From the outset it makes clear that it features songs that aren’t rooted in any one place or time, but are effortlessly stitched together to create a dynamic mapping of modern urban existence.

Get lost in the haze.

'Untouchables' is a record that grows spikes with each listen and is by turns exhilarating, confusing, inspiring, embarrassing and astonishing.

'The Contino Sessions' can mean whatever you want it to. All we know is that it feels amazing. Warhol also said that everyone would be famous for 15 minutes. Death In Vegas' glory starts now.

After exploring some most unlikely corners, Swing Lo Magellan is arguably its best at its simplest.

It doesn't always work, and the softer 'Awestruck' is kinda preachy. But when the vitriol is squeezed into Fugazi-via-My Bloody Valentine-via-Sonic Youth swagger, as on the mighty 'Catatonic', it's admirable.

Like the film it accompanies, the T2 Trainspotting is nostalgic but new, paying homage to its heritage while saluting brilliant new British music. In other words: choose T2.

On the other hand, Part 2 is as unsettling as a record entitled ‘Locusts’ should be. ... What follows is a collection of music that is both deeply cinematic – ‘The Worriment Waltz’ is positively Hitchcockian, ‘Trust Fades’ could be lifted from one of Akira Yamaoka’s acclaimed Silent Hill soundtracks – and yet comes over much like you’d imagine the end of the world would sound.

While Nasty’s catalogue has found her focused on pushing to the extremities of self-expression – baking rock, screamo and punk directly into her rap with reckless abandon – with this record she flexes her chops as an artist with mainstream appeal.

‘3AM (LA LA LA)’, their most assured collection yet, proves they definitely have the tunes to match their outsized personas.

Sonically, it’s a step up from the guitar-driven mayhem that characterised their roots, without just slapping some synths on top like many of their indie counterparts. In reality, they’ve never sounded closer to that wacky, eccentric live band down your local on a Friday night – and maybe that’s where their truest form lies.

A welcome addition to the intricate patchwork quilt of the new wave of Americana.

There are moments on ‘Blue Banisters’ that don’t quite match up to the high bar Del Rey has set for her output. ... For the most part, though, ‘Blue Banisters’ reminds us that, beyond the social media fires and press backlashes, Del Rey is still as great as she’s always been.

The album's more subdued moments--like the disarmingly sweet navel-gaze of 'Simple As This', or the folksy arm-around-the-shoulder reassurance of 'Note To Self'--are its most remarkable ones, where Bugg's voice, usually accompanied by little more than an acoustic guitar, takes on a preternatural wisdom.

Blending philosophy and science with the bloodied, bruised heart of someone who cares about their fellow man, ‘Nothing is True’ offers comfort, reason, familiarity and forward-thinking to give us the soundtrack we need for now.

Coombes’ vocal, of course, gives the whole thing a nostalgic familiarity, but musically it’s an album that, for him, explores some fresh ground.

Where it works best is that clear marriage of anger and aspiration, interwoven with Furman’s melodic drawl, musical tenderness and reverb. In parts, though, ‘All of Us Flames’ is an example that sometimes less is more.

We are now seeing the band like never before. Not only are they showcasing some of their most intriguing and impactful material, but they’re also paving the way into a hopeful new chapter.

A handful of great songs might not be quite enough to sustain a new listener, or placate an older one. ‘Gigaton’’s saving grace? There’s plenty of malcontent here, even if Vedder leaping from amps might be a thing of youthful memory.

It is all-consuming and consistently impressive from the off.

The only downside? You don't get to see the band's plentiful hair thrashing about. [30 Sep 2006, p.39]

‘Talk Memory’ is technically proficient but all too often the record lacks the playful spirit and brash confidence the band carried themselves with in the early days.

They’ve pitched their comeback between an emotional exorcism for Homme, but with enough fan-service for the die-hards; this is up there with their darkest, knottiest material to date, and will be appreciated all the more for it.

Believe the hype, this is even better than 'Ray Of Light.' [12 Nov 2005, p.45]

Don't start here before the essential LPs... But once you've fallen in love (and believe us, it's inevitable), this is a mesmerising next stop. [17 Jul 2004, p.48]

An album scored through with a vehement beauty that, with each listen, becomes all the more acute for its unwillingness to shy away from life's bleaker, more painful moments. [25 Sep 2004, p.62]

A volatile brew of uneasy drama and emotion from a band that, on this showing, should always record live.

Evan Patterson's lyrical turns of phrase are still subtly unsettling, and the overall collision of punk and blues is a bit like Grinderman, without the spectre of ironic smirking.

Jockstrap sound like nobody else at the moment, and they’ve barely started.

A record that establishes Ballentine as a clear-eyed truth-teller, with poignant songs that move relentlessly as she revisits cobwebbed childhood nightmares and the dark shadow of familial trauma.

