It is indeed a really good record--but not a patch on their 1988 masterpiece 'Daydream Nation'. [17 Jun 2006, p.37]

It's the longer, wilder but more melodically repetitive screes that dominate the album, throwbacks to Spacemen 3's space freakouts that excite sonically but outstay welcomes like a nasal harmonica player.

By god is it ever long (it's 16 tracks), but on the whole it showcases enough of what makes the Chili Peppers a very good rock group – chief among these are John Frusciante's excellent, inventive guitar playing, and the fact that it is with tremendous conviction that Anthony Kiedis belts out even the most ridiculous words.

No great departure, rather 16 more tracks of campfire folk, quivering vocals and a brilliant baby's-eye view of the world. [25 Sep 2004, p.64]

It’s an impressive display, but the contrast between the two sides is so vast they could easily be two different records.

A one-way ticket to the outer limits of the solar system. [8 Apr 2006, p.39]

If you were merely whelmed by FF’s anaemic third, then this album of dub versions could be the infusion you’re looking for.

Bo Ningen have become more approachable without losing the ferocity and anything-goes attitude that made them so exciting in the first place.

This is a sweet postcard from a man who still gives a shit about trying something new.

For two men famed as political firebrands, Robert Wyatt and Israeli anti-Zionist and saxophonist Gilad Atzmon certainly make a beautiful noise together.

Fans of Animal Collective will be familiar with the expressive freak-out moments here, but Akron/Family are secretly far more at home nestled somewhere between Fleet Foxes and Led Zep in your collection.

As it clatters into earshot, the most immediately surprising thing about We Be Xuxa is that it sounds pretty much how you’d expect it to, ie confused, teenage and drunk.

Blige's best yet...

Not all of it works... but the 'What's Going On'-sampling 'Modern Marvel', mumbling folk-soul of 'Boogie Man Song' and widescreen shuffle of 'Champion Requiem' prove that not all hip-hop albums come with an expiry date. [23 Oct 2004, p.51]

While it's still shrouded in the frontman's down-in-the-mouth moodiness, its slinking rhythms offer the album's most striking and effective contrast between light and dark.

Its portraits of downtown legends like Lou Reed and Alan Vega are far more affectionate than much of his scabrous output, with music that flits between dreamy Velvets simplicity and the synthetic throb of Suicide.

Though The Futureheads' established formula still sticks steadfast, there are enough wild cards peppered throughout to prove that, far from stuck in a rut, they're still moving playfully forward.

Uncomplicated, Spinto Band-ish jangles like 'Second Look', 'Tallboy' and 'Everything I Know' plough casually and happily along without a care in the world, very much like the band themselves.

For, as derivative and daft as The Apples are, it's impossible, like a scowling adolescent laughing at the antics of his irritating kid brother, to hate them.

A wonky, Teutonic thing full of outré drama and should-be pop classics.

As ever, the detail is dazzling: snippets of woozy orchestral dinner-jazz, wibbly-wobbly pastiches of children's TV themes... But in the fabric of the music itself, Mike and Rich seem to be running out of steam.

Feels a bit like your bedroom partner trying on all kinds of flash costumes and gadgets to try and excite you, and the realisation that it wasn’t really necessary and they wouldn’t have had to bother had you just shown them a little more love in the first place.

Barring a late collapse into soft-rock mush on the drifting ‘This Love’ and weepy ‘Clean’, Swift’s plunge into pop is a success.

Guilty of knocking underdeveloped material out one minute and trying to be too clever the next, It's What I'm Thinking... is surely the most focused and mature record of his career.

Rule of thumb for this album: ballad good, uptempo shocking. [20 Nov 2004, p.57]

Fearless himself assumes vocal duties, although Austra's Katie Stelmanis is also occasionally employed to help the music transcend the dank analogue dungeon of its creation.

'Nothing To Do' is a real struggle to hate. The fact is, they have an undeniable knack for turning out two-minute garage pop songs with such warm-hearted, wide-eyed brio that shooting them down seems as callous as steamrollering a basket full of kittens.

