Singer Matt Popieluch transcends his past as Peter Bjorn And John’s bongo player as he helms the hyper-melodic ‘Vacationing People’, while ‘Wait in This Chair’ proves a moving ode to inertia, casting a spell only a televised fashion disaster could break.

It's frustrating, because when they quit mucking about, The Hidden Cameras have the power to produce songs that tickle your heart. [10 Jul 2004, p.49]

This is technically the fourth full-length they've released, and it seems AV don't quite reinvent themselves under pressure so much as contort themselves into bigger, better and weirder ways to take everybody's ears on a massive tangent.

The positive to come out of this, however, is that on their third album, rather than hollering “YEEEAAHHH” or “WOOOOAAHHH” or “BAAAAYYBEEEEEE” quite a lot over the top of his bandmates’ still-exciting noise, Harvey now has something to sing about.

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

'Recordings…' might lack the obvious brilliance of his movie making, but it's more than just the dabblings of an enthusiastic amateur.

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.

A veritable swoon of a record. [7 Jan 2006, p.28]

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

It's ace, like you imagine Madonna would've sounded if the records had matched the raunch of her videos/concerts/multimedia-experiments.

Beverly’s effortless indie rock debut is the result of a casual collaboration between honey-voiced guitarist Drew Citron and her occasional employer, former Dum Dum and Vivian Girl Frankie Rose.

Sleepy Sun are at their best when they revel in both light and dark, unleashing throatily riffing guitars to disrupt pastoral interludes.

It’s not a perfect ride.... Cosentino’s honeyed vocal is the only true constant. It’s a radiating sunbeam.

The only problem is that at times, it feels like all parties are a little intimidated by each other, stopping just short of going the whole way with the primal force that the best moments prove Womack is still capable of.

An album of washed out, happy-sad, semi-psychedelic sounds that glower as much as they gleam, it’s perfect for those 3am mornings when you’re full of alcohol and regret.

A good debut, if strangely restrained. [2 Apr 2005, p.50]

It can be a harrowing listen, but Wheeler sugars the anguish with slabs of OMD synthpop on the title track and 10-minute centrepiece ‘Medicine’.

Abe Vigoda, HEALTH and No Age's noise-pop inform the best parts of this fine debut LP, rendering it a swirling headfuck of manic energy mixed with blissed-out melody.

pite. ‘Sanctuary’ sums up Final Days best, a nine-minute odyssey of guttural vocals, noise and melody.

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.

It finds Toddla T cementing an identity as a producer--10 years from now, it might be seen as an important stepping stone to greatness.

His best yet. [3 Sep 2005, p.74]

Joey Burns and Paul Niehaus from Calexico take part on 'The Shepherd's Dog,' dovetailing neatly with Beam's vividly personal lyrics and ear for gentle, haunting melody.

Band moniker-related developments of recent years (see also: Ducktails, Peak Twins) mean this now implies gormless nostalgia, smarmy irony and, in a nutshell, chillwave. Happily, Lowtalker--five songs, 14 minutes--is a bit smarter, and better, than that.

It’s not only the boldness of Mason’s subject matter that makes this a brilliantly disquieting record, but also his ability to make it consistently warm and wholesome.

‘Pick Up The Phone’ and ‘Hi How Are You’ are amusing bursts of irritation, but ‘I Can’t Stand To Stand Beside You’ and ‘What’s In It For Me’ stand out, lost classics that could have snuck on to The Who’s ‘Live At Leeds’ (well, almost).

Ace. [15 Oct 2005, p.35]

It’s the kind of album that sounds best listened to solo.

There’s also no denying the power of their bittersweet, socially inept aggression, and the ferocity of their sound on Farm. But, as truly gifted as Mascis is on the guitar and as surly as Barlow is vocally, this is merely Dinosaur fossilised, leaving you hankering for something a little more daring.

The production is too breezy in places and at 19 songs, it is at least half a dozen too long. Not the classic Adams fans demand, but he’s moving his ducks into a row.

For the most part, Honeys is a prime example of how the innovativeness of your chosen style matters not a jot, as long as you’re doing it with aplomb. And most importantly, having a bloody laugh.

