The album Daft Punk should have made. [7 May 2005, p.66]

But Paramore have always been more pop than their fans may like to admit, and this mainstream rebirth feels like a transitional step to something gigantic.

There’s still a lot to love about B&S, but there was something magical, otherworldly even, about them during this period that this compilation captures perfectly.

While Cox is no stranger to gut-spilling, it feels as poignant as ever on this record.

'The Private Press' isn't a remarkable record - it lacks that startling and instinctive excitement capable of pushing music into the realm of the era-defining.

Interpol temper this album with real atmospheric sadness: the guitar sunspots that flare through 'Untitled'; the echo and ache of 'Leif Erikson'; the way the magnificent 'NYC' brings on the dancing horses for a slow sad waltz through the city's sickness; the snap-shut metal box clang of 'Obstacle 1'.

This album proves that Bird is up there with the kings of US alt.country pop like Lambchop and My Morning Jacket.

It’s a reminder that, more than just being influenced by the likes of Joan Baez and Stevie Nicks, she’s now on a par with them. Lana Del Rey is at the peak of her game – just don’t expect her to come down anytime soon.

‘Source’ is a reflection of Nubya Garcia’s hometown; a mirror spotlighting London’s skilled musicians and a reminder of how thrilling this scene can be. The project’s urgency is baked in calming undertones, forcing listeners to be meditative and to connect, and a sense of rejuvenation, providing a call towards a larger sense of community.

There's no overarching narrative to Short Movie--it plays out like a series of vignettes, of moods and moments, people and places--but there is a sense of a journey completed, with a hard-won wisdom at the end of it.

‘Reeling’ is gripping throughout, and the band always seem ready to ascend to another level.

It may be theatrical, but ‘Superache’ still feels deep and honest. Cut through the crescendoes and you’ll find real tenderness.

‘Back To The Water Below’ feels like a return for Royal Blood. Honouring their gut, as Kerr said they did in the studio, has manifested fertile results for their band.

Kehlani’s self-titled fifth album is a satisfying time capsule of R&B which leans into nostalgia and celebrates how far the singer has come.

Along with its album-ending coda, it helps to shroud the album in a rootsy, pastoral intimacy fitting for the times and akin to (although significantly meatier than) ‘McCartney’. In between, as you’d expect from a legend who’s been pushing his electronic boundaries on recent albums such as ‘2018’s ‘Egypt Station’, Sir Paul approaches the record with the same adventuring spirit as he did ‘McCartney II.’

As disarmingly brilliant Mutant can be at times, it’s still deliberately obscure.

The first long-play offering by these Pennsylvania teen punks might just be one of the best punk rock debuts of the year.

The duo have used their total creative freedom to make an album which doesn’t sound like the last one, exactly, but doesn’t concern itself with the supposed importance of ‘progression’ either.

Filthy, sexy, thoroughly debauched pop at its finest; Palo Santo feels like a magical album.

A tempestuous record, one that stays with you longer than the rage and anguish which, here, is as fleeting, yet deeply magical, as the changing seasons.

An album awash with pretty ambiguities and difficult twists.

By the end of the record he’s dissected that toxic old institution with the wit, eloquence and beautiful musicianship. It’s an album that does not only confronts the cult of masculinity and its endless tentacles, but ultimately overcomes it.

Ultimately Blake isn't yet the singer-songwriter to pull this album off.

The little dude is a poet. Still, at a relatively lean 30 minutes, it’s hard to argue this is a heavyweight album.

Each idea is significantly different from the last and this latest album is an immersive look at the grizzly realities of millions.

It's a surprise and a pleasure to report that much of The Ecstatic is--whisper it--simply good, honest hardcore hip-hop given a twist by MD's slurred, inebriated delivery and use of odd imagery.

A brutally romantic record.

Twelfth solo album Saturns Pattern backs up recent promises of another shift in sound, sending him into uncharted, acid-spiked waters.

It’s an album of unabashed growth, as the artist gets in his feelings but never veers into self-pity. The masked cowboy is – paradoxically – baring his soul, unbridled and all the better for it.

The album suitably builds on everything that ‘Going…Going…Gone!’ teased, re-confirming Udu as one of the most flamboyant and honest artists in the pop space right now.

While the only revolutions here might be the creaky cogs of the Fannies' 20-year career turning nicely, there's little denying they're still worthy of the reverence they effortlessly garner.

Not only do the band successfully blend genres with ease, they thrillingly leap through whole musical movements from one note to the next.

Ladytron slide perfectly vacuum-moulded from the Kraftwerk production line, a brand new model of synthesised splendour, power songwriting, and industrial dance shudderings. 'He Took Her To A Movie', 'The Way That I Found You' and 'Jet Age' capture the exotic Teutonic soul of 'Don't You Want Me' or 'The Model' while sounding thrillingly modern.

