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.

'Quixotic' is doomed to be a record that has dinner parties nodding in mute agreement at its quality. Albeit half a decade ago.

If you like your rock with sawdust on the floor and blood in its mouth, this is as good as it gets. [14 Aug 2004, p.49]

Less a cohesive body of work and more a collection of tracks, ‘Exodus’ feels a little unfinished at times, because of a lack of verses from X and the occasional filler record. Nonetheless, it’s a wonderful tribute record loaded with stellar individual moments, and serves as a beautiful reminder of why the world fell in love with DMX in the first place.

Ultimately, this is a more mature Rocky: suited, settled and self-assured. The bachelor’s grown up – and somehow, that hasn’t dulled his shine at all.

While it’s not the glorious shambles we were hoping for, there’s a feeling that no matter what rehabilitation they go through, thankfully they’ll never lose those magic battle scars.

If Burrows gifted Razorlight two of their biggest hits (in "America" and "Before I Fall To Pieces"), what his former band gave him in return was the platform to bring something far more interesting into the light of day. Welcome the new dawn.

After the ubiquitous presence of '80s-indebted music last year, a follow-up with little stylistic deviation isn't a thrilling proposition: Take Me Over steals a hook from fellow Australians Men At Work, adds ooh-ooh backing vocals and just about gets away with it.

A belligerent surge of dub-influenced electro-rock and angst-ridden sloganeering.

There's undoubtedly something there with Frankie--those effortless, skippy choruses aren't as easy to do as they seem. But he and his Heartstrings haven't quite found their true north yet.

Ultimately, Blossoms leap from their chart-bound Trojan horse as modernist rock heroes.

He's no Marcel Proust, but full credit for producing what's an unusually thoughtful album in contemporary pop music terms. Even if it is a bit morbid.

A good seven years out of date, Doom Abuse is pure synth-pop mania, frequently teetering between unadulterated Trent Reznor pop brilliance and impressions of Skrillex driving a monster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

This fifth album is a relatively sedate affair.

Benjamin Power, on his first record as Blanck Mass, isn't really breaking their spacey, rushing mould, instead slowing it down and ironing out the thrills.

You can't help but feel The Subways are stuck between rock and a slightly harder place, and are just a bit confused. [9 Jul 2005, p.57]

Gone Now proves he should be recognised as more than a writing partner or producer to the stars, but one of the stars himself.

Gorgeous closers ‘Grenade’ and ‘Beautiful Boy’ run the risk of ending proceedings on the glacial landscape that you’d expect from Sigur Ros, but there’s enough of a futuristic sheen and optimistic vibe to keep it feeling fresh and make you wanna dive back in for more.

Scissor Sisters sound under so much pressure to follow up a monster hit that they're not actually having any fun.

It comes a little unstuck by the end of course, but overall this is a delight, going bump in the night in more ways than one.

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.

Fact is, though, the best metropolitan records are part gutter reality, part romantic fantasy, and so it goes with Panic Prevention.

There’s a lot to love about music that’s as head over heels in love with youth as Soft Will is.

Islands is as ferocious and catchy as ever. And while it’s undoubtedly a record of consolidation, a return to familiar home ground, it also gently scouts new territory.

Eels’ most complete and self-contained record, arguably the epitome of their ouvre and a record that places E – in his own gruff, xylophone-toting way –alongside the great downtrodden romantics: Cohen; Rufus Wainwright; Stephin Merritt of Magnetic Fields; Nick Cave.

If there's a quibble, it's an avoidable tendency to let songs drift into overtly tasteful territory, but on point, Ballet School do their heroes proud.

It’s unconventional but at the same time totally pop--a tricky balancing act Lidell just about pulls off.

Liberation may lack the grand ambition and massive pop bangers of her glory days, but by the end, it’s hard to deny that she feels reasonably relevant and contemporary again.

While we may never fully understand his inspiration, when his work is as colourful and inventive as this, it's a small sacrifice.

Crystal Antlers may be treading the same ethical path that bands such as Fugazi did, but it’s their ability to amalgamate and transcend genres with apocalyptic effect that makes them truly revolutionary.

