

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.

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.

It’s not enough to make an album that blends inoffensively into the background. Psychedelia is supposed to be mind-bending, not just some minor flavouring to add to your very average indie-pop songs.

The album serves as a classic case of frontloading and one gets a sense that the first six songs would have made a better standalone EP, buying the band yet more time to craft something a little more interesting.

Instead of making a One Direction farewell album, they made a Take That comeback album.

Let It Be You is a real return to form for Wasser, and one for which Davis is due ample credit; when the two hit their stride they’re undeniable, making more material from the two a tantalising prospect.

Make your way past the defensive drone it puts up and you will be rewarded with warm, welcoming fuzz.

Talk About Body is so ridiculously accessible musically, that audiences dancing along to MEN's absurdly addictive pop songs are likely to be blindsided if they ever listen carefully to the lyrics.

It's popcorn music, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. But trying to dress it up in big concepts only belies the belief that it's somehow lacking, which leads to its undoing.

A collection of songs and 'works', the latter of which clutter the end of the record with a mess of somewhat ill composed 'classical' pieces, Mind Trap largely acts as a collection of initial ideas, with no songs feeling overly finished.

If emotional depth is what you’re after, these eight tracks are never likely to be your bag. But, if you can take Bigfoot for the sun-blushed, sweet-natured collection of songs that it is, then this could be the soundtrack to your summer.

The rest of the record is suddenly and gracefully, if somewhat confusingly, scooped up in the slightly irksome breezes of troubadour lo-fi, though considering the chops of that opening brace it's hardly a deal breaker.

With S+@dium Rock, Titus Andronicus have managed to create a live record that says everything and nothing at the same time.

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

<i>An End Has a Start</i> actually sounds like it was crafted as ten quite individual chapters of a long-running saga; surprisingly, though, it ultimately works better than its predecessor as a cohesive, flowing album.

The album is largely stuck analysing lost feelings and past regrets, when it would have been much more entertaining if it focussed on living for the moment.

Crystal Antlers have delivered a record that, rather than making good on the promise of their early work, is simply serviceable. But there's evidence here of a band still finding their feet and defining their sound.

It screams often, confused, like the mess that it is.

Dark Young Hearts shines with talent, pop tunes with those secret corners you think were put there just for you to spot. Lyrical flaws aside, it's an indelible mark of grandeur on our decaying decade.

What it will do is fill your ears, mind and spirit with a little shaft of sunlight that causes you to delight in the moment and experience.

While moments of greatness emerge, there's a unfortunate limpness to proceedings that undermines otherwise outstanding songwriting.

Alas, The Temple of I & I, does not hit the high benchmarks of prior quality. Very much a Thievery album in its own right, with the tropical rhythms alongside the DC-based musicians approach to studio-dub, the LP falls short of the classic peak moments of the past.

Much like Sonic Youth's feature-length instrumental masterstrokes Made In USA and Spinhead Sessions, Improvisations is a record that will likely reward the attentive mind most.

One big loud glam rock electro-pop explosion of an album.

This stylized despair erases everything that made Holy Motors special. Without the casual surrealism (like sentient skeletons) or gaffs about touchy stuff like tampons, the reboot plays out with the predictable pallor of most “edgy” primetime cable shows.

At times they near the hybrid jazz of The Mars Volta or even the plentiful jam bands that can be found on the boulevards of certain Eastern European shores, but Tortoise's effortless ingenuity and Prince Billy's sensuous and aged voice raise it to a much higher plane.

Lynn Teeter Flower isn’t bad by any means. It’s just too safe, too predictable.

The production is sublime, every beat and note fully realised in glorious colour. The songs, however, sound tired, and despite determined efforts to sound upbeat and jaunty, they end in a slump of indie-pop lethargy.

Devoid of a true soul or sense of honesty Lights can be a pretty hollow listen. You could argue that away from the aforementioned hype-led anticipation that this album would surprise and charm; yet without the vested interest of big wigs and shareholders Lights might simply not be here.

