This is an album that grows in quiet stature with every listen, new nuggets of wisdom making their way to the surface, peeking through its beautiful instrumentation that weaves a stunning, leafy tapestry. Few artists strike gold on every record they create but, for the third time in a row, Lorde has done it again, crafting yet another world-beater.

The big question: is it any good? Well, in places.

Rat Boy’s international profile might be growing, but he’s not ready to conquer the world just yet.

Expansive, immersive indiepop; how these Pains have grown.

It still defiantly goes against the grain, but also explodes with immediate, attention-grabbing riffs.

The initial feeling that this album is destined to be one of their many jokey, disposable ventures dissipates slightly as Osborne’s near-peerless ability with a brain-alteringly great riff takes hold.

They seem driven by the joy of making music great again. It won’t change the world, but record is a wonderful world all of their own.

It’s crisper and glistens with ambient atmosphere and mellow beats.

With the liberty of turning attention to new creative pathways, Williams has crafted one of their finest albums to date, this record an unshackled upping of the game.

Black Francis has brewed up a pretty thirst-quenching prospect with Petits Fours’ the debut album from this new venture with his wife.

Without the gritty substance of the first album, it has all the depth of a packet of peanuts.

It's good in flashes but frighteningly unstable.

Welcome To The Walk Alone may have the skeletal blueprint of pop genius running through it like words in a stick of rock but it verges on insulting.

Synth-heavy disco and boogie, sleek Italo and plenty of New Order course equally through their veins; the duo spin a heavily thumbed vinyl library into something largely fresh, and even coax '70s smoove-rocker Michael McDonald into guesting at the end.

The jangle and thrash of Terry Bickers’ guitar and the wistful air of it all could come straight from their self-titled 1988 debut.

It seems Paradinas' real talents lie behind the scenes.

For the most part, Model Of You pushes Cloud Boat out into broader, more turbulent waters.

Yusuf now far more believably inhabiting the role of the kindly dad offering his offspring life advice, while ‘On The Road To Find Out’ showcases the most impressive transformation, weaving in North African desert sounds against steadfast lyrics of self-discovery. It suggests that Yusuf has now finally found just what he was looking for all those years ago.

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.

At times its Cure guitars, thudding drums and eerie vocals get lost amid the fog (‘In The Mirror’, ‘South’). But when it finds a solid rock stomp, as on ‘Crest’ or ‘Raptor’, 2:54 loom like a monster in the mist.

Ultimately, from start to finish, you know what you've ordered: proficient, precision-executed blues-rock with few genuine surprises.

It’s the ‘meh’ shruggable moments of filler around them that dog the consistency of ‘Wallop’. There’s not the high-octane fuel or direction to take the record to the heights that it so constantly teases.

One Thousand Pictures is pop in a tar-pit--black and sticky, but wonderfully pure at heart.

Howling Bells aren't back to their best, but they're within touching distance.

Production comes from Steve Albini but here, unlike his work with (well, wouldn't you know) PJ Harvey and Slint, his less-is-more approach is the only point of weakness on an otherwise impressively dramatic record.

Turns out bringing his [Glyn Johns] old-school rock'n'roll expertise into the southern-fried fold makes for a perfect match.

They do propulsive pop-rock better than anyone. [11 Nov 2006, p.43]

This is a record that wraps itself around you like a kohl-eyed Winona Ryder in an early-'90s slacker movie and doesn't let go for a solid, dream-like 40 minutes.

The Sounds pick up where White Rose Movement faded out, with their melange of sussed Scandi cool, new wave pop pout, and Killers-style synth mayhem.

They mean well, but there’s something conservative about them.

Strange Creatures is an audacious and gratifying return that makes you want to envelope yourself in its gloom.

Musically, the album hits in all the right spots, solidifying their expertise at penning sunny, earnest Radio 2-core. And when they deviate from the easier path, most notably on the slow, deeply sombre ‘Strange Room’, which sees Chaplin’s voice take on a genuinely affecting, downtrodden lower tone, ‘Cause and Effect’ begins to exist as more than a comeback album for the sake of a comeback album.

Backed up by producer 30 Roc, Big Papito and Boi-1da, this 15 -rack album is sometimes ‘big’ and sometimes ‘clever’, but occasionally goes awry.

It all adds up to a thoroughly enjoyable listen that confirms what fans already know: even a middle-of-the-road Dolly Parton album has lashings of charm.

Carnation restores some of the eerie, discombobulated feel of his debut.