By letting their heads float off into the clouds and planting their brogues firmly on the ground, Those Dancing Days have created an album of fizzing indie-pop to charm both the starry-eyed teen and the world-weary indie connoisseur.

An obsession with sex that's rarely heard outside Lil Wayne albums is combined with the woozy sizzurp lilt of A$AP Rocky and his own stunningly sinister devil's whisper delivery to create something remarkably dark and original.

That's not to say there's not some exceptional music on this record, it's just once again the impact of the best moments is dulled by the inclusion of some indifferent electronic compositions.

Two years, lots of touring, and a wad of cash from Domino Records later and the New Jersey four-piece have shaken off the sun-flecked dust of that haphazard genre to reveal a clean and canny record.

A bit of good-time boogie on 'Big Rock' is the only release of tension. Otherwise this is intimate country-folk that's utterly seductive in its stillness.

They lose points, however, for a descent into guitar squall and full-on ‘Baker Street’ sax (‘Perpetual Surrender’), which mar an otherwise intriguing debut.

Of course, the whole venture has about as much cultural currency now as an octopus's garden, but it's a lovely timewarp to slip into.

The turgid ‘Robots From Hell’ aside, they carry it off.

The debut album from the Leeds sonic evangelists features tracks about an assassinated prime minister, the Salem witch trials and an East German border guard who committed suicide through guilt after escaping to the West....These subjects are then twinned with a sound rich in solemn and ultimately cacophonous guitar.

The resounding verdict is that it’s a surprising, but bold and brave progression from last year’s confused "Graduation."

Revisited ‘Are You Experienced’ cuts ‘Fire’ and ‘Red House’ set the tone for power trio workouts topped by the title cut, while live favourites ‘Hear My Train A Comin’’ and ‘Lover Man’ show that Hendrix needed his own studio to replace the rubble they’d have left behind at NYC’s hallowed Record Plant.

Despite the mutant promise of the title, 'Eve-Olution' is hardly startling. Yet as proof that mainstream hip-hop can still learn new tricks, it's a success.

The main thing 'Sweat' has going for it is the fact that it isn't 'Suit.' [2 Oct 2004, p.63]

Their all-or-nothing ambition is exhilarating, however raw the execution.

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

Overall, Shulamith is a record that takes on serious issues but always feels engagingly personal, with ideas set to the kind of alt.pop melodies you couldn’t forget even if you wanted to.

Britney and 'Britney' still works best when making a good pop cheese and dance sandwich.

Full of banging beats, big noise and abundant wit and joy. [26 Jun 2004, p.55]

The Donnas are utterly convincing...

By the end, it’s more than enough noodling, but you can’t help but marvel as Drinks shred their fingertips.

A dusky delight.

Almost in defiance of poor sales and cult following, CWK and their charming second album embody everything you hoped music might be.

This is BSP in fine, if not exactly boundary-shoving, form.

This Athens, Georgia collective have blossomed from winsome indie-pop virgins to frocked-up future pop stars, beaming their febrile college rock through a kaleidoscope of sleazy funk, electronica jitters, and 'Fear Of Music'-style Talking Heads ethno-beat.

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

It's a more honest title, for starters [Astrological Epochs & The Sands Of Time]--with 10 songs that, like the starry-eyed indie pop of Constellations, rather than cosmological in scope, are uniformly short, sweet and were recorded on a laptop.

It eases up on the rigorous deconstructivist tendencies that have so permeated the last two 'Lab records, taking a cue instead from the carefree effervescence typical of recent live encounters.

Like ‘The Girl And The Robot’ from Röyksopp’s 2009 ‘Junior’ album, and it begins with a stunner--‘Monument’, a winding and mystical 10-minute epic containing startlingly self-confident lyrics.

Moments of beauty cut through the bleakness.

Meatier, beatier, bigger and bouncier. And all the better for it.

'Anxiety Always' is a triumph of punkish spirit, an album that embraces creeping horror like an un-comfort blanket.

Jacko xscaped in a faulty pod, but now at least we’ve a worthy tribute.

Exquisite, state-of-the-art beats, rhymes and vocal hooks. [25 Sep 2004, p.65]

Most of these 33 tracks are uptempo bolts of energy.

