If it weren't for the stalker-punk of 'Pussywillow' and 'Time Passing', both glowering oddly from the mess and nodding towards early B-52s, we'd shove this in the wardrobe.

Teenager is simply more wonderful, bittersweet laze-pop of a hue at which The Thrills have become grand masters.

When you constantly remind the world how great you were, it rather detracts from the good stuff you're still capable of.

The fact that these titans of the US underground have collectively hoovered enough drugs and booze (and clocked enough jail time) to make Pete Doherty sit up and wonder makes their sheer longevity something to be marvelled at.

The sonic range on display is certainly a stark departure from the twisted world of Chvrches’ thrilling 2021 album ‘Screen Violence’, but at times, it can feel more like an ideas workshop than a bold artistic statement.

An affectionate, fuzzy-felt melodic alt.country rocking affair with sugarcane barbed lyrics. [26 Jun 2004, p.54]

They're most fun when they're really letting loose, though, which is pretty much always.

Each song is so powerful and crafted you can’t help but buy into whatever it is Ava Luna are trying to sell you.

Sadly, it's an isolated gem ['Dejalo'] that can't lift Under The Blacklight out of its dull AOR mire.

It's no classic, but perhaps the surprise here is that Manson’s music can work without the shock shtick.

A far more accomplished work than anyone suspected this bunch of deadbeats capable of.

Kelly shows how easy it is to keep it simple, melodious and un-synthesised; and on these occasions, Kelly's lyrics come to the fore.... when he shelves his obsession with opening your legs and opens his mind, that he is capable of making thought-provoking material.

Look beyond the spasm-inducing bass solos to Scott herself: a frequently magnetic performer, with a certain brave, defiant spirit that her peers lack.

It feels self-consciously downbeat and rustic, with a Gomez-style, recorded-in-a-shed sheen which belies Nigel Godrich's pristine, state-of-the-art production.

This record is a triumph of belief and dogged determination over those people who thought he was a barnacle on the coattails of his famous friend.

For the first time in years, Pet Shop Boys sound thrillingly modern. The songs, too, are the finest in years.

Like their too-cool-for-school foremothers, they kind of miss the point of what Italo is about. Unlike them, however, over 10 tracks, they can’t even muster one bleedin’ catchy choon.

They stake a firm claim for parity with arguably their most consistent set yet.

They have clawed their way back with an album encapsulating much of what initially made them such an exciting group.

While Reputation packs heavy artillery that was almost entirely absent from ‘1989’, it’s actually a helluva ride.

This is how you really do summertime sadness.

Just when you thought Chi-town loner Owen Ashworth couldn’t trump his previous four efforts in terms of schmindie obscurity, he goes and wheels out a bunch of twee reinterpretations of oldies and rarities.

Why are you half-arseing your way through such a thick slurry of clod-hopping ska-by-numbers? Or wallowing in pits of cliché?

Constant jangle blurs the songs, and a cover of Neil Young’s ‘Revolution Blues’ only emphasises Ranaldo’s newfound likeness to the Canadian in one of his dirgier moods.

Glory is no masterpiece, but it’s a marked improvement on 2013’s ‘Britney Jean’, a messy attempt to merge thumping EDM tunes with supposedly reflective midtempo songs.

Sometimes, on Magick Songs, you may wish they would--there’s a little alienating insularity here, but it’s still inspiring to see the band follow their instincts.

Stuffed with superfluous features, the Chicago rapper's 22-track debut studio album sags somewhat, but is almost saved by his infectiously optimistic outlook.

The album may not be teeming with experimentation – and somewhat understated in places – but it’s certainly potent enough.

The issue is, however, that it’s perhaps lacking in variety. Although the rocket-fueled, lightning-paced ‘More Than You Know’ and the gently atmospheric closer ‘Childhood’ do offer changes in pace, there’s only really subtle things differentiating many of these songs from each other. Sometimes, the hooks aren’t as strong as they could be.

When they do keep it 'cloud'--with the dissolving beauty of 'Cloud Body' and the fairytale-like 'Love Is Life'--the results are remarkable. But elsewhere, romance and originality suffer.

Here is another dry collection of sullen machine drones and subtle tonal manipulation; signals to the outside world explaining that all is well in Pan Sonic's overpoweringly masculine universe.

