Itâ??s in its latter stages that Viva... truly goes stratospheric: on the magnificent orchestral pop title track, where Martin imagines himself as a deposed French king reduced to sweeping the streets; on the bruised â??Yesâ??, like Dandy Warhols and Depeche Mode lost in a desert duststorm; on the Satanic blues hymnal of single â??Violet Hillâ??.

Not since Bon Iver’s "For Emma, Forever Ago" has there been such an accomplished album of torch songs.

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.

I Know Myself (Montreal)’ revitalises the album version with warped acoustic guitar and brass, and Tanner adds foreboding guitar noise to a narcotic ‘Green Eyes (Music Blues)’. But the rich piano on ‘Love (Montreal)’ is best, crowning an EP that expands on the wealth of ideas McMahon put into Love.

It’s bolder than before, and easily their best-executed album yet.

Breathy, sophisticated and existentially troubled. [2 Sep 2006, p.19]

The music of Amplifying Host blends baked American blues with the ghosts of this island's folk tradition to wonderful effect, especially on 'Tessellations', which is like coming across a bedraggled family cooking beans around a campfire in the tinder-dry ruins of what was once a chocolate-box timber-framed cottage.

They're staying put, yet somehow they're kicking harder than ever.

If this really is Poliça’s “final paper” (as Leaneagh’s called it), then they’ve excelled themselves with the most intimate and empowering album of their career.

A record that otherwise skids wildly across art-rock history leaving steaming tyre tracks in its wake.

Clavish narrates his story against a backdrop of deep subs, eerie synth melodies, and dark ambience that allow his bars to cut through with a real sharpness. If he learns to refine his output a little, there’s no reason Clavish can’t achieve the levels of stardom he’s been tipped to reach.

In revisiting the production of her '80s records she paradoxically produces something that sounds timeless.

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

‘Small World’ might be the biggest diversion from their main stage sound to date, but it’s also one of the most heartfelt and rewarding. Metronomy, it’s good to have you back.

Covering so much ground (‘Hydrate’ even bridges dubstep and reggae) means the album lacks a clear narrative or overarching theme.

Smart; savvy; insanely resilient: 'Waterloo To Anywhere' is just the ticket.

[A] curiously eclectic record.

Pierce’s creative and personal rebirth are evident throughout, but a return to the trappings of earlier records makes for a relatively limp second half. ... Overall, though, The Drums sound closer to what Pierce had envisioned all those years ago.

Rather than a fresh blast of wizardry, ‘Extreme Witchcraft’ is more of a feet-finder for our times.

Rise Ye Sunken Ships is actually pretty great, but guys, just dial it down a bit yeah?

Arthur Beatrice running their race slow and steady has resulted in an album full of sophisticated pop.

Father of 4 is a fine body of work that builds a convincing case that Offset is currently best-placed to be Migos’ break-out solo star: once again, the final act of a trilogy proves to be the finest.

All told, it's incredible this is a debut album. Accomplished, yet subtle, it works perfectly as a whole in a way all the production skills in the world couldn't replicate.

It's an unyielding piss-up of tattooed garage riffs, petrol-drenched blues and Marlboro-chuffing growlers. [1 Jul 2006, p.35]

So one third's great and two thirds grate, which is an improvement at least.

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

The reason that 'Come With Us' seems unsatisfying is that The Chemicals no longer seem rooted in club culture the way they were in their Heavenly Social days.

It’s full of clever collaborations and interesting vocal performances; Roddy Ricch has placed himself comfortably in his own lane.

A union of intelligence and passion. [26 Mar 2005, p.51]

It's an album that leaves you in no doubt that Odd Future's leader is a rare talent.

It’s Waller’s voice--one that proved too powerful an entity for his former band, Vincent Vincent And The Villains--that stops The Rumble Strips from being mere Dexys copyists.

All we can say for sure is that here is a talent in bloom, the sound of ideas finding shape, winding out in all directions.

His third album in as many years shows he’s on a streak that’s both prolific and high quality.

Doom Days is a vivid snapshot of humanity and an imaginative, adventurous levelling up from one of Britain’s most influential bands.

Worship The Sun continues that approach, sounding more cohesive in the process. Somehow, though, it’s also more sluggish--their ‘60s indebted garage-rock drags where once it excited.

Though the album gets a little messier and more unfocused from this point, ‘Oceans Niagara’ points to a beautifully bright future for the M83 project.

For a record just 30 minutes long it feels impossibly epic and for all its scuzzy, lo-fi production, it still sounds fully realised. Not to mention fully brilliant.