‘Warnings’ is a brooding, beautiful contemplation of life’s flaws. With this album, Lindén and Balck have strengthened their mastery of atmospheric music.

Put simply, this is fantasy pop, performed to perfection.

Welcome home, The Boss. [30 Apr 2005, p.64]

It’s wrought with haunting, high-stakes emotions, but the strength of Scott’s voice means it never feels melodramatic or plainly vulnerable.

Ultimately, this is tinkering around the edges of a formula rather than a bold stylistic shift--and while this makes Kannon an easy disc to recommend to newcomers, ultimately it goes nowhere SunnO))) haven’t gone before.

Not only does it showcase Pearl Jam reclaiming the charm that first made them a force to be reckoned with back in 1991, it comes alongside some of their most impressive musicianship yet, as well as a determination to take risks after years of playing it safe.

It's the sound of a band knowing exactly who they are, what they want--and how to get it.

The Money Store offers a glimpse of sonic dystopia that's utterly convincing.

Escapism’s one thing, but we need artists to sneer at the stars and sing songs about the gutter, and right now no-one does it like Sleaford Mods.

Smith’s made the grade on this serviceable first record Lost & Found, and the path to her becoming Britain’s next global export is looking pretty clear. If only it was made to feel less of a drag.

With the arrival of Fantasy Black Channel--four young men given free rein over four studios – it’s time to hail the new age of anything-goes ridiculousness.

A marvellous little menagerie of smart, eccentric guitar pop full of arty tics and tricks. [13 Aug 2005, p.58]

Even more subdued than usual. [12 Aug 2006, p.32]

Kicks with a passion and inventiveness that's seen them steam up the specs of everyone from Moby to Graham Coxon. [17 Jun 2006, p.39]

Musing on the break-up of a nine-year-long romantic relationship, simplicity is key to ‘Old Flowers’’ innate grace.

Who'd have thought the best Americana record of the year would come from two Swedish siblings?

There’s no suppressing the fact that, ironically, in loosening up and stretching their wings they’ve become a little more earthbound. Where once they conjured up the sound of, um, glaciers drifting across the surface of the moon, occasionally here it lapses into the sound of a wheelie bin being dragged across HMV’s backyard.

Disappointing, then, that the eight-track ‘bonus disc’ opens with a cover of a cover: a lo-fi version of ‘Valerie’. [Review of Deluxe Edition]

Stripped back to basics and muttering against the machines, they've never come on so strong.

Allen’s lo-fi production does nothing to dispel the notion that we’re eavesdropping on his innermost thoughts. At a time where many encumber sleepless nights and intense self-reflection, Puma Blue’s debut may well provide a brief moment of relief for those lost in the darkness.

‘Zeit’ might be a more reflective album than previous Rammstein records, but it’s still an energetic, swaggering beast.

The music is a spectral combination of bleepy 80s synths, lightly crunching backbeats and dreamy vocals; the mood is pure post-clubbing afterglow, in bed with your loved one, in some snowbound Ikea log cabin.

There’s plenty more evidence here that Frank remains one of our most consistently punchy, stirring and chaff-free songwriters.

Mangy Love would succeed even without lyrics. Produced leisurely with Rob Schnapf (Elliott Smith) and Dan Horne and featuring 21 extra musicians, this is McCombs’ richest ever recording. Sublime flourishes abound.

An album so autonomous and remote it sounds like it's being beamed from a deep-space probe.

Cox may have tagged Atlas Sound as just another side-project, but Logos is a clear indication that his solo creative output is just as richly rewarding as what came before.

He wields the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra as deftly as he did his spliff-stained six-string.

Clearly fed with water from a pool full of wide-reaching influences, Mind Control is a record that reveals more about itself with every listen.

It’s tempting to say that ‘Deceiver’ truly excels at its heaviest, given that these moments – the pitiless, piledriving chorus of ‘For The Guilty’; the heaving last gasp of feedback that roars through ‘Acheron’ – are the record’s most memorable. But it’s actually the more fragile moments on ‘Deceiver’ that ultimately prove to be the most emotionally resonant.

It’s clear that the members of MICHELLE are moving forwards together in search of something new, but are grateful to be in no rush to find it.

Ode to Joy is the culmination of a musical evolution Wilco have been working towards for years. Ode to Joy holds a microscope to the small moments of life – which, thanks to the current political landscape, we’re often in danger of missing – and encourages us to see and cherish them.

Easy to admire, but hard to really love. [27 May 2006, p.31]

It's like the best bits of every extreme metal subgenre: a deathly crossover of sludgy, blackened thrash that will put hairs on your chest.

Unlike Cash, the ego on display here still sounds like it's got the whip hand on the talent and you never really start to like him. [4 Mar 2006, p.31]

Oh My God is a dense listen and though there are more immediate moments (the raucous ‘OMG Rock n Roll’ and the shapeshifting ‘Hail Mary’ are two examples), you can let this album wash over you and wallow in its most intense songs, for they are the ones that will linger longest.