Yung Lean’s music has always been more interesting than it is good. ‘Starz’ features just enough captivating moments to prevent him – now an unexpected seven years into his career – from feeling played-out.

Ultimately, though, ‘Come Ahead’ may have a whole lot of funk on its surface but still packs oodles of punk and grenades of protest in its trunk.

Taken as a whole, it's some of Nick Thorburn, Ryan Kattner and Joe Plummer's finest work to date.

Zooming sheets of spacious wind-tunnel prog and raw, solo-spattered soul. Commercially, it's suicide. [26 Jun 2004, p.55]

Even at his most self-referential, Bowie is still a zillion times more inventive, brave and rocket-to-Mars brilliant than anyone who's been prodded by the ubiquitous genius stick, like, ever.

Four years on, his fifth album just feels stodgily generic.

A cut above.

Taking inspiration from the best seems to have paid dividends, but it doesn’t half make you wonder what the real Harry Styles sounds like.

One hopes that with the confidence this record brings, she'll take a more permanent seat at hip-hop's high table. Because when she's at her best, she's the bestest there is.

Their truck-stop talk of tumours, drunk moms and Isaiah 11:6 focus the album on Deep South degradation, but the lush Lemonheads-pop of ‘Drive’, the stoned drive-in glam of ‘That Man’ and the girl-band psych-blues of ‘Baby Mae’ lend this record the tint of a narcotic and poetic take on Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Tusk’ with Jack White on fuzz and Phil Spector on shotgun.

Clever and memorable--an electrifying frisson of underground meets overground, punk purism meets pop perfection, artistic integrity meets not minding too much if more than five people like you. [11 Jun 2005, p.65]

The band batter you around the head with the kitchen sink in an attempt to get you to sit up and take notice, sometimes to the point where it simply gives you a headache.

The instrumentation and overall production are lightyears ahead those of his debut, too. The velvet texture of ‘Everything You Need’ enhances his renowned melodic swagger, as does the tranquil sheen of ‘Rollercoastin’ and the space-age fizz of ‘Paid My Dues’.

Audio, Video, Disco's success is in its album-wide consistency, and a contemplative depth of sound that outshines the expectations of their disco-biscuit crowd.

A rather good second album that contains some of the brightest and jolliest music you'll have heard [for a long time].

The results are undeniably lush, yet slightly lacking in soul. [16 Apr 2005, p.50]

This a forward-thinking, original British album that has captivated a new generation of music fans, not simply by rehashing the old, but by giving the young something that belongs to them and taunting them to do better.

Nothing here comes close to the claustrophobic, urgent brilliance of the early work. [26 Feb 2005, p.66]

Swathed as it is in the kind of ’80s arrangements of flutes and chiming guitars that have rarely been allowed beyond Carol Decker’s lushest, most velveteen fantasies, this album is an open goal to accusations of trend-following revivalism. But, like Ladyhawke’s debut, the sheer quality of songwriting justifies any retrospective leanings they may have.

The Bardo Story sounds like a collection of rediscovered ’60s and ’70s gems uploaded to YouTube.

Cassius man's production is a deluxe weave of dreamy synths, biting snares, throbbing bass and warbly Vocoders, but it feels as if Chromeo are just doodling knobs over the top.

Sadly, though, there's just not enough forward thinking on 'Origin 1' to give TSOOL the ammunition for a second attempted coup of the rock revolution. [23 Oct 2004, p.51]

This perpetual desire to show off is Hawkins' weakness and 'One Way Ticket..."s ultimate downfall. [26 Nov 2005, p.44]

Williams has clearly approached 'Fly Or Die' as the kind of project where the central aim is to show us all how clever he is, and as he flits from musical style to style like a hungry pop bee, you're pounded into submission because HE IS JUST SO GODDAMN GOOD AT EVERYTHING.

It’s smartly done but strangely rootless, roaming far and wide but without a place to call home.

They needed to up their innovating significantly but haven’t, leaving All Hope Is Gone above-average.

More magpies than nightingales across these 13 tracks, they stitch up a glorious grab-bag of modern psych.

It's great.

The Lana Del Rey-featuring ‘Alma Mater’ is another prime example of the Bleachers genius, ‘Tiny Moves’’ glistening undercurrent sounds like a sprinkle of magic, and ‘Jesus Is Dead’’s whispered indie rock assessment of New York micro-scenes and life in a band is pure gold. In those moments – a large chunk of this album – any hint of fatigue is blasted away, Antonoff’s presence a welcome one once again.

