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.