It’s no reinvention, but there are subtle tweaks here and there for a polished record that cements their place as a kick-ass rock’n’roll band with longevity.

The leap from bedroom-dweller to teenage riot instigator has been a swift and fruitful one, and what could be considered derivative is genuine in every sense. Circumstance might dictate that bedroom songwriting is back on the cards for Bea as the slow crawl to the return of live shows continues, but there’s a rock-solid foundation for the years to come.

It’s not necessarily trying to be clever – more that the sheer weight of its many ideas crushes the more visceral response that its obvious instrumental swagger demands from its listener.

Though less immediate than debut "Marry Me," Actor is full of charm, picking its way through disorienting rhythm changes and peculiar progressions.

Part of why it feels like such a beast is Shelton’s total frankness and vulnerability across these songs, which, while welcome and galvanising, also feels exhausting in the way watching someone run a marathon does.

Repeat listens showcase a project that’s rewarding for both listeners and, by the sounds of it, the artists involved.

A timelessly raw and real ride through this thing called life.

It’s Chvrches’ best effort yet and a glimmeringly great addition to 2021’s cultural highlights, that would be a travesty.

Lone coats everything in the same Orbital-esque melodies that made 2012’s 'Galaxy Garden' such a winner, producing an album that is both intriguingly new and gorgeously listenable.

It’s “pub-punk” for now, but there’s a good chance it’ll take them to much bigger stages sooner rather than later. It’s not big, it’s not clever, but it’s a bloody hoot.

It's just a shame that quieter moments such as 'The Lengths' sound a little weedy in comparison. [4 Sep 2004, p.72]

Mostly this is Nas going back to his former role as a keen street observer, ready to dispense wisdom to up-and-coming youngbloods.

A perfect slice of bedroom psychedelia. [9 Apr 2005, p.58]

It’s a fantastic record, a slow-burn masterpiece that buds gradually and thrives on the oxygen of repeated exposure.

Metals is, in its own right, quite simply the cat's pyjamas.

Plaid's digitally inspired genius is to make electronic noises and the odd sample sound sad and celebratory, while occupying a spot on the dancefloor several galaxies away from Ibiza's gonzo techno

The same old sombre samba, perhaps, but with a renewed sense of direction, it's threatening to take them somewhere fantastic.

With this heavy payload of imagery, it's a miracle that Sparklehorse's third album of backwoods blues hasn't ended up a junk shop of Southern Gothic clichés. Old dog Tom Waits even wades in, hollering like an incestuous uncle on 'Dog Door', while Linkous' rusty cabin music creaks insalubriously beneath. But that's just the first of many wonders of this exceptional record.

Origin: Orphan is the sound of The Hidden Cameras finally proving they can make records as wham-bam powerful as their performances, with deliciously sumptuous results.

This is ambitious electronic music rewarding persistence.

Whereas Ryder-Jones' old band inhabited a colourful, self-contained world of soft drugs, spaghetti westerns and Scouse jabberwocky, his own sonic nook might seem smaller and more earthbound by comparison, but it's no less personal or poignant for that.

Battered and brutalised, Twin Atlantic’s intrinsic pop nous gains depth and credibility on ‘Overthinking’, ‘Missing Link’, ‘The Chaser’ and highlight ‘Ex El’ and a pop epic like ‘Whispers’ becomes a brooding masterpiece that makes Biffy’s ‘Mountains’ look like Peter Gabriel’s ‘Solsbury Hill’.

It’s to Weller’s credit that these more plaintive and introspective tracks sit so smoothly aside ‘Fat Pop’’s more playful experiments. It means that for the second time in less than a year he’s released a record that can sit safely among the best of his long career.

This formulaic approach lacks surprise – once you’re a few tracks in, you’ve heard it all. It might not be a total hot Gizz summer, but at least we’ve got a few extra bangers to bask in.

On their 10th album, The Chemical Brothers remain the best in the business.

‘Venom’ is a consistent album that builds on last year’s teaser project ‘EXPLICIT: The MiXXXtape’, but this time with a significantly raw feel.

Akpro’s debut is a dark, winding ode to the UK capital, grounded in his own experiences and expressed with a subtle mystery. This sense of nuance – often missing so early in an artist’s journey – makes for one absolutely captivating listen.

The results are varied, but this is just one frame of a much bigger picture of Jin’s solo career – one where he will undoubtedly continue to grow and prosper the more he leans into what suits him best.

What WIXIW's working process has given them instead is yet another way to find the manifold, melancholy and menacing nature of Liars.

‘Raw Honey’ has the air of a great lost album from the ‘70s, with lush instrumentation that falls between Crosby Stills & Nash and The Eagles, yet also boasts the crisp production of a modern-day studio.