This is glossy Americana, mixing The Avett Brothers with Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros, its piano- and violin-led crescendos emulating old-timey grandeur.

It's The Game's candour that is his unbridled strength. [29 Jan 2005, p.59]

A classic case of ugly and beautiful: TN&F's passive melodicism and aggressive innovation clash in a dazzling blaze of psych/sonic fireworks.

The album is stuffed with this kind of lyrical proficiency, which demands high levels of dissection. ‘King’s Disease’ is an acutely perceptive and culturally relevant body of work that finds its author willing to try out new ideas. There’s a genuine conversation to be had about whether it’s the best rap album of the year so far.

Alongside stripped-back, warm and hazy versions of the always powerful ‘Ohio’, ‘Alabama’ and ‘Southern Man’, Young’s new take on 1977’s ‘Campaigner’ hits especially hard.

A stunning return to form. [14 Oct 2006, p.35]

Opening track ‘Back To Land’ wouldn’t be out of place at an Eric Clapton gig, closer ‘Everybody Knows’ is dreary, and ‘These Shadows’ could be a Mazzy Star throwaway. The rest, however, is gold.

heir lighter moments can be a bit cringeworthy--too earnest by half--but when they go slow and heavy, they’re unfuckwithable.

Where the intervening years have tempered that haste, this fifth album offers compensation in the form of their sharpest, most precise set to date.

Recorded in a primary school, the Reading warbler's third solo record is whimsical, pleasant and calming, with shades of Damien Rice and Regina Spektor.

Big Boi is the best thing about the album--and double props for staying true to his entire career's quest of never making the same album twice. But Vicious Lies And Dangerous Rumors as a whole? It's all over the place.

‘Free’ is a liberating collection that unshackles the star from his past and his insecurities, and slowly cracks open a door to version of the future that will inevitably arrive when he’s ready. Wherever that journey takes him in this phase of his career, it’ll be an honour to witness.

While Negativity is an apt word to describe the impact of the events that inspired Deer Tick’s fifth full-length, it’s not an overwhelmingly dark record.

The misogyny of Tha Carter V cheapens its moving moments.

As a body of work, ‘Glorious’ is uneven – there are a handful of certified hits and a bunch of questionable additions that suggest better quality control was needed here. But, with her undeniable energy and beautiful message of girl power, it’s still worth a listen, even if it doesn’t live up to the expectations that her attention-grabbing singles previously set.

For the most part, The Stoop is a tuneful if beige Ronson-esque production, set against clever-lyrics-for-stupid-people.

There are some bumpy moments along the way, but this ‘Voyage’ is a nostalgia trip worth taking.

[Evans is] a sharp songwriter with an acute ear for melody and a voice that could bitch-slap any R&B wannabe into place. [21 May 2005, p.66]

Urban Turban is more grin-inducing than a piano-playing cat.

That's what they do with pop--layer incongruous harmonies and bastardised riffs to make us look at it anew. If that sounds like too much effort, then Man... isn't for you. If however, the thought of it as a brilliantly unsolvable puzzle appeals, then bow at the feet of pop's new Picassos.

Festival stalwarts and vintage sonics trailblazers, their no-fuss rhythm and blues has little truck with reinventing the wheel and fizzes with the simple joy of creation.

Adams could clearly make use of an editor here--but you can't possibly hate an album that uses pedal-steel on every track. [24 Sep 2005, p.43]

Cronin’s knack for languid songwriting is enhanced by adding more opulence.

Of all the dead genres, you’d think it would be hard to credibly reinvent blaxplotation-era soul, but The Heavy (who, along with Pop Levi, are heading up Ninja Tunes’ new imprint Counter Records) pull it off explosively well.

There’s not much sugar to sweeten the pill, meaning Trap Lord is often one-note and depressing.

A blissful happiness pervades 'Baby I'm Bored', but then that's Evan all over.

Triumphantly succeeds in underlining Dulli's deft touch in understanding the magic woven into the fabric of great pop. [4 Sep 2004, p.73]

The Faint continue to ensure that across the pond there's an infinitely sexier state of dance-rock affairs. [11 Sep 2004, p.55]

Farrar has the passion to carry the songs beyond any hackneyed themes. [6 Aug 2005, p.56]

It's hard not to enjoy being alive while listening to this album. [25 Feb 2006, p.31]

It’s this ability that makes The Big Pink so special for, beneath the dissonance, the artful posturing and the pop hooks is something far more enduring: these guys have got a soul and they’re not afraid to bare it.

Now Pollock has rediscovered her former band’s grandiose esoterica and stark, scratchy danger.