Genre-bridging should excite, thrill, agitate; yet... Hood are--still--hipster-miserablist Pet Shop Boys fans threatening suicide during rainy countryside walks. [15 Jan 2005, p.43]

The fidelity is satisfyingly chunky, though, and while you’ll find better takes on, say, 1988’s ‘Fugazi’ EP, the previously unreleased ‘Turn Off Your Guns’ perfectly encapsulates their blend of wiry funk and firecracker dynamics.

Perhaps its issue is that it’s quite hard to feel anything throughout its running time beyond a sense of general malaise.

It showcases Solange's experimentation at its best, but is only a prelude to a full album in 2013.

About as funny as pouring weedkiller on your genitals and then setting fire to them. [7 May 2005, p.66]

The album you always want Sebadoh to make: unrestrained, kinda sensitive, speckled with paranoia and insecurities and, best of all, in love with the very idea of making music for the sheer thrill of it.

As a whole, it’s winningly Lynchian, and ballsy enough to open with an 11-minute song.

While ‘Old News’ also has a light, airy quality – every note of ‘Roadrunner’ is imbued with a deep melancholy. While it might not provide the same hit as the jubilant likes of early hits ‘Boogie’ and ‘Gold’, Brockhampton are still masters of tapping into a mood, and it’s an immersive trip as a result.

Somehow, even after you know all the punchlines, the tunes are solid enough to still bear pressing ‘repeat’.

Mad as a crate of stoats? Certainly. But worth investigation, all the same.

At 32 minutes it’s brief, but not without its thrills.

The guitarist and his normally hands-on producer are facilitators, with Tzur as the star. That might upset Radiohead fans expecting a stop-gap, but shouldn’t detract from an what's a largely immersive record.

There’s more to this record than excited confidence and a hunger for adventure, though. It’s not just the spotlight this gang need. It’s connection.

No Geography is another leap forward for the pair--it embraces new avenues of discovery and nods to the wider world, while having the feel of a victory lap and retrospective.

It was a risky move, switching from conscious R&B star to grungy punk beau, but WILLOW has knocked all doubts out of the park – again.

A record of beauty and balance, Swanlights cements Hegarty as the transgender: artsy and challenging enough for the Guardian chin-strokers, but with enough hushed melodic wallop to seduce all-comers.

It’s testament to their power that an average Isis album is still pretty good.

A couple of slower-paced moments, ‘Khattaba’ and ‘Mawal Jamar’, drag a little, but 'Warni Warni' is undoubtedly the best Syrian-folk techno banger you’ll hear this--or any other--year.

He's turned in an electronic album that’s full of character without resorting to robot costumes or Pharrell bloody Williams.

Deceptively inventive, darkly melodic Simon & Garfunkel and (Elliott) Smithisms. [4 Sep 2004, p.72]

At 16 tracks ‘The New Toronto 3’ could be accused of being overlong, but it is an immersive experience, a deep dive into Lanez’s psyche.

The band artfully showcase their musical knowledge to create a project which marks a clear distinction for the largely instrumental band. With ‘Mordechai’, Khruangbin have at once expanded their horizons while rooting their latest project in a sound they’ve made their own.

While they mainly hit a balance between shifting symphonics, subtle keys and pyroclastic guitar, sometimes--such as on "Plainclothes," a ballad/disco/punk-funk/noise jigsaw--there's just too much going on.

Endless Boogie justify indulgence via countless glorious shut-eye air guitar moments that nod to the Groundhogs, Canned Heat, the Stones at their tuffest.

This collaborative foray successfully breaks new ground in terms of Marshall’s solo work, further ensuring that ‘Space Heavy’ will assume a lofty standing in King Krule’s already glowing discography.

This is an album that sits well alongside classics such as 1987's 'You're Living All Over Me'. In other words: a genuine monster.

‘Shlon’ allows Souleyman to lift the curtain into his culture, showing his artistry and why exactly he’s one of the most sought-after producers in the world. To pigeonhole him as a wedding singer is reductive.

As ’80s revivalism hits its self-fellating peak, it’s a pleasure to hear an album that knows escapism isn’t dressing up like a fucking unicorn--it’s shutting your eyes and screaming until your throat burns.

Serene on the surface, but disturbed deep down.

Tinged with Grandaddy and full of hooks that twinkle like the diodes on a robot from 1984, this is an obscenely enjoyable return.

For what it is, for what it does, for what it represents and for exposing the idiocy of people who only care about 'what it earns us', then, a truly, TRULY great pop record.

Lux Prima is a hypnotic listen.

You could accuse Liars of abandoning all of their high-art concepts and otherworldly thoughts so they could secure their place on a tour of America's enormodomes with Interpol. Well, you could if this album wasn't so perfect.

The album is best listened to in full, with the cinematic orchestral passages linking the songs together and acting as a respite between each of the break-neck pop bangers.

The absence of original guitarist Jim Martin is soon overshadowed by just how focused the record is.

Okkervil River comes into its own when he forces some particularly oblique and unique strategies into practice.

