Too often, though, the rage is vague.

The problem is, when you project a futuristic, magical and otherworldly image, you’d better have the sounds to match. And unfortunately, Ice On The Dune is a four-to-the-floor electro-pop album that has literally nothing to do with the cheesy fable invented to go with it.

It's eclectic, but the linking thread is insistent dancehall beats and a sense of dumb, colourful fun.

The departure of backing vocalist Ryan Richards robs the band of one of their dimensions, and come the lunk-headed thrash of ‘Grey’ you’re left wondering if this renewed heaviness is there to paper over a lack of ideas.

He’s writing about his time in hospital (‘Hospital!), his new home (from ‘Good Morning Berlin’: “Hipsters with beards eating falafel / Wander these streets like herds of cattle”) and desire to remain relevant in his forties (the title track’s indie shuffle). Well, fine, but such navel-gazing offers us little reason to love his album.

By the time you reach the halfway point and prepare for CD2, you realise Opposites is not, as feared, an unedited expanse of rock-band mind splurge, but two albums' worth of well-constructed songs.

Goodnight Unknown is another understated treasure from the prince of the perpetually bruised heart.

The 13-track album is an absolute riot, falling somewhere between the meticulous dreamy psych-pop production of Tame Impala’s 2015 breakthrough album ‘Currents’ and the loved-up summertime vibes of Tyler, The Creator’s 2017 record ‘Flower Boy’.

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.

It's not the world-claiming masterpiece it could have been. But as an evolutionary step from world-party-queen towards a more complex beast, it's intriguing.

Adele is not yet ready to produce an album of sufficient depth to match her voice.

It’s truly dreamy.

It’s skillfully realised, but feels like a soundtrack missing a movie.

Focus-grouped, paranoid and please-all.

America Give Up is, quite simply, an effortlessly brilliant debut.

Sounding more like Animal Collective than The La’s, in these times when one wrong move is seeing bands of Kasabian’s stature sink like stones, it seemed a brave comeback.

This is a fine record and you can add an extra point to the score if your stereo cost over a grand.

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

There are plenty of songs here you won’t want to listen to more than once, but plenty that’ll also lodge in your skull like fragments of glass from a smashed Coke bottle.

It doesn't seem the product of so revered an artist. [29 Apr 2006, p.37]

Downbeat dinner parties, say hello to your new soundtrack.

Produced by Boyz Noize, this is the sound of a rook shuffling with a maverick king, full of harpsichords and pianos and sexy European beats; it will arouse the mind and stimulate interesting positions.

If there's one thing that this Arizonan four-piece have been masters of since their inception in the early '90s, it's consistently possessing the over-bearing sentimentality of a teenage girl. Their seventh studio album certainly doesn't veer very far from their past emotional sensibilities.

If the band scraped away the torrential bluster in favour of more subtlety, then their next record could be a portrait of artists. As it stands, they're not there yet.

Their head-fuckable tunes warp and distort everything into a kaleidoscopic pulp.

While there are clichés here that love songs struggle to escape from, I Thought I Was An Alien dumps twee cold and hard, running into pop's warm embrace.

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

Not just a fan oddity--a fine pleasure.