Overall, it makes for a fascinating listen that rewards close attention, even if a lack of true standouts means the album is more impressive than loveable.

This is the sort of chorus-heavy stoopid punk-rock record that makes you want to punch children in their silly faces from the sheer joy of being alive.

But more than anything else, Soft Hair is about intimacy, creativity and a zest for life--two singular musicians liberated by collaboration.

The hooks have gotten naggier, the production crisper, to the point where 'LP4''s wide-eyed squelchy funk is carving them an oxymoronic niche: 'utterly compelling background music'.

The gulf between Barrie's obvious talent and the quality of his recorded output is disappointingly huge. [27 Jan 2007, p.29]

This album encapsulates the nostalgic elements of ESG, ELO, Tom Tom Club, The Doors and Sly And The Family Stone, applies a gloss of New York cool and then re-packages it with the modern production of the LCD Soundsystem, CSS and Beck variety. Forget the handclap, they'll take a standing ovation.

Unsurprisingly, when the sax is told to sit in the corner and eat less pick’n’mix, and the rest of the band get a turn, the quality rises.

If ‘Walls’ found Tomlinson still figuring out what this part of his artistic journey should be, ‘Faith In The Future’ feels much more assured. It doesn’t reinvent the wheel of modern guitar music, but is a solid step forward as the musician continues what he’s acknowledged will be “an ever-evolving process”.

It's masochistically delightful.

The effect this record has, with its remedial drumming, crappy store-bought synth presets and faux-sensitive, third-form lyrics, is as pleasant as unnecessary eye surgery.

The occasional outdated attitude and some light filler material here and there aside, ‘Twelve Carat Toothache’ is another step up for Post Malone. It’s a record that feels distinctively, inimitably him and succeeds in his goal of sharing his truth.

The problem is, these impressive production techniques are in greater abundance than actual tunes. With clever tricks rather than pop hooks, expressionistic (and often mumbled) lyrics and a lack of relatable themes, Aquaria can feel cold and self-involved.

While the journey isn't quite as as spectacular as you'd hope, the destination is reassuringly familiar: Foo Fighters making fist-pumping rock'n'roll.

Elect The Dead is both impressive and bewildering--almost as if SOAD's wildest excesses have been standardised.

Shotters Nation isn't his magum opus, it's still infinitely more consistent, listenable and likely to get played on the radio than its predecessor ever was.

‘In Sickness & In Flames’ is a defining work that showcases a sonic universe, rather than a structured set of songs, expertly capturing the inescapable tension of 2020.

Only the appearance of Barbadian teen rap prodigy Haleek Maul, annotating the grimy 'ISIS' with a murky charisma saves Supreme Cuts from slipping completely between the cracks.

ever. The Kills are finally hitting their peak, but a low-key kind of peak.

Oh Fortune spans a wider spectrum than its folky core might imply, adding grandeur and a refreshing, cerebral spin to proceedings.

Where White’s ‘Shakin’ sweated sassy evil, Moon’s is hamstrung by contrived effort.

To be clear, the good outweighs the bad here, but Tinie has lost a lot of the charm that, when he turns it on, makes him so appealing.

In between, it’s a wade through thick sonic sludge, but the oncoming doom of ‘Endless Drops’ is bleakly tuneful and ‘He Looks Good In Space’ is soothing.

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.

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.

It's clear this group have ways of getting beneath your skin. [20 May 2006, p.33]

A bittersweet second album of gentle strumming and washed-out summer sun. [30 Sep 2006, p.37]

Communion takes no risks and says nothing.

Dammit if they're not real handy at no-fi surf-rock jangle ... an unapologetically upbeat 23 minutes.

Stand-out moments grab you with their humour – the immensely memorable hooks on show certainly help, too – but after ‘Motordrome’’s fizzled out, you’re left wishing the engines revved a little louder.

Only the Bond-esque 'Confide In Me' is worthwhile in an otherwise sorry array of pop bangers left soggy on the barbecue.

The problem is not so much with the contents as with the packaging. ‘Mind Chaos’ is a pop record, and, as a pop record, it kind of works – it’s full of chart-friendly singles and sung by a bunch that are bound to find themselves doted on by 13-year-olds.

It’s not a bad record, but, ultimately, All We Are lacks energy.

The results are standard indie on top of a few croaky far-off bleeps, but the vibe is brilliantly consistent: dubby, cracked, and less dense than the surface of Saturn (very un-dense).

There's a tiny bit more to Mystikal than mere male piggery set to damn fine production.