The album’s bittersweet introspection is complemented by samples of audio recorded by her and her documentary-maker dad.

It’s an album brimming with audacious leaps, and they land most of them.

It is that rarest of things, a record so particular to Björk's own artistry that no-one could ever hope to replicate it.

The record’s barrage of barrelling noise is linked by stuffy interludes of piano (‘Prelude III’) and strings (‘Chandelier Shiver’), meaning the quintet only narrowly avoid coming off as pretentious. But when Eva sings “I held the arrows/I pulled the strings” on calm, clear-headed highlight ‘Opalescent’, the emotional strength at the heart of Rolo Tomassi shines through.

Lighting Matches is a record that makes Bedford sound like Hollywood. Whether he gets there on this record, time will tell. But there’s enough class and promise to at least meet his ambitions halfway. He knows what he’s doing.

This is, primarily, experiential music, meant to be enjoyed communally at their ear-splitting live shows.

‘Ugly Season’ might be indulgent, but Hadreas is still able to weave in the tender and immediate songwriting that made ‘Set My Heart On Fire’ so engaging (just as he wove his experimental streak into that record).

It’ll take time to see if it becomes a standout in her discography, but this boldly brazen record definitely makes a statement.

‘Hallucinating Love’ cherry-picks fresh blooms and euphoric alt-pop melodies to enhance what we already know and love about Maribou State.

The album’s lyric booklet is very bare, offering little explanation. Sometimes this spare approach works, sometimes not.

Enter deal-breaking title-track ‘Hold Time’, which is (and let’s not understate things here) a career-defining ballad even on its own, masterfully striking “You were beyond comprehension tonight/But I understood...”

This compilation may only offer a limited snapshot of the Dunedin sound, but rarities like the unreleased ‘Christmas Chimes’ make it worth the trip.

Always inventive, often beautiful and occasionally totally sublime, Mew have always stood out from the pack, and this latest--with producer Rich Costey back on board--sees them raise the bar that extra inch higher.

Consistently brilliant, ‘Side B’ might be a collection of offcuts but this is the sort of record that most acts could only dream of making.

The psychedelic outings sound too sharp as a consequence, but it's an effective repositioning overall, even if it's hard not to want to scruff up their hair just a little.

It is a collection of whimsical neo-psychedelic folk songs of no little charm, but, crucially, little drama either.

Dense and relentlessly angry... 'In The Mode' is an example of fierce, righteous, and - despite the American input - fearlessly British innovation.

It hides more than xx did, sneaking its miserable joys behind bare spaces, surprise time signatures and subtle dramas. But listen after listen it reveals just as many treasures beneath its layers of shimmering sadness.

Monch stays versatile, political, and intellectual as he uses his many gifts to be at once motivational ("Hold On") and verbally ambidextrous ("The Trilogy"). A winner.

It’s not as if Kano’s position as one of the Top Boys of an energised UK grime and rap scene needed any further cementing, though ‘Hoodies All Summer’ has done exactly that.

It's this eclectic intensity which makes TV On The Radio such a vital prospect. [5 Jun 2004, p.55]

It skilfully combines Neil Young’s dusty American songcraft with scratchy lo-fi and wandering electronic influences.

A deeply satisfying entry into their catalogue. It’s a homecoming of discreet intentions, not the pompous heroes return they’re likely used to – the modesty and subtlety suits them.

They’re still genre-twisting, but their focus has shifted slightly from complexity to short, punchy riffs that recall some of the bands that producer Gil Norton has worked with previously: Pixies, Foo Fighters, The Distillers.

The rapper’s attention to detail is undeniable – but serving up a pile of rhymes, rather than full-bodied songs with snappy hooks, can be boring no matter how skilful you are. Even the star-name features can’t really lift this skippable sequel and its samey songs, which is a shame, given Benny the Butcher’s proven penmanship.

One could, incorrectly, mistake this for a Danielle Haim solo album: her lyrics pull no punches, and her voice is even more the band’s centre of gravity. But when Alana sings her first full lead vocal in the band’s discography, on the Arthur Russell-inspired disco cut ‘Spinning’, and Este takes the spotlight on the synth-country ballad ‘Cry’, they’re both revelations – vulnerable like they’ve never been before.

An astonishing debut of cosmic country noir. [28 Aug 2004, p.57]

The likes of ‘Little Birds’ and ‘Raining On Your Pillow’ are lullingly linear, driven by routine drum patterns and interchangeable vocal melodies. Depending on your perspective, the sparse instrumentation is either ‘minimalist’ or ‘undercooked’, oscillating between the polarities across the course of this languid collection.

Firecracker mod-punk and allegorical political cut-and-thrust. [5 Mar 2005, p.51]

Dungen are the band The Mars Volta wish they were.

Because there's an awkward squirm at Girls' core, a deviant devolution of classic mores, and that makes Holy Ghost something of a maladroit masterpiece.

As parting statements go, Post Pop Depression is solid gold proof of his genius.