The tunes, too, are as lush and anthemic as ever.

It's an audacious album of lyrical wit, a defiant record of pugnacious bass, samples from a certain robot-helmet-wearing French electro duo, tangential guitar, synth noise and dark mutterings, much of which concern Smith's experience of the medical profession following a spate of broken bones.

Across Forgiveness there's countless reminders of why you loved BSS.

Picking us up where the laptop prof's 'Los Angeles' debut dropped us for another nocturnal journey through LA that serves as a moody, widescreen, be-bopping riposte to UK dubstep. Only this time it's a flashier ride.

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

A brilliant, invigorating reintroduction.

Tracks such as "Excuses," "Animal Backwards" and, in particular, "Into the Mirror" caress the ears with hypnotic funk, yet these triumphs are only ripples against a stronger tide, as lyrically Omni is a damp blanket.

Their debut album is a short, sharp shock to the system. Yeah, they may look like a band that would steal your library books rather than your girlfriend, but that just makes us love them even more.

If 'America's Sweetheart' was a breakdown record, 'Nobody's Daughter' is a recovery album. As that analogy would suggest, it's not always pretty to witness.

For all his fragility, Avi is as good a songwriter as anyone who's ever traded under Sub Pop's logo. And that's quite a claim.

Musically, it's really just more of the boozy, ribald, shoutalong same, but tellingly the best moments are when Hutz reins in his mentalist troubadour shtick.

Back in the Saddle (Creek) is Laura Burhenn--half of disbanded candyfloss-pop duo Georgie James--whose breathy coo glides effortlessly over the golden ‘Dusty In Memphis’ glow that lights up the first Mynabirds album.

A volatile brew of uneasy drama and emotion from a band that, on this showing, should always record live.

Pop princess turned electro muse fails to deliver.

Unless you’re hyped up on a cocktail of Sunny D and Haribo yourself, you’ll find most of this album very annoying indeed.

But rather than ending up a bombastic mess, ‘Sleep Mountain’ knows that the devil is in the detail.

Returning to psychedelia of a more modern variety after the Polaris-winning 'Andorra' saw him pegged by some as a '60s revisionist, electronic whiz Dan Snaith's latest offering is a triumph to top even that masterstroke.

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

Largely, though, Nash sounds just like herself, and that's exactly when she shines most brightly.

Whether by design or evolution, The Radio Dept’s third album fits the grand scheme of all things voguish and hazy rather perfectly--though that’s not to say they’ve made a faultless record, as ‘Clinging To A Scheme’ arguably hangs from just a few songs.

A stunning LP that, in a just world, would do for Roky what the "American Recordings" series did for Johnny Cash.

Overall, MGMT's refusal to co-operate with the listener jars with the crisp and professional production – which, despite Sonic Boom's involvement, is more Van Dyke Parks than Spacemen 3 and leaves Congratulations sitting somewhere in the middle, not complex enough for the prats, but too obscure for the jerks.

The lustiness of his Bob-cat yowl on warm and well-weathered numbers such as 'King Of Spain' makes 'The Wild Hunt' a refreshingly clean listen....Ambitious? No. Delicious? Yes.

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

Thomas’ own music is more discursive, and this solo debut (seven tracks, 60 minutes) has its whimsical, proggy longueurs.

The whole thing wafts along in a pastel anasthaesia, Dadone's vocals rubbing against barely-there songs crafted with shards of synth, glockenspiel and harmonium. Conversely, the only times Weathervanes descends into twee is where it tries too hard to be noticed.

They peddle clichés about ugly ducklings and shagging that are so offensive they make a donkey braying into a bin sound like the ripe observations of a Charlie Brooker column.

I Speak Because I Can remains a stunning performance to leave haircuts and ex-boyfriends alike trailing in its wake.

Here, Byrne's well-plotted tunes can rule, and Norm can keep himself in the background, going against his natural tendency to overstuff.

Hippies is an uncomplicated, brilliant LP about what it's like to be young, stoned and having A REALLY GOOD TIME while not coming across like you're a complete tool.

Biggest irony? A trillion bucks' worth of vocal talent can't top 'Watch This', a crunching Dave Grohl-embellished instrumental jam. Sounds like a convenient juncture to give Axl a reconciliatory ring, fella.

In the fury of these cool-crushing rushes Mi Ami are exhilarating, roaring forwards, chasing risk like Can tied to the back of a pick-up truck and dragged across the surface of the sun.

Such boyish noise has been done to death of late and, frankly, it’s been done better. More interesting is David Cox and Russell Crank’s Tiga-ish pop sensibility.

