The record shines during these more upbeat, fun moments. ... The album is less successful when Cabello tries to show the side of romance where you’re falling head over heels, or doubting a relationship.

The whole album is driven by that Nick Cave sense of foreboding menace, an outlaw spirit that would sit well on the Peaky Blinders soundtrack. But while there’s plenty of that classic BRMC ‘tude, and a vintage touch, they’re still full of ideas.

Kid Cudi gives us every part of himself, laying out his insecurities and inner demons in the hope that it might help someone else, his words etched into a vivid backdrop of intoxicating melodies and palatial riffs. No one does mood music quite like Cudi.

On a lesser album, the eclecticism might lead to a lack of coherence, but this record is always threaded through with Beer’s diaristic lyricism. With its consistent, gut-punching honesty and witty wordplay, you’ll always find something special on ‘Life Support’.

Their fight-and-make-up pop is like Dananananaykroyd gone new wave, with the B-movie and comic-book geek-joy of early Ash. But that doesn’t mean there’s no depth, if that’s your poison.

An extremely mellow album, while hardly groundbreaking, it’s quietly beautiful in places.

Despite being a good 30 years out of time, it's absolutely brilliant.

‘Devil Inside Me’ is the album’s earworm that you’ll end up humming, and ‘Solstice’ is a pleasingly overblown proggy epic, but much of the rest is competent yet uninspiring, and the novelty soon wears off.

These are the sharper edges that Neil let out on Biffy’s earlier work, but elevated that the pure ultraviolence of Vennart’s songwriting and madcap riffery.

There are moments of pure spectacle, such as the delightfully absurd accordion-rave lead single ‘Joyride’, and ‘Yippie-Ki-Yay’, an unholy fusion of Def Leppard and Florida Georgia Line. .... ‘Love Forever’, ‘The One’, ‘Too Hard’ are relatively straightforward love songs that don’t reach the vulnerability of albums past. It all builds to the closing track ‘Cathedral’, a spiritual sequel to ‘Praying’.

At times that flow can feel fractured, but the underlying consistency is a singular vision and an irrepressible sense of purpose.

He's a white man crafting beats behind street-level odes to marking out territory from the likes of Detroit's Guilty Simpson and Marv Won, plus others, and he draws on a cornucopia of cultures to do so. Latin, Middle Eastern, African and, worst of all for Starkey, freaky German (NOT THEM!) Moog music rears up on a seductive record that reveals itself in layers.

A great record. A great work.

‘From A Birds Eye View’ is a true delight, revealing greater depth with each listen, and Cordae truly seems to be having fun while proving he’s here to stay.

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.

Dougall relies too much on overly simplistic lyrics, and it gets a bit annoying.... But this is a minor flaw in what is otherwise a strong second album from a band in the ascendancy.

It suits them just fine.

The Donnas are utterly convincing...

It’s terrific nonetheless, a coiling gothica sci-fi soundtrack that cocoons Richard Pike’s echo-soaked vocal amid pulsing, binary-code electronics.

[Flowers] bares more on Wonderful Wonderful than ever before, and the result is the band’s best album since 2006’s ‘Sam’s Town’.

[It] can't top the early stuff. [5 Aug 2006, p.29]

Once the dust dies down, though, the remainder of Who We Touch feels disappointingly timid in comparison, and the particularly saggy middle section sees them pitch their tent smack bang in the middle of the road.

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.

This 10th album lacks such bite [as 1999’s single Flame].

He sounds small, beaten and subdued beneath the Lemonheads-meets-Diiv slack drawl of the music. The key thing here? Unlike so many of his contemporaries, he also sounds totally believable.

A dazzling debut ready to win the world’s hearts.

New Gods is endlessly lovable stuff.

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

The Bachelor is a thoughtful record whose greatest flaw is only that it’s overthought (though to the fans obsessive enough to fund it, that’s probably a bonus).

