There's not yet a band that can evoke the intangible nostalgia that the Radio Dept. do, but at least with this release we can be assured we don't need there to be.

Let It Be You is a real return to form for Wasser, and one for which Davis is due ample credit; when the two hit their stride they’re undeniable, making more material from the two a tantalising prospect.

Dare’s vocals have lost none of their emotive brutality; the juxtaposition between his delicate voice and the brutal messages he conveys still fascinates, just as his experiments with heavy synth and drone alongside a solitary piano sound impossible, yet somehow work.

The thing is I wanted a Pretenders album, not The Black Keys feat. Chrissie Hynde. Which is what this all too often feels like.

While they’re unlikely to achieve the same reach awarded them by ‘The Middle’ (although Taylor Swift’s endorsement won’t hurt), their dedication to honest, wide-eyed songcraft has resulted in their best album in over a decade.

She remains in a state of full control throughout the album, and by album’s end it’s clear that Gaga has released one of her most dazzling albums to date.

In fact, if anything time has only the strengthened the chemistry of the band, distilling its essence in to something much purer than its base product. In a year of excellent records, American Football have quite possibly made the best.

Dissociation may not be the dream record for those who want Dillinger to return to the pure intensity of Calculating Infinity or Miss Machine, but it does make a suitably multi-faceted and powerful closing statement from one of heavy music’s most brilliantly insane bands.

You really can’t get het up one way or another about a song like ‘Waste a Moment’, which might as well be called ‘Lead Single’, nor can you muster up anything other than a yawn as ‘Conversation Piece’ stretches out like a cat in front of a fire on a cold winter night.

For while the aforementioned songs all have recognisable parts borrowed from their peers, they all also contain moments of genuine beauty, fear and grandness which demands you to fall into hell just as Dante's Devil demanded him to.

It’s not terrible album--it might even make you do a little shoulder shimmy every now and then or remind you of an awesome Depeche Mode song you haven’t listened to in years, but at the end of it you’ll probably find yourself either: a) indifferently bored; b) making bets with yourself on what he’s going to channel next: will it be an oriental theme, a Cuban beat, a doo-wop harmony or will he go rogue with some balalaika? (He doesn’t.)

The record captures and remains stuck in a moment, circulating a narrative where memory serves and is replaced over and over again, like an acid flashback with a locked groove.

The zany highs--and even the not-so-zany lows--of Color conjure a fantastic parallel world, lightyears away from any other fighting contender, and still unforgettable in private lives

In between there are definite moments, but the preponderance of very long songs makes it a slog to this day.

I’m sure there’s a decent record in here somewhere, but it’s hiding in amongst the detritus which seems to have been added in almost at random.

Loss in its many forms shades Ruminations, and the matter-of-fact nature of its acceptance makes the record all the more devastating.

It’s with a sense of relief then perhaps that Revolution Radio, whilst feeling a little like a pastiche of their forms selves, sees the trio steering a steadier course on more reliable ground.

Unfortunately, instead of producing an album that feels new, exciting, and refreshing--exactly what you’d expect from a band in their position--you get some lazy attempts at something different, before a retreat into the comforts of a tried and tested sound.

While Joyce Manor's fourth record is still a very enjoyable romp through ten expertly written pop-punk songs, the album's plain-view influences, cleaner production and vocal delivery feels like it just slightly misses the mark on being the something truly special the band have threatened their entire careers.

On Let them Eat Chaos Tempest has cemented herself as a poet/rapper of the highest order, who isn’t happy just make the masses smile, but to challenge and make them think and love too.

It’s still simplistic and limited but it’s meant to be. That’s the whole idea. The converted will remain.

Banks is perfectly comfortable in her own skin and artistic abilities, and it shows immensely on The Altar.

22, A Million is a triumph even before ‘666 ʇ’ and the Springsteen-dashed ‘8 (circle)’ cast their own entrancement. The beauty of it is that this is a puzzle, one that will initially confuse and ultimately resonate in a way that feels deeply organic.

On the whole City Club is full of the type of synth funk nonsense that should have been left alone in the late Noughties.

If you need something to invigorate your soul and send you on a journey then look no further.

As a whole, Remember us to Life feels a little patchy, with enough ups to make it good, but too many downs to make it great.

Stark but lush, these are pop songs for moonlit lakes, soft throbs to bob in while no one else is looking.

Each song is chocked full of inventive counterpoints and melodies making it the most cohesive album Tiersen has released for a decade. With each listen you uncover another facet not just of of this complex and charming album, but of yourself too.