This rollicking debut album is a balance-redressing, cliché-bucking tonic.

Raymond V Raymond finds the singer in an emotional headspin, and when he channels it here he produces some of his darkest and most hypnotic soul-pop to date. But sadly there’s quite a bit of forgettable bravado babble too--hardly original.

Part II is an altogether more personal and laidback affair, concerned with romance and emotions.

After the conventional bar-band fuzz of The Catholics, ‘Nonstoperotik’ is a welcome return to the quirky experimentalism of "Frank Black" and "Teenager Of The Year."

Wooden Shjips obviously aren’t interested in the same progressive spirit as the likes of fellow travellers Oneida but they’re still damn effective at what they do.

Every tangled note of Option Paralysis drips with honesty and endeavour, and it shines like a beacon of integrity in a world that's been focus-grouped into the dirt.

Their personality is bold throughout, an excess of top-shelf distortion and a cast-the-crutches-aside sense of euphoria.

Head First, enjoyable though much of it is, is disappointingly determined to return the favour.

Warp & Aphex’s age of electro may have passed, and some tricks here that were once jarring now seem familiar, but their prickly oeuvre of tantalising possibility still feeds the imagination.

When they deviate into a treacly world of dub and shifting tones (‘The Channon’), there’s still a lineage, along with an identifiable personality.

Recorded in a cave near Oslo, natch, this gloriously dark second album begins with the dystopia of ‘Ayisha Abyss.’

Their debut buzzes with all the frisson of perspiring pre-teens getting their pseudo-sexual jollies playing Tetris under unmade bed linen; a sort of puerile Pavement with bigger laughs.

It's not quite diminishing returns, but more a sense that Oldham's going round in decreasing circles.

Never have Patterson Hood’s five-piece sounded quite so cranky and furiously righteous as they do on this terrific, ear-splitting sprawl of shit-kicking country boogie.

The live album is built from tracks taken from different shows so doesn’t show off the improvisatory nature of their setlist-free shows, but again, it’s a reminder that their three-year absence is a bit of a tragedy.

‘Get Sexy’ sounds like a lazy, latter-day Timbaland joint, and ‘About A Girl’ is a slice of future-house from Lady Gaga’s chum RedOne. But time was we could expect more than bland consistency from the Sugababes--shame.

It’s Hall & Oates without the casual genius; Boy Crisis without the chutzpah; Junior Boys without the emotional baggage.

This long-awaited debut album proper from the preacher-chic-touting fivesome is an intoxicating mix of apocalyptic riffs, sob-worthy singalongs and brooding blues.

When your nightbus home is beset by phantasmagorical drunkards with beady, threatening eyes, when your ears are bashed by mendacious line managers and eyes beset by the violence of news/advert/news, then this incredible album is your passport to a better place.

The album deviates from their previous alt-folkish sensibilities: the fuzzed-up shoegazing of ‘Things’ and the anthemic chorus of ‘Living In Colour’ herald an exciting new bullshit-free dawn.

There's a bloodymindedness on The Monitor that is equally infuriating and invigorating.

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.

Every single one of the lyrics is either a really, really lame Spacemen Zero drug innuendo (the – hey! – 10-minute epic ‘’Half-State’), about ‘twisted’ love (the – hey! – ‘stripped down’ ‘Sweet Feeling’s Gone’) or mentions “highways”.

on their third album, the combination of Canadian indie (Broken Social Scene), psychedelic ’60s rock (Love), cosmic ’70s pop (ELO) and shoegaze (Ride) is nothing short of beautiful.

The ore of modern Pitchfork rock is here, laid out in all its flawed-diamond beauty. For a canon so flagrant in its faults, Quarantine is all-but faultless.

Equally, those who delighted in unravelling ["Phylactery Factory"]knotty, brilliant album will emerge dazed and blinking into the wide spaces and sweet melodies of Kairos.

The Bundles’ kooky childishness and playground melodies will beguile and irritate in equal measure.

Grizzly Bear’s Chris Taylor has his production paws all over San Franciscan quartet The Morning Benders’ second full-length effort, and while Big Echo has more than pastiche to offer, a great deal of it still sounds a bit too familiar.

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

Perfect pop is not something you can design; it’s an alchemical accident resulting from a freakish alignment of melody, words and rhythm that unifies all who hear it, an H1N1 strain of music. That Little Boots so nearly achieves the ultimate chart-slaying, cerebral-cortex tickling, Bradford-hen-party-and-Shoreditch-rave-soundtracking album is, frankly, amazing.