It'll sit nicely at the ultra-sad end of the CD rack, but if you have to listen to it more than twice a year, you should definitely drink less, get out more and consider relationship counselling.

It’s still clear that The Voyeurs aren’t reinventing the wheel. But they’ve greased it with enough fun that it scarcely matters.

Much of the charm of The Deserters lies in the winter-blasted chime of Zeffira’s voice, and those frozen-hinterland soundscapes.

Lyrically and musically, Gallows are a very different band from the one who made ‘Grey Britain’, and the fact that you can’t imagine them making this album (or its predecessor) with Carter will remain a deal-breaker for some.

Tortoise have made a welcome escape from the dusty ’90s indie crypt.

Equal parts The Runaways and Weezer, but still going, and still good.

The Queens trio still flow properly and cut a dash.

Austra’s music has always felt like it comes from the same place, too--a dark dancefloor mania of hot-blooded movement and dark sentiment – and new EP Habitat is no different.

The Lo-Fi's are still operating more than competently, but this time round they're not likely to blow any minds.

The purely audio side collected on this debut album is artfully coiled Vampire Weekend world pop.

In under an hour B&S have reversed their decline, producing an album that ranks alongside ‘If You’re Feeling Sinister’.

While it’s often been easy to sum up McGuinness himself with that statement, whether he wants the attention or not Chroma is a forceful enough effort to propel him centre-stage.

Put it this way - if you don't loathe the likes of Starsailor and Travis with every fibre of your being then there's absolutely no fucking chance whatsobleedingever that you'll like Ikara Colt.

Of course, for all its honourable intentions, it still paints a picture of 100 dudes in a basement yelling the refrain, “She’s good for a girl”. But when they aren’t committing feminist faux pas, Greys stand on the verge of leading a new generation of punk.

Good Graces may not be reinventing the wheel, but it leans out of the hammock to give it a good spin.

A shiny slice of mirrorball punk rock. [9 Oct 2004, p.57]

Banjo Or Freakout effortlessly mates electronic distortions, low-end theory and achingly gorgeous pop melody – with emphasis very much on the latter.

While it is maddeningly catchy in places and well put together, its defining characteristic is a conservative streak that sits strangely with this most anarchical of bands.

Gracious Tide stays with you like a dream you wish would keep recurring.

It won’t convert the unconvinced, but Petty sounds as inspired as ever.

A huge step forward for them and, hopefully, for their public perception too.

In the same spirit as Broken Social Scene's baroque pop, his first album stitches together the psychedelic, lo-fi montages and creates something unworldly and unique.

In short, it's as Icelandic as whale pie--elevator music, sure, but heaven's own elevators.

Growing Pains finds Blige on chirpier form.

It’s a shame that on The Mindsweep, Shikari's message is occasionally lost among the madness.

Colour Of The Trap isn't quite a perfect debut, but by stepping out from the shadows, Miles Kane has come away smelling of roses.

It all has an affecting, intimate power.

There's a bloodymindedness on The Monitor that is equally infuriating and invigorating.

Apart from the weirdly out-of-place vocoder moment on ‘Comrade’, it’s a layered, lush and lovely eight-track affair.

Doesn't do a lot different from [Let Go]. [3 Sep 2005, p.74]

If Sparta have been damned thus far as the weaker of ATDI's progeny, let it be so no longer.

Childish’s defiant presence guides.

Never quite hitting the peak of "Hell..." they walk a fine line here between fame-hungry thugs--something that ill-fits them--and existential thinkers with the “intellect of Einstein” and a fondness for sonic dissonance.

Espers, the rockier duo with which she made her name, seem to be on permanent hiatus, but this more than suffices.

The results range from danceable ('Phoenix', 'Sad') to unnerving ('Telegraph To The Afterlife', 'Sixty') and give off an atmosphere of ghostly melancholy that subtly subverts Elton's reputation as a cosy British institution.

Ultimately, though, Rip This prevails through bloody-minded ear battering.

At times its Cure guitars, thudding drums and eerie vocals get lost amid the fog (‘In The Mirror’, ‘South’). But when it finds a solid rock stomp, as on ‘Crest’ or ‘Raptor’, 2:54 loom like a monster in the mist.