The glammy, foot-stomping country bounce of tracks like ‘Greedy Soul’ make sure this isn’t a hoary dad-rock indulgence, but a totally 2017 rock record with its sights set high.

Greg Kurstin helped deliver everything both artist and mercenary label boss could wish for. Songs that are ultra-modern and instantly accessible, fun but never cheesy, experimental but rarely try-hard.

Their best album since their 'Dubnobasswithmyheadman' debut, Karl and Rick have pulled off a comeback in fine style and laid some demons to rest.

Elegantly-strummed slices of lo-fi Americana.

It’s arty, it’s farty, it’s at times strangely hypnotic and if you leave it on your record collection it will make you look really cool. If that’s your thing...

Cashback? Pretty close.

The two-piece create an irresistible sense of longing that’s more disarming than Donovan’s smoothest pants-off line.

Even if there's still a sneaking suspicion Angelakos used up his very best tunes on 2008 debut EP 'Chunk Of Change', this dewy-eyed record sweeps you up in its joie de vivre all the same.

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

There’s nothing groundbreaking here, but little to be ashamed of either.

Being the K-pop chameleons they are, MONSTA X continue to refine and redefine themselves with every style and genre on each new release.

[A] collection of well-crafted bangers, most of which are begging to be blasted out of a subwoofer as debauchery rages.

Out of necessity, the sonic experimentation is braver, too, as if to emphasise the intensity of the feelings that Templeman examines throughout. The songs are immediate and involving.

Boasting their strongest set of songs for an age.

Some other stylistic choices prevent ‘New Last Name’ from being the disruptive moment it clearly wants to be – ‘Flex’ and its nod to ‘Mr Brightside’ (“now she’s calling a cab”), doesn’t quite land – but the album’s overall vibrancy doesn’t dim on repeated listens.

In the end, ‘More Chaos’ does exactly what it says on the tin: it’s overloaded, aggressive, and unruly – and that’s the point.

There’s impressive variety contained within ‘Dead Dads Club’ too. ‘Volatile Child’’s direct indie hooks throw back to the melodic smarts of early-Strokes; ‘Junkyard Radiator’ arrives woozy and disoriented in a drug-addled, psych-tinged haze, while ‘Need You So Bad’ rings with a gentle kind of euphoria.

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

Pond’s fifth album, Hobo Rocket, bristles with unrestrained creativity and sonic exploration, while verging away from pastoral prog towards a harder garage blues slant.

For Manson fans this is familiar territory: the same mechanical riffs, same whisper/scream vocals heard on his regular stream of albums. Here, most songs are entertaining rather than groundbreaking. Occasionally they’re neither.

An album that not only fudges golden opportunities, but finds this band's whole modus operandi laid embarrassingly bare. [15 Jan 2005, p.42]

Though these are often beautiful and uneasy songs, too many of them feel rudderless.

Yet it all hangs inexplicably together, thanks to heavy doses of charm and wit, its ability to propel your emotions from thrilled to weepy to lovelorn in a trice--and the promise that Kiran Leonard might grow into a properly important figure in British rock.

On the evidence of this stunning piece of music, we'd all do well to give a bit more of ourselves over to the machine.

The prevailing air understatement doesn’t detract from Making Time, but it does mean it just peters out. Woon could have done with pursuing the harder edge of ‘Movement’ a bit more. But he does things his own way and, for the most part, that’s a very good thing.

It's a fine album, but signposts a possible future rather than taking us there directly.

It's still party music, but for a different kind of party.

As debuts go, True Romance is an astonishing statement of intent – if they’ve got any more ideas left after the 10 tunes here we could have a rather special band on our hands.

Obits create the same buzz in your brain that was almost certainly present the first time you heard The Hives or The Vines, the feeling which had you so giddy that you perfected excitement wees to rival a puppy (probably). This time, though, it’s not bratty whipper-snappers but a fine veteran taking the lead.

Their vision is so focused on piano and guitar tone and so opposed to the notion of tunefulness that MGMT’s new stuff seems like ‘Motown Chartbusters 3’ in comparison.

Cool cover or not, 'Strange House' is a strong debut from a band who, many sceptics believed, were at their best in front of a camera rather than behind instruments.