It's genuinely surprising, beautifully wrought and announces TNP as one of the most powerful artistic forces in Britain today.

If anything, on the likes of ‘Warsaw’ and ‘Cards To Your Heart’, it gets too dark, but there’s enough funk in their trunk to ensure that the coffee table crowd won’t be too terrified.

Tellingly, ‘Be Brave’ is back-loaded with easily the strongest and most diverse cuts, and by the time the final acoustic plucks of ‘You Can’t Only Love When You Want’ fade out, The Strange Boys have done almost a sonic 180.

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

It may not possess the mind-blowing innovation of 1995’s ‘Clear’, but when something is as darkly gorgeous as this, it’s hard to quibble.

JL have dropped a weird pop record so humorously danceable that Ke$ha’s probably planning a collaboration as we type.

Overall the album is a reassertion that when it comes to hard-pumping guitar'n'drums duos it's unjust that Steve and Laura-Mary are billed below the likes of The Kills on the big festival bill Sellotaped to God's fridge.

The result is stronger than you might think, but too inconsistent and devoid of depth to stand out on a battlefield where Gaga rules all.

They’re still doing it better than anyone else; ravier than Foals, more fun than Fuck Buttons, flexing more post-hardcore muscle than Metronomy. It’s just that we kind of hoped they might surprise us again. That said, if they’re not pushing any new envelopes, Come Down With Me is still satisfying on its own terms.

Efterklang’s first release on the legendary 4AD label is packed full of immediate melodies and soul.

Flitting between ambient sequences and army-of-guitars maelstroms, this 71-minute magnum opus was recorded in Berlin and Iceland, but loaded with rampant Anglophilia, evident in a Joy Division homage and John Lennon interview clips.

Cash deserves better than this. In fact, he deserves to be left in peace. Some things should just be left alone.

It’s unlikely that you’ll often listen to it in one bout, but whether beguiled one day by its exotic petals and blooms or the next by the less showy trees in the background, Have One On Me is an Elysian record that you’ll return to again and again.

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

It’s a beautiful, unnerving experience that rattles on long after its final notes fade.

End-time celebrating religious nutbars won’t be finding much eternal hope here, but for everyone else, a perfect soundtrack to the approaching void.

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.

The Courteeners have developed the ability to, at points, blow away tribal allegiances with hooks forged from pure indie gold.

After a few listens, just when these songs should be beginning to grip, you get the creeping sensation Black’s slick production chops are essentially papering over flimsy songs.

Angst-ridden indiscretions aside, Sigh No More is a fine debut from a band that's patiently picked up the tools of its trade, and chosen the right moment to give them full rein.

Like a vintage Bordeaux, it slips down a treat (aside from lamentable ‘Peanuts’, which gets stuck in the throat), but the moments of oddness whetted our palette for more.

Adam Green’s flowering from puerile anti-folk twonk with The Moldy Peaches to suave lounge-country crooner is laudable.

Yeasayer’s greatest achievement is their balancing act, teetering between heartfelt and overly earnest, between invoking and pastiching past decades, between worldly experimentalism and token tourism.

Two years since the last album, five members with wildly varying tastes and talents, enough ammo to blast out two solo albums on the side, and they still can’t quite make 10 essential tracks in a row.

What it does do, however, is remind us that he is a copper-bottomed genius.

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.

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.

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.

When he emerged from his stupor, he announced that he was giving up rap to make a guitar album. Which brings us to ‘Rebirth’, a shlock-rock record so absurd it makes Alien Ant Farm seem like a legitimate musical venture.

They may be strutting right down the middle of the road, but they look pretty damn cool doing it. The Soft Pack make being A-OK into something to be proud of.

Just when you think they’ve already smithereened the silly barrier, what the world needs most swiftly turns up: Hadouken! go Auto-Tune.

Sadly there’s only one track here where singer Tigs’ urgent purr and the subtle combination of electronica and bouncy indie pop matches either of those two tracks: the mesmeric ‘Slick’. The rest is solid, but with New Young Pony Club back on the scene, tracks like ‘Two Hands’ feel unremarkable.

What primarily sets ‘Romance Is Boring’ up as a significant step forward is that it’s incredibly structurally cohesive, and yet blows anything they’ve previously released out of the water in terms of textural intricacy, technical prowess and general experimentation; each track seems to take an element that’s been formerly alluded to and stretch it to a fuller form.

They’ve made an absolutely magical record--the jagged edges of their past have been smoothed by the sea, making Teen Dream a soft shore gem in the crown of the great chronicles of youth.