There's so much beauty on Let's Go Extinct that it could hardly be anything other than a delight.

Often witty and always wise. [27 Nov 2004, p.61]

Yet although much of it coasts along on autopilot, it can be outrageously good fun.

Dry The River have made a very good debut album.

Phoenix are no '80s copycats, but they occupy a sweet spot where influences and their own flashy banks of synths and treated guitars sound meaty and perfect together.

For 37 rollicking minutes, they give it the full gun, meeting the challenge of being the biggest garage rock band in the world head-on.

'Bavarian Fruit Bread' represents a towering piece of morphine-induced self-indulgence.

A little more variation would have been nice, but you know what they say about stopped clocks.

Music theory waffle/spiritual musings aside, this sees the pair expand their austere template with new instruments and ideas to great effect.

Whipping up a surplus of creeping, insistent sophistication--climaxing with ping-ponging head-wrecker 'Aspic'--you can once again envisage techno overlords such as Sven Vath dropping SMD, rather than daytime radio DJs.

s. The result is a delightful tribute to The Beatles and a record that has made so many turn on, tune in and drop out.

It's nothing if not infectious.

These ten tracks come with such an earnest passion for the timeless pop form that any snobbery is punctured with an arrow drawn straight from Cupid's quiver.

Seven albums in and Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons might no longer be raving on the most future-facing side of dancefloor, but their way with an effortless arms-in-the-air banger is undisputable.

An authentic graininess permeates In Camera, like you're listening to the whole thing in sepia-tone - from the coy country call-and-response of 'Come to View (Song For Neil Young)', which could have soundtracked a Jane Fonda film, to the lolloping 'Afterglow', and tambourining of 'Lion's Mouth'. Lush.

The tracks have separate names but they're really just one whole impressive piece, about as far from Sheeran as you can get.

Simply put: an album stuffed with great, joyful songs.

Sure, the two slower tracks might make for a break in the relentless pace, but who needs the rest? If you just so happen to be one of the best in the up-tempo pop-smattered emo-punk game, why bother slowing down? For this lot, more is most certainly more.

Serene on the surface, but disturbed deep down.

When they deviate into a treacly world of dub and shifting tones (‘The Channon’), there’s still a lineage, along with an identifiable personality.

Few bands could explore motherhood and terrorism without making you want to shoot them: Corin Tucker's electric-shock voice and the adrenal guitars make them as essential pop topics as schoolyard crushes and backstreet drugs.

The Pirate's Gospel is a campfire folk gem perfect for the summer festivals.

Ultimately the confusion and convolution is all part of the charm on this adventure into a world of history and imagination. It doesn't hit the peaks of 'Stainless Style', but is still a record worth investing time in.

Noise music has been content to let its harsh aesthetics do the talking alone for too long; with Laced, Whitehurst has challenged that paradigm.

Micachu brings all her talent for earache soundz to bear on 'Violina/Bread Before Bed', while 'Shapeshift', the collaboration with Hot Chip's Joe Goddard, might just be the best electro-hop banger since Roots Manuva's 'Witness (1 Hope)'. Which is weird, 'cos the UK rap don also turns up for a spot of Cameron-bashing on 'Capsize'. Tasty.

After all these years, he's still got it.

The key word is ‘almost’, because what could have been mawkish and naive is instead deliciously raw, an album for when all else fails.

Downbeat dinner parties, say hello to your new soundtrack.

Submissive this is not.

Efterklang’s first release on the legendary 4AD label is packed full of immediate melodies and soul.

There’s so much packed into these 15 lush, context-evading songs, though, that map references are pretty futile.

All in all, this isn't an album you can listlessly slam on to get yourself ready for a night out, but it is a satisfyingly rich project.

Head for Home if you want to hear where drum'n'bass, dubstep, garage and old-school jungle meet in 2013, but really just pick it up if you're looking for more bangers than a barbecue at a firework factory.

A mind-tweaking knees-up in the second-chance saloon for Fox.