One of the most frivolously brilliant slabs of shiny retro-pop anyone's had the chutzpah to release all year. [20 Nov 2004, p.56]

Instead of an album hurtling 100mph in one of those directions, Fragrant World feels like the work of a band with stabilisers on.

Considering the scattered legacy that feeds the roots of this album, and the other OTT keyboard abusers of our times, some foolishness is only right and proper. Fortunately, there's some belting tunes to chew on too.

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

Like its namesake, the tape hits like the swing of a scythe: wide rather than precise – not every cut lands cleanly, but enough to make the chaos feel intentional.

It’s not an easy listen and moments, notably the faux-soul of ‘Shame’, can grate, but this is a fascinating and rich record.

Here he delivers a 14-minute psychedelic disco odyssey ('Comment Revoir Oursinet?') about missing his teddy bear. The rest of 'L'Aventura', his sixth album, is deep-pile funk ('Sous Les Rayons Du Soleil'), bouncing electro-soul ('Aller Vers Le Soleil') and as cheesy as a Camembert cravat.

For those who can stomach its muscular experimentation, Circles is out of this world.

It's thrilling. It's pantomime. It's what Ross does best.

A debut that breathes new life into old sounds.

Swiftly recorded in just one day, Warm Slime is an intuitively-conceived, addictively impulsive lesson in peculiarity.

With 'Here Come The Bombs', frontman Gaz Coombes does a surprisingly adept job of retaining [former band, Supergrass's] oddball pop sensibility, but shaping it into something that's, if not mature, then at least slightly less frivolously young and free.

It’s all lovely stuff, but the darkness within my soul says it’s maybe too lovely.

Tinnitus never sounded so good. [3 Sep 2005, p.74]

The new EP by maximalist electronica savant Chris Clark covers yet more new ground while retaining his indelible touch of genius.

Afraid Of Heights takes the formula he toyed with there and beats it into something more coherent, focusing on decorating his punk with this new sonic tinsel.

While the music may not always match up, the lyrics reaffirm The Libertines’ place as one of the most vital British bands ever and should usher a fresh generation of believers on board the good ship Albion.

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.

He excellently lends Coldplay's 'The Scientist' a terse fragility, but less successful is a sanitised, Sheryl Crow-featuring version of Tom Waits' 'Come On Up To The House'.

Interpol have made a great album.

Permanent Signal finds beauty in loneliness.

Dave Grohl and Pat Smear both make cameos on the record, but high profile guests aren’t the album’s high point. That accolade goes to the gentle soft rock triumph of ‘Raspberries’, the shred-happy ‘Pieces of the Puzzle’ and the piledriving, ’70s-era Aerosmith ballad ‘Too Far Gone To See’.

A freshly squeezed record with the pulp left in it.

Beneath those perverted pop bounces, though, are some sadder, softer moments, and a reminder that Levi doesn’t just need discordant noise to twist your insides.

It’s rich with Afro-centric grooves and dusty drum breaks, the spirit of James Brown weaving in and out of the pro-Black messaging, which emphasises hope and progress but still acknowledges the pain and suffering endured along the way.

‘Algorithm’ will probably appeal more to the older hip-hop cynics, though anyone who grew up in a house where their parents played ‘California Love’ or ‘It Was A Good Day’ will also revel in the nostalgia offered by the record.

An album that sounds like it was written as a soundtrack to the best film never made. [20 Jan 2007, p.31]

The shimmering beauty of 'Tame The Sun' and the My Bloody Valentine atmospherics of 'Bones' serve to elevate the aesthetic that Male Bonding established on their debut Nothing Hurts to greater heights.

There's a bunch of teary emotions bagged up in the spikiest of descending scales.

There’s nothing on Hombre Lobo (Spanish for werewolf) that couldn’t be constructed by breaking down the DNA of the previous six Eels albums and repiling the strands up in some melodically fresh but warmly recognisable way.

While Green Lanes doesn’t exactly break new ground, it does refine their warm’n’cosy formula enough to interest.

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

They may be a one trick pony, but these 2008 recordings show that Stereolab are good at what they do.

Ultimately the one thing truly lacking on Dungeonesse is the bright spark that makes pop stars so entertaining to obsess over.

What it is overall, however, is a disappointment. A few sparkling moments of invention aside, much of this album is comfortably interchangeable with "Stars Of CCTV's" less inspired tracks.

Ten tracks of exuberant, blissful pop later and it looks like the Mackem lads have actually come good on their promise.

