In short, this album holds together even better than On a Mission, and Katy B is still our best pop star.

As a psychological snapshot of DOOM's current inbetween-ness, it's certainly a fascinating listen. But, interesting as it is, it's a mite too spiritless to be considered a classic DOOM record.

With Ultraviolence, Lana Del Rey remains a singular figure in music, sounding (and addressing the idea of authenticity) like no one else.

The result leaves the listener with less of a sense of control and more of an experience controlled by someone who knows exactly what they are doing.

Spun out over a sometimes painful hour, NYC, Hell 3:00AM is a mess of an album that, despite a questionable concept, still has plenty of genuine highs.

Whereas 2009′s Missing Chairs carried a prissy frivolity in its floridness, Piramida is a noble, self-possessed creation; a masterclass in considered arrangement.

On Evolve or be Extinct he spends an uncomfortable amount of time simply sounding doddery.

When the whole thing drops back to its kickdrum-hi-hat backbone in the closing minute, it’s as stringent, and as satisfying, as any techno moment of recent times.

On paper Vapor City looked like Stewart’s descent into a sump of his own pompousness; in reality it’s anything but.

The Soul of All Natural Things realises her intent wonderfully, its gorgeously crafted pastoral songs a gentle invocation to inner peace.

As far as historic compilations go, this is an undeniable belter, successfully capturing music with a very particular energy worth celebrating.

So safely, solidly familiar is Hawk's third album that it's enough to make you nostalgic for the sound as it splutters on its deathbed.

An uncharacteristically difficult end to a record that’s not quite a paradigm smasher, but a must-hear for anyone who likes their hip-hop weird and with teeth.

A fair and fine experiment in folk that sees a more mature and worldly Lynch gently come to the fore.

Surrender to the Fantasy is undoubtedly good, but occasionally falls short of its potential.

There’s very little sense of a uniting personality, and you’re left wondering how genuinely great an album H&LA might make, how much more they would feel like a band rather than a conceptual project, if they cut loose as much as they do on ‘The Key’.

Love Letters proves to have all the pop addictivenss that Riviera did.

Instrumental Tourist is unlikely to be viewed as anything more than an unimposing footnote between solo records.

Body Music lacks both the pace and range required to sustain repeated listens, and rests too heavily on one--and even two-year old singles to bolster its overall quality.

There’s definitely an ancient, unformed quality here, and it results in some of Lustmord’s most inspiring work to date.

It's Kemp's uncompromising beat patterns and bouncing, funk-infused basslines that ultimately deserve the spotlight here.

The lion's share of this album is sprawling, confused, and almost grotesquely misshapen--a grand experiment with disappointing results.

The result is unexpected; thick, major label-backed, acoustically driven independent pop songs with a folkish tinge, laced with soft electronics and David Bryne-like vocals. BBC Radio 2 beckons.

As with Hive Mind, the record's most interesting moments are its briefest, almost as if Martin-McCormick's strongest ideas are the implied ones, the unrealised ones.

The result is a strange paradox in typical Animal Collective style: a suite of songs that’s at times alien, other times sentimental; often cutesy, but a little too bristly to curl up with under a blanket.

It’s fair to say that, from a purely musical point of view, this is far from Herbert’s best work, but that’s hardly the point; The End Of Silence aims to unseat us and provoke a more profound engagement with the events around us, and to that end it’s a success.

It's really working out for him.

Trap Lord’s such a tightly bound listen, however, that it jars when it misses the mark.