Make Another World finds Idlewild balancing their twin loves of volatile angst-rock and vivacious indie-pop neatly and professionally.

Though there’s a paucity of joy to be found among proceedings, other aspects of You Are The One I Pick (even the title’s a barbed double entendre!) actively compensate.

It lacks cohesion, with eerie instrumentals featuring with gentle acoustic tracks, it is a noble attempt to progress a rather formulaic, albeit excellent, musical career.

The first few tracks on Oh Inhuman Spectacle set a high bar not quite maintained throughout, but still, the record is a promising début and a perfect soundtrack for those mysterious twilight hours.

In the end, Vessels comes across as a promising guitar-driven breath of fresh air trapped in a box of squeaky-clean studio tricks; what was hopeful is now hopeless, and what seemed like an exciting rock revival is simply a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

The Straight Hits! might not have the visceral punch of The Texas-Jerusalem Crossroads or the openness of Last of the County Gentlemen but it has more than its fair share of moments, even if Pearson admits breaking several of the five rules, but obeys an unwritten Sixth Pillar: musical rules are made to be broken.

There's a lot here to admire: the songs are well-formed and consistently engaging.

Sex With an X exceeds all of the expectations we didn't know we had.

Jeff Bridges might not be the actor's most emotional performance - to see that you need to watch the last five minutes of Fearless - but it is a surprisingly heartfelt piece of work, packed with enough hooks and harmonies to show he's obviously a keen student of the greats.

The combination of Mercer's lyrics and indie-boy-who-can-actually-sing vocals, paired with Danger Mouse's undeniable ear for awesome pop, means it's always going to be well above average. Very good, in fact. Occasionally great. It doesn't need to be anything else.

Purists will lap this up, but ultimately, as lovingly constructed a tribute as this is, there’s an unavoidable sense that Clapton is preaching exclusively to the choir.

The Smashing Pumpkins in 2018 are an anachronism. Whether that’s an anachronism to relish, or render them irrelevant is up for debate, but Shiny and Oh So Bright sadly offers little to further their considerable legend.

While Daughter of Cloud houses a number of Barnes' most flamboyantly weird musical ideas, they're also frequently some of his hollowest.

The majority of this record meanders along like a fuel-starved express train whose driver has taken an extended lunchbreak; experimental noise follows more experimental noise.

Middleton has made a dance record for the disenfranchised, oh sure it's a cliché, but Summer of '13 is one of the most refreshing things you hear all year. Come on you miserable bastards, this here is the soundtrack to your summer of '16.

This is no groundbreaking piece of art; it's not innovative, it's unashamedly backwards looking, and it rips off the greats to high heaven. It's also bloody awful for a significant amount of its running time. However, when it does work, it's a great thing.

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 just there was the expectation of more, and this has left me a bit cold.

It is hard to really know if there is a place for cricket concept albums. Certainly there's a time and a place for them and at the start of an Ashes summer is just that--it's perfect timing from Hannon and Walsh.

It’s the unmistakable sound of a band comfortable with having discovered that quiet is just in their character, and that those with the quietest voices can still cut through the squall.

In a lyrical and musical exploration of the themes of duality, Cursive have come out with a conflicted gem.

Planet Earth’ll leave you feeling decidedly short-changed.

Different Gear, Still Speeding is not a disaster: by and large it radiates the stolid competence of a band on autopilot, with a couple of flashes of likeable enthusiasm.

More a record to crush on than fall in love with, but free it from expectations and it'll take a small part of your heart.

"American Gangster" was the last time we saw the real Jay-Z--soulful, lyrically adept, his narrative streak reborn with a newfound alter ego--but here he is back to treading water.

While Transfixiation doesn't answer that question ["What have I become?"] specifically, it represents another giant step forwards in A Place To Bury Strangers' continual evolution.