Knoxville goes some way towards capturing the evident chemistry they found together, whilst also making it clear that we really need to catch them live to experience the full effect.

With Evil Spirits, you have to halt, to concentrate entirely to absorb the main message. Close your eyes; and it’s a politically charged electro-pop-rock love-spell to our tumultuous political times--but without the band’s names on the front, you wouldn’t even begin to place which dimension this demon came from.

As extraordinary and original as the film itself, Berberian Sound Studio is both a bona fide film score and consistent electronica album, and in the wake of Trish Keenan's tragic death carries the very real air of a requiem.

Yes, this thing is ridiculously derivative. It won't change lives or rearrange the musical landscape of nations but Kahn was never going to win any awards for originality. It may just raise some roofs and shake some foundations though.

The thing is absolutely laced with wall-to-wall bangers.

Hera Ma Nono still possesses an often awkward transition between the jarring Kenyan and North American influences, but this also essentially provides Extra Golden with their character.

It’s certainly a digression from what they could easily have done, and that was something they, obviously, really needed and wanted to do. But it also feels like a regression from the promise and charm that they once exuded.

The album never fully soars either imaginatively or musically, and for all the virtues of its crisp, bold path through the blood and ice of wherever Edenloff is in flight from – or towards – this means that it's a disappointment.

While they may never lose their tendency to peek over their shoulders and tell of the heart-filling past once in a while, and nor should they, it seems that Allo Darlin’ have decided that a step forward can bring a greater, more tangible joy, and for that, they should surely be celebrated.

Many Moons then, proves that the 'bad front-man solo project' curse isn’t particularly watertight. En-debut, Martin Courtney comes through with a record that’s as good as any he’s made with his band.

It's immensely listenable throughout, but at its best--with 'Vistate' and 'Cara Falsa'--it's truly spellbinding.

Glasvegas maybe won't change lives but with its rich indie wall-of-sound nostalgia trip, it should get a few kids delving through their influences and forming space-rock bands.

The sound of a band still in their creative prime, MMXII is everything Killing Joke have proclaimed themselves to be these past three-and-a-half decades, and 15 albums on is just as incisive and coarse as their debut.

It's still discernibly a James Yorkston record, and full of what you'd expect from one, but there's enough shading in the corners and drawing over the lines to add new sparks of interest.

Emotional, great and exhausting.

After multiple listens, the desire to rip apart Martin-McCormick's stitched together freak is assuaged by a desire to submit to it and play it on repeat, to revel in its drive, energy and emotion.

Some of these stories are not fleshed out as poetic or romantic as the music might suggest, yet it’s forgivable in the sense that Cigarettes After Sex successfully transport you to an erotic world entirely their own.

Indeed, they can rock. But, inevitably, their writing here lacks the epic imagery and themes that cemented the rock gods into the canon, and thus doesn’t bewitch in the same way. Black Mountain defend the temple ably, at least.

It's jolly and kinetic and greater than the sum of its songs.

Adele’s repetition is anchored further by some of the least dynamic work of her career. There’s nothing here to rival the playful malice of ‘Rumour Has It’ or the instant hit of ‘Rolling In The Deep’.

Matt Caughthran's vocals have never been stronger, more melodic or capable of holding centre stage. Yet coupled with the slicker sheen to the LP (self-made in their new home studio) it has pushed some of their material into territories traditionally inhabited by the totally underwhelming.

Loss flows through The Rhumb Line's veins, ineffable but vital. Someday I'm sure I'll turn to this record for consolation, and for that I'm both sad and grateful.

Röyksopp have always married darkness to their beats, but here, across more than an hour, it’s too unremitting to welcome repeat listening.

Humbug is a pretty good album that’s pleasingly incongruous amongst the pre-fab boredom of much modern Brit indie. It’s eminently not astounding but it is inventive, and likeably so.

Yes, sometimes it sounds like a circus rave in a toybox, and it's not what you would call relaxing. But it's uplifting, triumphant and inquisitive.

The problem, though, is that you rather get the impression that Daltrey, with his contributions, is merely filling the role of high-profile vocalist; he’s got a great rock voice, but it’s ultimately it’s not diverse enough to do Johnson’s blues-based back catalogue justice.

Ever changing and insightful, Arms Around A Vision never becomes staid or complacent.

The strongest chunk of the album comes not in the first third, but in the stream of songs that starts with ‘Out On the Street’, ‘Take It Easy’ and ends with the final track.