On their fifth album there's a newfound clarity in the production that provides an added dimension to their tunes.

Causers Of This’ infects your mind with pure psychedelia, splicing such conflicting sounds as soul, freak folk, hip-hop and electronica, and the result hits you like Animal Collective on a comedown, or Ariel Pink with Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Because rather than an exercise in hype, what Born This Way really is an exercise in the pushing of everything to its ultimate degree. And for all the black, white and silver, it passes that test with flying colours.

'Breakdown' was a kicky little exercise in how to make a great pop record. 'Elevator' shows how to make one of substance. [23 Apr 2005, p.50]

It's tuneful enough but, really, the case for the dismantling of 2010's nostalgic apparatus starts here. Less hypnagogic pop, more over-the-hillwave.

A strange record, but an intriguing planet to get sucked into.

The messy trip-hop of 'If I Could' and screeching synth line of 'First Snow' mean Nausea lacks consistency, but it's a clever and rewarding record.

When Kane rises above that tentativeness, as with the rousing and charismatic title track, the effect is engaging. But for the most part, this solid but unchallenging album is a step towards nowhere in particular.

It’s an album that tries not to shout ‘old school Franz are back’, even though it unmistakably signals that old school Franz are back.

Diet Cig have retained the fast-biting wit that made ‘Swear I’m Good At This’ such a compelling prospect, but here there’s far more depth.

Back with less pressure, Champ packs that sweet sucker-punch we craved the first time around.

Potential cover performers take note: this is how you do it.

Album two demonstrates Lewis’ growing confidence as a frontman in the spotlight – long may it continue.

Albarn's best work has cheek, wit and a smart-alecky desire to shake things up. All this reverence doesn't really suit him.

Now they've reinforced their position as the credible elder statesmen of metal, with a tightly focused, self-referential effort.

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.

Breakfast, for all its modest attractions, never quite transcends its talented-journeyman origins.

By and large this is as consistent a record as the Foo Fighters have ever made.

Damned if they do and damned if they don't, it seems, but never sounding damned enough.

As ever, he relies too much on accident to achieve interesting textures, flavours and rhythm, and only two tracks--‘Grapes’ and ‘Cheap Treat’--stand out as cohesive pieces.

Duffy’s debut is hoovered of personality, principally, because on this evidence, she hasn’t got any.

There’s no doubting the musicianship on display across ‘What Kinda Music’. Misch and Dayes certainly complement one another. But it’s hard not to long for a little disruption to the album’s soothing sonic cohesion. While they were clearly having fun, it was probably more fun to make than it is to hear.

They have done a hell of a lot of growing up. An immense album.

You’ll find Eels’ most revealing, autobiographical work-to-date to be the most beautiful break-up record since Beck’s ‘Sea Change’.

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.

Dithers between drone rock and harmonica-driven indie-strut. [14 Jan 2006, p.33]

This album is probably the most solid foundation this quartet have had in 15 years, and it would be a disaster if it wasn’t a springboard for several more.

His trademark woozy laments and waltzing rhythms are present, but buried beneath layers of tumbling horns they seem much richer, with the charming languor of his voice twisting the mariachi saunter into something dark. Strangely, it’s the synth-pop gems of second EP Holland that seem the most foreign.

TSOOL have made a double album that isn’t a burden, but rather something which is genuinely fun to get lost inside and attempt to unravel.

A brilliantly disquieting debut.

The only clanger is 'Do It'.... This aside, it's a nest of treasures.

It's the sound of the band mutating from the exciting, mysterious person in the club to the partner you pee in front of and take shopping for carpets. [15 Apr 2006, p.35]

If the focus on 'I Predict A Graceful Expulsion' is sharp then its scope is overly broad, focusing in on vague sentiments that leave you fond, but never in love.

Still shamelessly livin’ it up, with an eyebrow cocked and high kicks galore, ‘The Human Fear’ is – as promised – Franz-y as fuck. You do you, hun; you do it so well.

