By focusing inwards, Born Ruffians have done that whole 'maturing' thing that us reviewers like to talk about, and created a much improved piece of art.

Fever then, is an album with an audience already writ large. If the idea of ‘cosmic jams’ brings you out in a cold sweat, then this isn’t a record for you.

Stripping away all of the surrounding noise, it allows Krauss to bring her dizzyingly sweet voice to the fore, showing that Sleigh Bells are not just a one trick pony and that these songs work on more than just the basis that they are great at shaking windows.

So, Fly Yellow Moon flirts with, but ultimately averts, disaster by virtue of the strengths we already know Fyfe Dangerfield to possess as Guillemots' principle songwriter: a knack for making bright pop songs on a life-affirming scale, delivered with an infectious and indefatigable enthusiasm.

While there are tracks of beauty and wonder, there are duller moments too, where the history that First Aid Kit derive their music from overwhelms their songs, reminding us always of what came before.

The Family Jewels seems to be to be symptomatic of a broader trend at the moment to demand our female artists be both credible and commercial at the expense of achieving anything great in either camp.

He only truly nails it on one track out of four doesn't bode especially well, but as I say, there's some reason to hope, and if you really don't have anything better than the Pumpkins to pin your musical hopes onto, you probably shouldn't be too nervous about checking out the next EP.

Jurado's strengths--ability to tug at the heartstrings without seeming mawkish or sentimental--are intact, but bolstered by what you might assume is Richard Swift's input. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. The rest of Saint Bartlett isn't bad, it just reverts to type to such an extent that it pales in comparison to the earlier moments.

Maniac Meat is only really disappointing when compared to what came before, because try as it might, it can neither supercede nor outdo its predeces at it's own game.

I wouldn't go as far as saying that Elson's debut is a flight of fancy, but it just doesn't engage the listener in any meaningful manner. An engaging artist should be inviting you to step inside their bubble, they shouldn't really need you to stand outside and wait for the pop.

There are a lot of sweeping strings throughout ...and the Pioneer Saboteurs, but don't come along expecting a smooth ride. Although he might look and occasionally sound like Richard Hawley's younger, scruffier brother, Hinson shares little of the Brit's romance here.

This is Happening might not take us as far as Sound Of Silver, yet at times it’s still an exhilarating journey with ample opportunity to revel in another idiosyncratic lesson in the art, and joy, of sonic bricolage.

Their third album Infinite Arms glows with that familiar sound, a sound born with an American heart.

Brothers goes straight into the chase for the finest traditional rock album of the year so far, and with a slight trim to its 15-strong run would be a front runner.

It's true Lidell darts from one scene to the next, and not every moment earns its place. Yet it all makes a curious kind of sense in Compass' vivid canvas.

A Small Turn Of Human Kindness really does sound like some bad shit has gone down. To this end, you have to assume HM have succeeded in their intentions, although they tend to be sardonic and inscrutable by design.

This isn’t a particularly awful record--it’s simply a album full of typical sounding Stereophonics songs

While ‘Hustle And Cuss’ and ‘I Can’t Hear You’ rely too much on the practically prehistoric blues template White has employed throughout his career, the slinky stomp and lusty roar of ‘Gasoline’ and the crashing, panting, hair rawk solo-infused ‘Jawbreaker’ show that The Dead Weather have found the balls to break free of such constraints.

An easy grandeur is present throughout, as is a sense they are following an increasingly individual, carefully textured path. It is a wild, vivid romance that The National make their own, and on High Violet it sounds just as striking, just as wild, just as vivid as ever.

Latin doesn't have a weak moment, and while LP's higher energy levels may indeed play better with that lucrative Top Shop demographic, it would seem remarkable if any right thinking fan of the band didn't think Latin at least its equal.

The immediacy of ...Night Fall's melodies and the satisfaction derived from its buttressing rhythms will generate just about enough pleasure for most.

There's just so many country records being made, each a replica of another, that in moving away from Phosphorescent's original sound, much of Here's To Taking It Easy has found itself dangerously subscribing to banal convention.

So after the outré highs and lows of Grey Oceans have played their last syllable, it's hard to know what to think of it, apart from being slightly underwhelmed for the most part.

In four minutes of this record there are two tracks that together have more melodies, more moments of joy, than most bands will manage this year.

Resultantly, while the textures are nostalgic, the album is a very contemporary experience. Since you're unlikely to ever get the same 20 plus artists on the same page again, it's best to enjoy the album for what it is: a one-off experiment, more of a happening than a record, that can't (and possibly shouldn't) be repeated.

Once again: there are six more songs on this album. Six songs that really aren't bad at all. But once your needle has dropped to the end of side one, it's only going back to the beginning again.

Despite these forays into a wider world, and the dreamy, vulnerable and hypnotic subtlety of 'Stone', you can't help but think that NYPC have still got one foot firmly anchored in the glowstick glimmer of past glories.

You’d need DNA evidence to separate Free Energy from the influences they’re so clearly in thrall of, but it’s all so blusteringly fun and care-free that they make you feel like a curmudgeon for even contemplating giving a shit.