Even a run of solid guest stars--Solange, Toro Y Moi and Vampire Weekend’s Ezra Koenig--can’t pump any passion into this flaccid cringe-fest.

It’s an insane and challenging, ambitious and exceptional work of art.

There’s a lot to like about Turn Blue, but it’s a cruel irony that the heaviest hand in Dan Auerbach’s warts-and-all confessional sometimes seems to belong to his producer.

It’s melodic, competent stuff, but if you’re going to try and push the crazy buttons you’ve got to go full straitjacket, and Liam Finn is just a tad too straight.

Exploratory, intense and without a kickflip or kingskin in sight.

III is a fluid, inventive affair.

Armed with a wide array of instrumentation, it’s an ambitious attempt at an extravagant pop record and, at their best, the band show a deft touch for layered orchestration.

It all has an affecting, intimate power.

Asiatisch, however, is even more pretentious [than two previous EPs], pairing instrumental UK grime with Asian flourishes to explore the relationship between the west and China.

Their attempts to assimilate their record collections often fall between two stools--unlikely to do the business on a dancefloor or spirit you away at home through the power of its sequencing.

The songs splatter unpredictably with little concern for cohesion, forming a whole that is emphatically unique.

Not a misstep for Eno, but not quite the best of both worlds, either.

Almost every part of it sounds sublime.

I Never Learn is an album about love, but not a record to love.

Allen’s old sharp eye feels watery on Sheezus, squinting at the discourse around feminism, race and privilege unfolding online in 2014, and riding them as a bandwagon back to the middle of the very space the Myspace-spawned pop star once owned, but not having the conviction to do much with them once she’s arrived.

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.

Dave Grohl and Pat Smear both make cameos on the record, but high profile guests aren’t the album’s high point. That accolade goes to the gentle soft rock triumph of ‘Raspberries’, the shred-happy ‘Pieces of the Puzzle’ and the piledriving, ’70s-era Aerosmith ballad ‘Too Far Gone To See’.

At 73 minutes, it could easily have been boiled down to give it more punch, but you can’t bemoan the celebratory feel of The People In Your Neighbourhood.

Rivas’ voice isn’t enormously distinctive, either, meaning Sky Swimming rarely eclipses the dreaded adjective ''pleasant''.

It’s all jam and no croissant, sadly.

It works, up to a point, but means the whole smooth and romantic-sounding affair, though not quite boring, lacks that special spark.

It’s been a long wait, but Wye Oak are beginning to blossom.

This madcap might raise the occasional laugh, but inside he’s crying, and for all your voyeuristic unease, you won’t be able to look away.

The album had to happen, and for a band that are now ostensibly a touring entity, the measure of its songs is whether you’d want to hear them being played at, say, Field Day this summer. Slipped between their classics, they’ll do just fine.

Albarn pulls you close and whispers the codes of his life into your ear. Switch settings to ‘decipher’.

It’s a graceful evolution and one that rocks just as hard as the squalling fury of The Distillers ever did.

Although 'I Run' and 'At Once' are the sort of soaring tunes they always did so well, on the whole there's no compelling answer to that initial question: why?

There’s the occasional peak, like ‘Clown’ or ‘Destroy Me’, but Candy For The Clowns feels more like an act of stubbornness than defiance.

Mac knows better than to let his bellyaching get in the way of everyone else's good time--instead, he’s simply dialled down the quirk and written his best record yet.

eedly bass, tumultuous drums and big, dirty guitars careen beneath Casey's deadpan delivery, building riotously enjoyable labyrinthine passages that lead to nowhere, though Protomartyr make the journey feel essential.

The results are standard indie on top of a few croaky far-off bleeps, but the vibe is brilliantly consistent: dubby, cracked, and less dense than the surface of Saturn (very un-dense).

Psychological trauma aside, there’s a warmth to Weiss’ soft, sighing vocals and Daniel Falvey’s rippling guitar textures that lifts Loom to the heavens.

A slick offering, Rented World is let down by a tendency to veer towards the formulaic, evidenced by closing track, ‘When You Died’, an altogether too tepid acoustic tear-jerker.