Although it can be overblown, Sean’s passion is unreserved here, the record peppered with Instagram-worthy captions that urge listeners to take inspiration from their surroundings while keeping friends and family close.

Fans of whiskey-drenched, feedback-fuddled blues-rock, form an orderly line.

A melodic masterpiece of boldly indignant malevolent spite.

It might have taken a decade, but this feels like grime finally beginning to grasp its vast potential.

It’s still occasionally a bit too ‘nice’ for its own good, but in a cynical world, sometimes a little hope and buoyancy doesn’t go amiss.

What saves that song ["Slow Motion"] , and indeed the album as a whole, is Monica Martin's honeyed voice; it's full of soul, even when the arrangements aren't.

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

As thrilling as Gwen, as badass as MIA. [17 Jun 2006, p.37]

It’s Dionysian disco: dynamic, decadent and utterly brilliant.

It’s ultimately toothless.

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]

As uncharismatic as its creator, it's certainly boring, but no more so than anything Richard Ashcroft has come up with.

But while Gray's voice is still beguiling and unique, The Id is basically Brit-award winning, corporate soul with little identity, too cosy and calculated to have any genuine depth.

Like his predecessors', the results here are decidedly mixed.

‘ELE 2’ finds Busta Rhymes reseated at hip-hop’s top table – until the world comes to an end, of course.

Death From Above still pack a punch, but the bruise is a lot more colourful this time. ‘Is 4 Lovers’ is surely the band’s best work since their debut. And while they may never feel that vital again, they make right now feel like one helluva rush.

Their spooky, sexy, dark folk is kept bare and bolshy, like Laura Marling with sex and humour.

They’ve used their major-label debut to rally the troops rather than just jeer at them from the sidelines. Every song here is a call to arms or an affirmative flip of the table.

It’s a worthy follow up to last year’s excellent, sprawling fourteenth album Revelation’.

On the intoxicating Heard It In A Past Life, Rogers sounds in love with art, nature and life itself.

'News And Tributes' is not just better than their first album, it's a fabulous record from a band with an exciting forward catalogue ahead of them.

Little Joy might not quite have built a castle in the sky, but they’ve constructed a cosy little corner in our hearts.

This beatific bpmfest amps expectation giddily high for the Boston five-piece’s debut proper, and really is the gift that keeps on giving.

‘Such Pretty Forks…’ might not be flawless, but in that way, it’s true to Morissette’s depiction of life – something that’s often messy and tough, but worth sticking with.

What's missing is any emotional contrast to stop all that cleverness from sounding overwhelming.

On their 12th album, Red Hot Chili Peppers not only get comfortable with their own impressive legacy, but prove there’s plenty more to come.

The gleeful squelches on ‘Life Of Birds’ might sound like a cheery Game Boy--but, next to the sinister electro-chill of the rest of the record, it’s a nursery rhyme.

A brilliantly inventive record that concludes with a bit of sarky musical theatre (which may be aimed at Adamczewski). Saoudi has hinted that this could be Fat Whites’ final album. If so, they’ve gone out on the most surprising note of all.

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

Large Hadron pop that'll frazzle yer neurons.

It's honest, intense, funny, furious, and on 'Letter 2 Dizzee'--an olive branch to his estranged protege--tear-jerkingly poignant.

There are ideas here that could have been developed into a stunning 10-track album. Unfortunately, Quaristice contains 20 ‘tunes’, many of them elusively experimental ear-tormenters.

It's the sound of experimentation working, it's what what the second Elastica album should have sounded like, and it's a compelling story unfolding, with many more interesting twists still to come.

What 'Disappeared', in all its stealthy innovation and breathless compendium of sounds, amounts to, is a kind of avant-garde musique concrète - difficult noises shrouded in a cloak of accessibility.

It’s the vividness of the lyrical themes and rich, poetic words that ultimately carries the record over, but unfortunately so much attention is paid to crafting the perfect setting for Graham’s brooding lyrics that they all too often become lost, a nuisance among an overly eager wall of sound.

Too often their over-earnest delivery is unbearable.

While there was an endearing humility to Smith's work, this dour offering provides little comfort.