Of course, for all its honourable intentions, it still paints a picture of 100 dudes in a basement yelling the refrain, “She’s good for a girl”. But when they aren’t committing feminist faux pas, Greys stand on the verge of leading a new generation of punk.

Good Graces may not be reinventing the wheel, but it leans out of the hammock to give it a good spin.

A shiny slice of mirrorball punk rock. [9 Oct 2004, p.57]

Banjo Or Freakout effortlessly mates electronic distortions, low-end theory and achingly gorgeous pop melody – with emphasis very much on the latter.

While it is maddeningly catchy in places and well put together, its defining characteristic is a conservative streak that sits strangely with this most anarchical of bands.

Gracious Tide stays with you like a dream you wish would keep recurring.

It won’t convert the unconvinced, but Petty sounds as inspired as ever.

A huge step forward for them and, hopefully, for their public perception too.

In the same spirit as Broken Social Scene's baroque pop, his first album stitches together the psychedelic, lo-fi montages and creates something unworldly and unique.

In short, it's as Icelandic as whale pie--elevator music, sure, but heaven's own elevators.

Growing Pains finds Blige on chirpier form.

It’s a shame that on The Mindsweep, Shikari's message is occasionally lost among the madness.

Colour Of The Trap isn't quite a perfect debut, but by stepping out from the shadows, Miles Kane has come away smelling of roses.

It all has an affecting, intimate power.

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

Apart from the weirdly out-of-place vocoder moment on ‘Comrade’, it’s a layered, lush and lovely eight-track affair.

Doesn't do a lot different from [Let Go]. [3 Sep 2005, p.74]

If Sparta have been damned thus far as the weaker of ATDI's progeny, let it be so no longer.

Childish’s defiant presence guides.

Never quite hitting the peak of "Hell..." they walk a fine line here between fame-hungry thugs--something that ill-fits them--and existential thinkers with the “intellect of Einstein” and a fondness for sonic dissonance.

Espers, the rockier duo with which she made her name, seem to be on permanent hiatus, but this more than suffices.

The results range from danceable ('Phoenix', 'Sad') to unnerving ('Telegraph To The Afterlife', 'Sixty') and give off an atmosphere of ghostly melancholy that subtly subverts Elton's reputation as a cosy British institution.

Ultimately, though, Rip This prevails through bloody-minded ear battering.

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.

There's so much beauty on Let's Go Extinct that it could hardly be anything other than a delight.

Often witty and always wise. [27 Nov 2004, p.61]

Yet although much of it coasts along on autopilot, it can be outrageously good fun.

Dry The River have made a very good debut album.