Love gets to indulge his sweet tooth over a whole record. That freedom turns out to be part blessing and part curse, his delicate-as-a-feather jangle and wispy vocals eventually wearing just a little thin.

The Money Store offers a glimpse of sonic dystopia that's utterly convincing.

She's far less successful when she goes into full-on retro pop mode, as on the incredibly cloying 'Put Your Brain In Gear' and 'Runaway', but when she decides to plump for the darker end of the spectrum, she shines.

Labrinth may work wonders in the background, but he's far too anonymous on Electronic Earth to mark his card as much of a solo star.

These drifts of pop cultural flotsam feel eerily dislocated, as if there was little joy in the psychic bloodletting. Strangely compelling, though.

Original it is not--there's little here that couldn't have come straight off a Shara Nelson album--but she does write some fine tunes

A gloopy cheese-feast of sprightly psychedelic pop, served with a dollop of wanton James Brown funk on the side.

It's the longer, wilder but more melodically repetitive screes that dominate the album, throwbacks to Spacemen 3's space freakouts that excite sonically but outstay welcomes like a nasal harmonica player.

What's missing is any emotional contrast to stop all that cleverness from sounding overwhelming.

Swirling synths abound, but remain encased in four-minute micro-epics which sometimes mine the icy ambition of pre-megastardom Simple Minds.

Cancer Bats are not just ripping it. They're tearing it a new one.

It gleams like a skate-park erected in the clouds, and this is your invitation to strap on shin-pads, get up there and carve up some cumulonimbus.

'Nothing To Do' is a real struggle to hate. The fact is, they have an undeniable knack for turning out two-minute garage pop songs with such warm-hearted, wide-eyed brio that shooting them down seems as callous as steamrollering a basket full of kittens.

Tell Tales is spirited and theatrical, if not necessarily memorable enough to pass into local lore.

She steps up the challenge, revelling in the church-like acoustics and delivering a heart-stopping 'Cosmic Love'. 'Dog Days Are Over' is rendered as fresh and powerful as when you first heard it, rather than the supermarket shopping soundtrack it's now become.

While the overall sound is brighter, it's also largely rather weedy, and trading in the once colossal stoner riffs for languid neo-folk doesn't really suit this five-piece all that well.

In the album's quieter segments he proves that his deft touch remains.

In many ways Boys & Girls it is as note-perfect an album as you'll hear all year, yet it's also often perfectly inert.

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

As bewilderingly little logic as Black Dice's rave collages contain, they're nailing something close to unique.

All in all, this isn't an album you can listlessly slam on to get yourself ready for a night out, but it is a satisfyingly rich project.

It shows range, sure, but it feels so disparate that it's just baffling. Worse, none of these poses and personae actually feel convincing.

This is more entirely predictably absurd bludgeoning death metal silliness from the kings of its kind.

But as a big comeback for these Welsh titans, it's more lost than prophecy...

Its indie innocence would be too much if it wasn't for the darkened, Lynchian hum that hangs over the record

Beautifully recorded strings and piano occasionally break the intimidating, sustained reverie, and the stark, rolling drums of 'Prime' suggest that Wexler could take this somewhere far darker.

In short, there's lo-fi, and then there's this album.

As an honest dispatch from the coal-face, it's glorious indeed.