This is their thing, their schtick. And for the most part, bending phil Spector out of shape and dragging him by his hair through a raft of distortional devices and all the while kicking the hell out of the ‘Leader of the Pack’ is a very good thing.

Emotional ambiguity never sounded so good. Business as usual then.

A Place To Bury Strangers have managed to strike a perfect balance between noise and tune, and as a result created one of 2009's most ingenious records.

The trio continue to demonstrate their chops and their wit over these 41 minutes.

Though Losing Feeling remains EP in stature and with its intentions, it’s still enjoyable and represents a need to keep testing different waters before diving headlong into their next murky stretch of creative water.

They all contribute to the consistency of atmosphere that makes the album in itself such a distinctively satisfying listen, and one in which anybody who makes the initial effort can immerse themselves entirely.

They do little to advance on the template, but at their best they produce some thrilling pop music, and while failing to create a consistently brilliant album

It can seem unfocussed on occasion, but that rush to cram in influences from disparate sources settles into a pleasing hodge-podge in the second half of this album.

If All My Friends Are Funeral Singers has said one thing at all to me, it’s that Califone merit further investigation, especially for someone who tends to write off ‘folk’ music. And if that doesn’t make it a success, then I don’t know what does.

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

When you consider the current crop of supposedly afrobeat influenced indie rock, Warm Heart Of Africa is, if you’ll excuse the pun, The Very Best.

Falkner manages to set up a sort of production halfway house, which raises everything out of the bedroom, but still burrows deep to the tender core at the heart of Daniel’s songs.

On Splitting The Atom, though, the duo simply sound like they’ve run out of ideas, unsurprising given the opening half’s attempts to re-visit an album over 18 years old.

Threadbare’s generous, circular nature is to be applauded; it’s rare that studies of loss are as authentically moving and sensitively played as this--and even rarer they’re so completely endearing.

It remains to be seen if Music Go Music can succeed in a world where platinum selling artists align themselves with paganism and performance art; perhaps they are just too relentlessly chipper. However, it would be a crying shame if people didn’t let Expressions light the dark corners of their heart at least once.

Yes, this is a collection of Tracks and Traces, meticulously edited in the late-90s, and again more recently, so that none of the musical ideas outstay their welcome--in this respect, it’s not quite an album, and when the less melodically surprising tracks fade out, you feel like you’re moving along to the next case in the exhibit, whereas other albums by Cluster, Harmonia, or Cluster & Eno sustain a mood, and often a weird nervous energy, with their generally more urgent rhythms.

This is a realisation, and an affirmation, of Paramore's musical craftmanship and potential longevity.

It's at the safest of removes; emote by rote, numbness by numbers.

When AiC hit home though, as they often do, Black Gives Way To Blue becomes the quiet triumph it set out to be.

God is Good is a more confused creation, more like two EPs than a concerted record.

This is a record to be drunk from deeply, preferably in solitude, along with a bottle of whatever makes you purr as warmly as Sandoval and her Inventions can--and evidently still do--at their best.

You could accuse Cymbals Eat Guitars of being derivative, but the idea is that all of these influences are broken down to component parts and then reassembled into something different. Some of the pieces are still recognisable, others disguised or twisted.

If it is indubitably more soundtrack album than bigshot solo debut, this record certainly provides irrefutable, definitive, official proof of O’s talents as a songwriter in her own right.

What really impresses though is how complete all of this sounds: aside from the typically cocky lyrical references, there’s nary a hint that they’ve not been working together for the last few years.

Such is Vlautin’s talent as a storyteller, conveying everything about his disparate cast of punch-drunk, liquor-soused losers with just a handful of sparse adjectives, that moments like this manage to feel genuinely gut-wrenching without ever coming across as remotely emo: he writes harrowing documentaries, not bed-wetting poetry.

In its lack of cleverness, the album has a certain wide-eyed innocence, and even the songs about hangovers show a generous perspective on life, of which music critics could do well to take note.

The first half connects the mind and the body equally, which is why they are such successful songs. The second half of is just body music and that’s where it falls a little flat. That’s not to say it doesn't work at all.

This is a surprisingly engaging record that highlights Ian Brown as an underrated songwriter and arranger, and underscores the point that while his enthusiasm for creativity is as infectious as ever, Spike Island and its ilk are unlikely to be revisited in the forseeable future.