Miike Snow’s debut is a curious affair: clad in icy, inscrutable packaging a la Sigur Ros with american singer Andrew Wyatt carefully enunciating every overwrought word, it’s also jam-packed with the kind of dazzling pop tricks you might expect from three chaps whose day job is churning out radio hits for the likes of and Jordin Sparks.

It was produced by Michael ‘Mike D’ Diamond of the Beastie Boys, though sounds like it’s held together with snot and sawdust, lending the record a sense of spontaneity that runs through all 16 tracks.

Everything pushed to the limit, it becomes abundantly clear they’ve made an album that sounds as at home on the dust-stained subway as it does at the peak of the Empire State Building.

[The] change in pace makes for a welcome modification to the Flume sound, which is elevated by his rich, newfound sonics. Yes, Streten can still soundtrack your night out, but on ‘Palaces’ he’ll also gently bring you back down to Earth when morning comes.

Dre and Snoop forgot the legacy they created for the West Coast with ‘Doggystyle’ and – although there are flashes of fun – the forgettable collection barely scratches the surface of their legendary status.

Recorded under the radar with producer Jason Lader and Bright Eyes collaborator Mike Mogis, it’s a strange little album, just eight songs long but deceptively dense with ideas.

Though ‘shame’ is no wild departure, its voice feels stronger. Cutting loose clearly suits IDER – this independent follow-up finds them free to pick apart all the complicated facets of shame in a slow-burning, smouldering fashion.

Toliver adds a new flavour to his popular sound here, and while the result is a less cohesive record than ‘Heaven Or Hell’, the result is a similarly cosy sonic comfort blanket.

What solidifies ‘Mother’ as an excellent debut is Poulter’s openness to embrace a myriad of influences, from UK funky to disco and ’90s house. To produce good dance music means keeping the sensations alive on the dancefloor; ‘Mother’ highlights the multiple ways the club can be enjoyed.

A set of sombre fingerpicked fables, Luminous Night’is heavy in spirit. It is cold to the core, as if it’s being played in the long shadow of a tombstone.

Caoimhe Derwin and Jessie Ward’s guitars have perfected that Jesus And Mary Chain kettle-whistle sound, lending a haunted air to otherwise energetic stomps like ‘Heartbeats’ and ‘Talking.

Jenny 'Rilo Kiley' Lewis, and Jonathan 'Just Recorded Under His Own Name' Rice's brand of folk-indie-pop--jangly guitars, sweetly shared harmonies, echoes of the Deep South--isn't groundbreaking, but probably wasn't supposed to be.

An intimate, frequently beautiful and consistently surprising record that gets better with every listen.

Overall, though ‘Heligoland’ is a puzzling and frustrating listen. Some good tracks can’t hide the fact that this is the stuff of an identity crisis. It’s one thing to call on your famous friends to put flesh on your bones. It’s another if you leave the listener wondering if you’ve any spine at all.

The Avetts are clearly happiest when they're miserable. Which is fine, if you're in that kind of mood.

‘EBM’, then, goes some way to bringing the seasoned band back to what they do best, all the while pushing things forward.

Stories Don’t End is smoother than a drive down to Malibu with the Eagles chilling in the back seat.

What they have done, though, is find their voice again, and, for the first time in over 20 years, The Libertines feel like a band with a viable future.

Good, but not "The Greatest."

As a collection of songs, however, Colors is by far Beck’s most upbeat and enjoyable record from front to back since the ’90s. Repeated listens will no doubt be rewarded.

Volcano may rank as more of a technical progression than an artistic one, but it’s no less impressive for that.

All of these incredible songs shimmer and vibrate with the riotous majesty of 'Psychocandy' without a trace of the Mary Chain's post-'Honey's Dead' self-parody.

A stunningly original record--harrowing and hilarious in equal amounts. [25 Feb 2006, p.32]

Happily, it makes a good go of bucking the trend here and there, with singer Bill Janovitz's full-throated delivery investing his words with the kind of gritty undercurrent of self-loathing and inner torment that makes Skins jolt with bursts of fresh energy.

Cyclops Reap keeps the party going.

The ramshackle energy and unpredictability of their live show has been sanded down into something more clinical and precise.

A whiff of unoriginality aside, what this EP offers Parquet Courts addicts is fresh meat to chew on, signs of innovation and further evidence that these New Yorkers are one of the world’s most essential new bands.

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

If it’s mournful epics you want, then the album’s crammed full of them, from the strummed, outdoorsy sorrow of ‘Winter Dies’ to ‘Rulers, Ruling All Things’, which is peppered with cheeky Spanish guitar and weighty, fin-de-siècle lyrical flair.