A beautiful, touching collection of songs, and one which marks an important rite of passage in one man’s career, even if it doesn’t always feel like his best work.

North not only blurs the lines of genre, but it does so both effortlessly and convincingly. Darkstar took a risk in straying from a template that had already served them well, but nobody ever made a great record by playing it safe.

Overall, It's Alright Between Us As It Is is yet another solid entry into Lindstrøm's discography. It doesn't re-invent the wheel in terms of genre or what we expect of the Norwegian producer, but it just keeps things ticking along with exciting and unexpected flourishes at every turn.

Although the album shows impressive range - toggling back and forth between insidious ambient ('Dome Horizon') circuit-bending noise ('2T(fru)T') and a kind of stroboscopic speed-drone (the aforementioned 'chase sequences'), much of the textures and tech you could find in commision across the Captured Tracks and Wierd Records catalogues.

With Two Thousand and Ten Injuries Love Is All have created another master class in yearning, defiant, confused and lovelorn indie-pop, the sort of record you wish you had by your side when you were stuck re-heating cheeseburger puffs* for minimum wage in one of Essex’s premier petrol station.

All of Cass McCombs' deliberate ambiguities add up to a beguiling character worth shouting about, even if he's not willing to do it himself. Give this album a spin and join its gently strident fan base.

Heavyweight names add gloss and will no doubt result in dollar signs but Tesfaye is infinitely more interesting when lashing out largely alone.

With Sun Gangs it’s as if they've finished the whole cake and the house burst, bricks and mortar exploding through the sky like fireworks.

Despite Jello Biafra’s best intentions, White People And The Damage Done seems to settle for righteous belligerence while falling some way short of being a worth soundtrack for the anti-globalisation movement.

It’s as direct and aggressive as any of Halo’s floor-orientated material, and shows that, while she may turn more heads with more compositional, vocal-driven tracks, Hyperdub and Halo can move into new areas, one where syncopated drum lines break for vintage warehouse rhythms and the chill-out room has been invaded by pianists and a house DJ.

The back end of the record seems to lose everything that is so great about Luneworks and replace it with something even better: a discordant, throbbing pulse.

Wilson set out on a mission with this album – reinvent herself for the modern world, without her B-52s pedigree, by creating a totally new style for herself. And, by that standard, she’s largely succeeded.

It’s unsentimental and unfussy, as both Moffat and Dickens’ best stuff usually is, but still radiates a simple joy in celebrating a special time of the year.

On Face Tat, the chaos never stops: it's akin to a musical interpretation of all the theme park rides in the world, taken one after the other.

Kazuashita, then, is the barely audible sigh that follows when you crack open the vacuum-sealed bag that preserved GGD in that hiatus--everything’s there, but crisply folded and flat.

For the most part, it’s suitably overblown, cocksure and blunt, and still goes some way to capturing the genre's eternal, endearing refusal to grow up. For now, that's reason enough to celebrate their return.

None Shall Pass envelops the sounds of hip-hop’s spiritual home more than any album in his notable career.

Stars still occupy a unique position in the pantheon of the last 15 years of indie rock, but with every No One Is Lost that goes by, they look a little less likely to pull off another Set Yourself on Fire.

It won't win many points for originality--indeed they may lose a few old fans along the way - but this is the sound of a band reborn.

Diane’s strength lies in her assured voice and preternatural affinity for placing the perfect melody in the perfect place.

The Hamilton, Canada-based songstress has creamed together her best set yet. In Asking For Flowers, Edwards is uncompromising, but sombre.

It’s done brilliantly, with no frills, no ego, no sense of homage (just some damn fine influences), no fat, no bullshit, nothing bar hooks, energy and a certain air of ineffable sadness for good measure. Sometimes you need to believe a scene or movement will save your life. Other times, there’s nothing wrong being casually blown away by a record like The Soft Pack.

Prepare to bow down to the new Queen of Singing Sad Piano-Based Songs.

Although he makes Hello Skinny as unique-sounding as he can, Skinner also keeps it listenable, his hybrid sounds coming across as warm rather than overpowering.

So rather than the fanciful frippery it could so easily have been, The Moths Are Real is instead a fitting document of real life in all its mixed-up glory.

More considered than the debut, more quietly patient and yet somehow more addictive.

The album is brought to a close by the title track, a summary of sorts about what's gone on before that erupts in a monumental instrumental breakdown for its final two minutes as Big Box Of Chocolates closes its lid one last time. As kitchen sink dramas go, this is the perfect soundtrack.

The trio’s meandering avant-rap is somehow more encumbered by its lack of ideas than its lack of editorial savvy.