Bereft of blues bombast, electronic trickery or bothersome concepts, when E's not coming on like Red House Painters he's getting seriously classical.

It’s not quite the equal of its predecessor--last year’s breakneck, flute-powered ‘Floating Coffin’--but is a gem nonetheless: nine tracks of noise-spiked Nuggets-y psych-punk, each one hitting with the crisp concision of a long-lost jukebox classic.

It seems Paradinas' real talents lie behind the scenes.

There’s nothing game-changing about The New Classic, just recycled hustlin’ tropes and an ugly, nasal double-time flow overcompensating for mediocre wordplay.

While Food may be more home-cooked comforts than Blumenthal experimentation, at its best it’s a fulfilling portion.

This is the sound of progress.

With the help of former Coral man Bill Ryder-Jones, Liverpool's We Are Catchers (aka Peter Jackson) has captured the melancholy essence of Beach Boy Dennis Wilson's solo album 'Pacific Ocean Blue' and distilled it in the murky Mersey to produce this confident debut.

It’s no radical reinvention, sure, but the singer captures these songs in their most up-close-and-personal state, with instrumentation stripped back to nearly zero.

For all its high-mindedness, it’s garage-rock primalism is just as easily enjoyed with your brain switched off. Perhaps that’s the point.

There aren’t quite enough classic songs here to render their voice vital, but as long as boring bands exist, this kind of piss and vinegar will always be welcome.

Lo-fi electronica ('Getaway Ride') and ambient pop ('Dominic') create the spine of a charmingly off-kilter record, while 'I Love Our World' is essentially a field recording.

There’s a rare moment of foreboding on the briefly gloomy ‘Feather Man’, but the likes of ‘Shining’ and the Avi Buffalo-style ‘Only The Lonely’ are representative of an optimistic and sprightly record.

It suits them just fine.

A brutal and beauteous slither from the grave.

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

Australia’s Chet Faker has a pretty big hole to dig himself out of on his debut. Singing no faster than 2mph doesn’t help either, but there’s an unexpected range in his schtick that’s disarming.

Thought Forms' side peaks with the driving Sonic Youth riffs of ‘Sound Of Violence’ and the dizzying My Bloody Valentine lurch of ‘For The Moving Stars’.... Having left their label, [Esben And The Witch] are using crowdfunding to record their next album with Steve Albini, for which these raw tracks offer great.

A good seven years out of date, Doom Abuse is pure synth-pop mania, frequently teetering between unadulterated Trent Reznor pop brilliance and impressions of Skrillex driving a monster truck through a Savages gig in a video arcade.

Here and there, though, it’s a bit of a grind.

It’s far grubbier and more riotous than any high school musical.

Intelligent and visceral in equal measure, PUP is effortlessly cool, charmingly nerdy and wholly brilliant.

The pit-friendly snarl of ‘I Won’t Be A Casualty’ and ‘You Must Be Damned’ show that these guys are all still the real deal.

Tremors is frustrating. But when the colours align it’s alluring and impressive.

Old Fears provides a fascinating insight into the mind of an increasingly-indispensable pop polymath.

Her most outward-looking work to date.

This is one house of horrors that’s worth the ride.

The London four-piece have never had trouble creating pretty atmospheres though; it’s contrasting them with a bolder hook, lyrical or otherwise, where they struggle.

Slowly, their melodic smarts outweigh their influences.

She sounds like she’s having a bathroom hairbrush-singing party to which we’re all invited. These are sweet sweet fantasies, baby.

This is cold-blooded revenge pop that strikes like a shard of shattered plate to the heart.

Sustained power and little in the way of variety can make for quick fatigue, but at just 38 minutes long Cope has hooks and energy to spare.

If there’s anything wrong with Brooklyn-via-Kentucky singer-songwriter Dawn Landes’ seamless fifth album, it’s that it’s just too damn nice.

It’s business as usual with the release of their spaghetti-mess fourth.