It's fair to say you won't hear another album like this in 2005. Or probably until 3005. [30 Jul 2005, p.49]

From the robotic churn of ‘Blue Lights’ to the wiry rock’n’roll of ‘Tin Birds’, there’s little cohesion--rhaps understandably, given Sniper’s penchant for releasing new material every couple of days--t that simply makes it feel of a lovingly-crafted mixtape.

The album is split into 10 blasts of discordant brilliance.

This is pedestrian, derivative twaddle of the lowest order that embarasses both the '60s and the recent revival fad. [21 Jan 2006, p.33]

You know those people who moon out of train windows, in love with their own picturesque melancholy? Fionn Regan's third album is like that.

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.

Shot through with warm hooks, it's a worthy retooling of old synth styles.

The comparatively featureless pessimism on the rest of the album makes for an oppressive and often dull listen. It’s a shame, because underneath it all, Lord Huron are making lusher and more varied sounds than ever.

Unless you're a fan, the title says it all.

‘Laughing Gas’ is a lush paean to ‘80s precision pop, all snaking funk basslines, synth claps and reverb-addled drums.

It might not leave you feeling as euphoric as what’s come before, but its lingering sensation is a testament to the power of Antonoff’s immersive songwriting.

Even if they're a hard band to fall in love with, this record is ridiculously easy to admire.

Nothing new, then, but the Jaxx's sound returns re-energised. Call it the Disclosure effect.

What could be mistaken for something approaching a masterpiece reveals itself as far more hollow.

'Myths Of The Near Future' is charged with the same spirit which fuelled legendary rave pranksters The KLF's period of pop subversion.

The Temper Trap relocated to london in May of this year in a bid to woo the uk: this is not a bad calling card at all.

‘I’m Doing It Again Baby!’ is a fine album; it’s fun and sweet, if a little bland. It’s a pristine pop record that takes few risks and leaves little room for error – though it might be more interesting if it did.

While there are a couple of tracks here that are close to filler, Delphic have proved that they are adept at This Kind Of Thing, which is cause for celebration alone.

It’s all accomplished and well-produced--as an introduction to these sounds, it’s absolutely on the money--but perhaps too scattershot to really gel.

Newcomers might just wonder why these old dudes are ripping off Bloc Party.

Spring King are at their restless best when Musa--who sometimes vomits on and just-offstage from exhaustion--sounds uncomfortable.

They may be revisiting the fossilised concept of boredom, but they're bringing an original perspective.

Music to stick pins in voodoo dolls of the popular kids by.

There are a couple of duds, (‘Book Of Love’, ‘Please Say No’), but, as forlorn closer ‘You Were Right’ ably demonstrates, few bands do heartache with as much majesty.

Despite questionable lyrics, it's a much more cohesive album. [8 Jul 2006, p.41]

Like Missy Elliott, the Beasties are reimagining hip-hop--what it was, what it is, what it can be. [12 Jun 2004, p.47]

In making a record with such universal themes of love and hate, and sounding so pissed off in the process, Brody has inadvertently made herself the most important new rock star in the world.

Crystalline, slick and glistening, this feels like the last piece of a puzzle slotting into place, the tying off of any loose ends. It’s the sound of a band operating firmly, and finally, in their comfort zone.

You get the overarching sense that they are more than a little bored with the current musical landscape and want to inject it with their own restless brand of creativity. If this is art rock, then the Shears brothers have crafted a pretty damn impressive collage.

Maya Hawke might not be preparing to go back to school, as the character at the heart of this record would be but, if she were, ‘Moss’ would guarantee her top grades.

At its best, the record builds on some of the weirder elements in Hot Chip, but at its worst spirals into self-indulgence.

Familiar ground, but consider this the sound of modern masters honing their craft.

It's the less controlled, less sleek excursions that are more exciting.

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

Here they’re more melodic, emphasising tone rather than volume. It pays off.