A great example of someone following their musical instincts into new areas and finding success, Bloodlines is also a highlight of the year so far.

Plastics represents a significant first step upon which the group can move upwards from, and it’s exciting to see what they do next. But it’s a shame they couldn’t carry the excellence through to the end of a record.

It’s a Big World Out There (And I Am Scared) has taken Kurt Vile to new heights, proving that his offcuts and extended versions are infinitely better than most bands' singles.

This is by no means a ‘bad’ album... and you’ll be hard-pushed to find a more topical anti-Bush punk album released this year, but after 20+ years and umpteen albums that - lets face it - haven’t really strayed much from their influential style, does anyone really need another Bad Religion album after this one?

The album is in desperate need of more Alex Turner. Too often it feels like a Miles Kane and chums holiday extravaganza record.

The key to 'So Jealous' is that it's a mall-prancing hit jukebox but with, y'know proper non-bubblegum pop sensibilities.

There is much to enjoy in I Aubade, though, if you’re willing to pay attention.

BRMC’s third album is a triumph.

Overall, The Third Eye Centre succinctly packs ten years' worth of eccentricities and oddments into a pleasant, if slightly oversized compendium.

This won't be Evian Christ's greatest moment, but it could be a crucial stepping stone.

For the most part, In•ter a•li•a is content to exist as a barrage--add ‘Call Broken Arrow’ to the ‘confirmed belter’ list--and almost never strays into more experimental territory as explored by The Mars Volta. There is one sort-of exception, however, in the form of ‘Ghost-Tape No. 9.’

Though an admitted level back on the recent disco-drone of "Growing’s Lateral" and even their fantastic EP release of "Living" from last year, these noise troupers have set up a decent new stall.

There are times when Into The Diamond Sun hits a lull, most notably around the midpoint.

LNZNDRF lacks the deft, enchanting musical nuance of The National or Beirut but it does make for enjoyable, if not startling, interim listening.

There’s this frustrating sheen over everything--likely from Fitz and Joy’s formal training--which makes the violins too syrupy to be sweet, the steel guitar too rustic to be real. By the same token, Joy’s lyrics also lack any lived-in landmarks.

As a whole, Remember us to Life feels a little patchy, with enough ups to make it good, but too many downs to make it great.

Predictably there’s a slide towards more abstracted material toward the latter half, and parts of Saturdays=Youth are all hairspray and no body, but the whole thing sweeps along with such an irrepressible mix of youthful invincibility (‘We Own The Sky’) and flouncing fatalism (‘Too Late’, ‘Graveyard Girl’) it sucks the wind right out of your cheeks before you’ve had chance to huff.

While the album is nicely succinct, it lacks a peak, a song to get really excited about.

There's a definite identity to the band on this third album, and its highest points are some of the highest of the band's career thus far, but to this listener, the band lack the kind of killer edge displayed by newer challengers to the retro-rock throne, such as San Francisco's Wooden Shjips. That said, if you like the influences clearly on display, there's little to fault, and plenty of fuzzy swagger to bask in.

Record Collection is an accomplished piece of work, but you have to wonder whether Ronson'd be able to achieve something of a similar magnitude and quality if he was left alone in a recording studio; no guests, no help, no connections.

In many ways it's a hip joke of an album.

Whether or not the album really captures the bands reputable live show is utterly debatable, but it’s certainly one to inspire the imagination.

Playing to their strengths at last, they've taken the lustre of their energetic live shows and injected into their second record with an enthusiasm that shines out of every song.

What was once pin drop quiet is now grand; one soon adjusts however as the key to all of the songs here is the inner shell, not the protective exterior.

The Bees have made a record sparkling with enough wit and ingenuity to make the past seem an undiscovered country well worth visiting.

The 13 songs on Six are rich and exquisitely constructed, perfectly-pitched baroque riffs and orchestration are juxtaposed with searingly compelling lyrical imagery.

Although Kember's trademark floaty production sound is omnipresent at the forefront throughout, its Porpora's disconsolate vocal performance that steals the show.

A richly ambient affair, it makes for a particularly strong listen via headphones, dread-soaked mist and hopeful shimmers given heightened impact.