The rattling drums and broad, ambient synths on closer ‘Beams’ represent a rare foray into a fuller sound, but, for the most part, Dark Red plays out like the soundtrack to a creepy sci-fi-horror flick.

At times, it's too lovely and woozy for its own good--but when the mood sours, as on standouts 'Devil In My Mind' and 'Erie Lackawanna', it's really rather intoxicating stuff.

Their seventh album finds the London indie veterans dusting their melancholy songs with hope and loveable melodies, each a compelling tale in its own right.

Lurches spectacularly from lounge-jazz to avant-vaudeville and takes a pop at everything in between. [14 Jan 2006, p.34]

Weatherhouse properly uncovers Selway as a compelling songwriter.

All in all, this is merely promising rather than masterful. [14 Oct 2006, p.35]

Each winding soundscape sounds like it was made for those big budget nature documentaries with David Attenborough.

This is a hugely personable album full of gawky heartbreak and Yorkshire sad-glam that makes you feel like you know Louis as well as your oldest school chum.

E Volo Love may seem oddly relaxed at first, but acclimatising is a breeze.

Consciously retro, sure, but more convincingly so than Disclosure and similar young bucks.

Basically, the album's a mess of melody, noise, stupidity, screaming and big choruses that does its bit for the all-important Campaign Against Intellectualism In Rock. Fun.

His reinvention nears Hot Chip’s disco-pop on ‘Pagliaccio’, flirts with hip-hop via the big beat and looping riff of ‘Turbine’, and blends lyrical emotiveness with slow-tempo electronic touches on ‘SIHFIY’.

His world may be grittier, but Plan B's up there with Alex Turner as a lyricist, crafting simple and darkly witty songs about the reality of life in Britain.

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

Although the collaborations here read like pop's Yellow Pages... it feels not like desperation, but a wildly ambitious Warhol-esque art project. [9 Sep 2006, p.35]

Cleaned up but never pared-down, it's his most wholesome collection since 'The Hour Of Bewilderbeast'. [21 Oct 2006, p.35]

Where there was tension and urgency [on his debut], now there's bigger, poppier and probably more commercially viable folk songs that don't quite pack the same punch.

Moral of the story: don't listen to this while operating heavy machinery or people will die.

Those looking for a live greatest hits-style album will be a bit disappointed by the CD portion of Voltaic, which misses as many of Björk’s big songs as it hits. The DVD, however, manages to get to almost all of them.

If your relationship with Sonic Youth chiefly consists of boozily chucking yourself around to their sprinkling of indie-disco floorfillers, you may be surprised to know that Thurston Moore can 'do tender', let alone do it very well.

Year... continues to follow that bombastic course, packed from start to finish with grandiose, rousing flourishes and ample proggy ballast.

Angles isn't perfect, but if it marks a new phase of creativity and togetherness for the group, then it could be more of a success than even Is This It.

Love the way cricket brings out people’s most eccentric traits? Then love this.

Unapologetic makes a compelling case for Rihanna knowing what she's doing. This most compelling of pop phenomena still has something new to offer.

It harnesses large spaces, allowing songs like 'Caravan' to blossom into something more orchestral than you'd expect; fitting for a band whose name translates as 'reverberation.'

Here he summons the spirit of Zappa, Blackalicious and Gil Scott-Heron to stunning effect. But when he’s speeding through neighbourhoods of clownish rhyme schemes, alliterative gibberish and sped-up Mozart sonatas, you wish he’d take his foot off the pedal slightly.

These vipers may be tiny, but there’s a bite to Fortino’s harrowing vocal that’s sure to leave its mark.

By the time closing waltz 'Bring Me Down' ends, intimacy levels are so high that you feel like a contented voyeur.

They may never recapture their ‘Dirt’-era majesty, but AiC’s second act is turning out very nicely indeed.

Good news for OutKast fans, basically, although the pair’s debut works best when it’s playing it weird.

Succinct, tiny pop gems like 'Milk Bottle Symphony' and 'Relocate' are beautifully realised. [11 Jun 2005, p.67]

Night Work makes no apologies; Stuart Price creates a sound that is fierce and muscular.

Unsurprisingly, the most thrilling moments are the most genre-schizo.