For what The Weeknd have produced, regardless of what genre it is or isn't, is a very good record.

What stops it being Great, as opposed to great, is the feeling that Machinedrum's basically working his way through segments of his music taste, having a crack at one after another. That is to say, he's a follower, one now signed to a label that's often been a haven for innovators.

There isn't really an awful lot else to say. Famous First Words might not be the worst record you'll hear this year, but it's certainly one of the most pointless.

Having played with Wild Nothing, Titus Andronicus, Crocodiles and Male Bonding they are finely adept in the art of live performance and worth catching. But the album? Yeah it's alright: simple and catchy fuzz pop.

The beats, hooks and overall feel of these tracks is of a welcome high standard, sitting somewhere between the tried and tested aesthetics of yore and slick reinterpretation.

Thematically, Organ Music… re-visits all-of-the-above, but Spencer's more lucid in his metaphors than ever before but loses none of the mystique for doing so; listening to this is like realising you can suddenly speak horse, or whale.

Cerebral Ballzy is an album too desperate for your immediate attention to have any concerns beyond the last bar of 'Anthem'.

Though their own spirit may have mellowed and darkened over time, on Wild Go Dark Dark Dark couldn't be moving more resolutely towards the light.

Yet none of this is enough to relieve the air that everything on Curse Our Love has been intentionally dumbed down to make it as easily digestible as possible. Above all this album's great many sins, this is what offends the most.

All in all, the overriding impression left by The Lateness Of The Hour is that Alex Clare is a fairly gifted gentleman. But here his talents have been squandered on a collection of songs that fail to establish him as either a dance-pop titan or an emotive warbler.

The momentum and joie de vivre is intoxicating, and unlike many a transitional record, it's a genuine hoot, an unexpected blast of sunshine between the darkness of Fables… and the fires of Document.

With Little Dragon, you get it all under the one roof: a groove-powered producer's band with a little edge, an indie sensibility and a soul singer at its helm, able to turn out a pretty melody on the right side of cloyingly doe-eyed.

If Paris, Texas concerns itself with flat desert landscapes then Amplifying Host makes the sea its home, with a too-steady rhythm always threatening to halt the potential for a clear reflection on the infinite horizon.

It's all tension and release, with barely a second wasted to gasp for air amidst the squall of a band on invigorating form.

Konkylie is an impressive, accomplished collection of songs from a band coming into their own. They've succeeded in accomplishing what all so many artists strive for: cleanly synthesising their feelings and thoughts into sound.

Crystal Antlers have delivered a record that, rather than making good on the promise of their early work, is simply serviceable. But there's evidence here of a band still finding their feet and defining their sound.

If you love Zappa, Unknown Mortal Orchestra could be your artist of the year.

This isn't quite there yet for The Phoenix Foundation; there remains the nag that they haven't quite satisfied the need for more infectious hooks, although to their credit efforts have clearly been made.

If the results are as finely crafted as The Harrow & The Harvest, she can take as long as she likes with the next one.

The great magic of this record is that while acclimatisation to Zombyland is taking place, there's so much depth to explore, be it the bizarrely effective tonal shifts, the diversity of musical style, the sense of simplicity that, no doubt, veils immense complexity.

Washed Out always stood above his supposed peers; the more he progresses out of his shell, the farther his voice will soar clear of the soon-to-break wave of generalised chillwave nonsense.

As a temporary deviation from Incubus's core sound, If Not Now, When? is satisfactory.

As inconvenient as it may be, even if you already own this album it is well worth purchasing once again in its new form, if, of course, you can afford the ostentatious extravagance of buying the same Nineties lo-fi record twice within the same lifetime.

Complex of subject matter and sound, Player Piano could have been weighed down by intricacy.

Okay, at times the journey might seem a little too long--Miss Tambourine Wrist' does grate with repetitive ideas--but for the most part, the pacing between the slow death like marches and the adrenaline injected thrash falls are executed brilliantly.

Representing UK production at its best, SBTRKT's self-titled album is playful yet gritty.

Skying is very much a record of polar extremes boshed into close proximity. Withdrawn and welcoming; subtly bold; gently hyperactive.

It's mostly a stately, minimal affair.