Silly? Indisputably, although Dani Filth's theatrical vocals ensure that 'The Abhorrent' is every bit as grandiose and ridiculous as a classic Hammer horror.

All too often, tracks feel like connectors – carriages to transport listeners between the singles. There’s little narrative, few definitive themes, but there are lots of guests.

A wide-eyed, serotonin rush of an album that will make you eternally grateful for Swim Deep’s perseverance.

This debut confidently chronicles every dizzying high and crushing blow that love brings – affairs of the heart have, after all, long been Michaels’ specialist songwriting subject. Most notably, each song is anchored by Michaels’ distinctive one-liners.

The tracks that work on this album would fit perfectly on a spooky science fiction soundtrack, but the remaining songs really drag the collection down.

The freewheeling spirit does occasionally give way to a less exciting middle ground: ‘Eight Minute Machines’ comes as a blast of scuzzy guitar-driven punk we’ve heard a lot of in recent years, where the six-minute closer ‘Greasin’ Up Jesus’ is built around a drum machine doesn’t go anywhere in particular. For the most part, though, this is clearly the sound of a band ready to party once more, making for another carnival of different sounds and offbeat ideas.

The swiftly released follow-up staves off a bad case of sequelitis because it successfully deepens Swims’ story.

It's an impressively unpredictable record that veers down wildly different paths, in ways no previous Modest Mouse album has dared.

What Muse have done is re-establish themselves as a respected British institution by being fun.

Gatekeeper's Aaron David Ross and Matthew Arkel crunch elements of '80s post-industrial dance, horror/sci-fi soundtracks and computer game music into an enjoyably garish whole.

If it sounds close to daft on paper, Merchandise have the ingenuity to make it work, and so it is with this fine album.

The most brilliantly ambitious record of the year.

File under: ‘shoulda put a donk on it’.

Intimate, unpolished and worth getting to know.

It’s a shame the saccharine musical backing too often makes it hard to empathise.

At times, you want more rage. Other times, more clarity. You can’t doubt Public Enemy’s resolve. But on Man Plans God Laughs, music and message remain a notch out of synch.

Confidently expressing vulnerability over woozy nocturnal soundscapes to create comfort and intimacy in a lonely, quiet place, LoveLaws will be your fireside companion.

Like most break-up albums, ‘This Is Really Going To Hurt’ is self-indulgent. There are moments of relatability, but for the most part, Taylor’s fury steamrolls everything.

As inviting and accessible as anything released this year. [2 Apr 2005, p.50]

Ash come close here to that which has always eluded them: an album that amounts to more than the sum of its singles.

Ladyhawke’s louche synthetic pop is brazenly Bananarama, ridiculously ‘Rio’, and wonderfully Waterman, but the lack of posing – her sheer scruffiness – makes it the first credible ’80s pop record since ABC’s ‘The Lexicon Of Love’

[The] constant sense of melodrama robs the record of its potency, the impact of that pounding sonic template diminished through its constancy. The sense of doom is familiar, the sound of the band’s new record even more so.

While the guitars are grimier and the drums hit harder, Pins haven’t totally smothered their sound in engine oil.

This psychedelic folk pop-athon of tickled riffs, snappy elastic basslines, shimmering synths and sweetly sung vocals is all dreamy eccentricity, with a bittersweet hint of rhythmic unrest, from start to finish, and should send Hidden Cameras fans into an amorous tizz after just one listen.

His molasses-coated cooing works well along his sparse arrangements. [17 Sep 2005, p.58]

Canopy Glow can pass you by on first listen, but persevere and memorable moments do emerge.

Funk Wav Bounces Vol. 1 is a triumph; a good-time album of wall-to-wall hits with a carefree, funky tropical feel and more than enough cool points to see him embraced by the hipster crowd as well as holding on to the pop kids.

The result is delirious party music, which, although at times deliciously dumb, is never – as cerebral Addison Groove fan Aphex Twin would attest – stupid.

‘Love For Sale’ is best when Bennett and Gaga playfully trade lines and sing in unison, with the veteran singer countering his collaborator’s belting vocal with artful restraint.

As before, attempts to explore London's seedy underbelly verge on hamfisted and voyeuristic. But, again as before, Soft Cell really flourish with Marc's relationship horror stories, which happens on two songs.

An enormous, symphonic, sprawling, highly ambitious, far-reaching work of wonder. [17 Jul 2004, p.48]