The moments of imperfection that let the album down come on ‘Two Of Us On The Run’ (as basic as acoustic songwriting gets) and ‘Until We Get There’ (just sounds like a Cults offcut), but there’s promise here.

The problem is simply the songs: route-one, four-chord grunge adrenaline hits that have none of the haunting and eerie dissonance that set them apart from bands like Wavves, and the rest of US indie’s surplus of breezy slacker-rockers last time around.

It remains a 1980s Johnny Cash album and it wasn’t until Rick Rubin got hold of him 10 years later that he came in from the cold.

In turns more glam-indebted and more duskily evocative than anything they’ve previously offered up, Himalayan’s aims are as monumental as its title.

It’s crisper and glistens with ambient atmosphere and mellow beats.

Though there are less standout moments than on previous records, it is a wonderfully cohesive whole that renders brooding menace into graceful songcraft.

Overall there is a sense that this is the sound of a band brushing their hair and fixing their make-up, trying to convince the world they're OK while secretly crumbling on the inside.

Despite this early start, she oozes a smoky maturity that bodes well for her debut, but unfortunately then shanks it off the fairways by prattling on about Air Max 90s and hanging on the District Line.

Occasionally. the jaunty positivity treads too far into Edward Sharpe territory and all you’re left craving is a healthy slice of cynicism.

Highly ambitious and original stuff, created in aid of the Scottish Love In Action charity.

The tunes--from the devilishly catchy title track to the clattering, anthemic ‘Viva L’Amour’ and the swoonsome, panoramic ‘Tabarly’, complete with romantic mariachi trumpets--are superb.

It’s far too long at 67 minutes, but that’s the price of free expression.

Tearing through its 10 songs in a shade under 28 minutes, World Of Joy sounds like a band straining themselves to top a personal best. Happily, they’ve managed it.

Get past the initial jolt of weirdness and you'll find in his delivery a soul-puncturing cry from the very frontlines of life, able to evoke both desperate tragedy and skyscraping joy all at once.

It’s unspectacularly solid stuff.

Goodwin could be a solo star yet.

Mess’ is characterised by synths and distorted beats. But unlike the often self-doubting and timid ‘WIXIW’, it revels in its own demented chaos.

On their sixth album, however, they advance on their trademark blokeishness to embrace a beefier and slicker kind of guitar-led groove.

Opening track ‘Petrichor’ is certainly a trial, layering ominously ringing notes with clarinet blasts and coming on like the soundtrack to your worst nightmares, while the rest of the five-track record flits between welcoming and uncomfortable.

It’s a collection of snapshots of a band stretching towards a brilliantly kaleidoscopic, eclectic new sound--and almost reaching it.

New Gods is endlessly lovable stuff.

A harmonious hardcore Dispute.

The result is original, surreal and hypnotic--a brilliant debut.

Best enjoyed off your face at a festival and forgotten about the next day.

By the mirrorball moment that heralds the lengthy coda to the closing ‘It Girl’, you’re left giddy and breathless, applauding a 20-year veteran who’s finally found his voice.

It’s an all-enveloping record that puts the listener at the centre of the overwhelming intensity of Ferreira’s life these past few years – and offers a front-row seat to her wrestling back control.

Like Justin Vernon before him, with Lost In The Dream Adam Granduciel seems to be heading for things far bigger than anyone could ever have expected. This is one War On Drugs that might just succeed.

Black Lips’ spirit is as bright and brilliant as ever.

Waterfall sees the shadowy 24-year-old advance the weird, industrial sonics that caught everyone’s attention in the first place into even bolder territory.

You'll be comfy, you might spot some pretty things on the hard shoulder, but ultimately it doesn't get you anywhere.

Cranes is strong on ‘Honeymoon’ and ‘Easy’, but there’s also nigh-on-sprightly, post-Jessie Ware trip-pop on ‘I Only’ and ‘Feather Tongue’. It's just not enough, though, to struggle above years of similarly tasteful, slight efforts.

Kiss Me Once proves that after 26 years in the business, Kylie can still pull off a very modern pop album.