It would be unfair to call the album a time capsule of present times, however chaotic those are, as it feels like the uneven collection might morph into something else when revisiting it next week.

Producing an album that distorts time so each second is the temporal equivalent of War And Peace is almost a perverse triumph.

Having now racked up multiple albums of tastefully burbling electronics and inscrutable guitar oddness, Instrument still suits the term: rarely does it ‘rock’ at all, so TRR may as well have progressed beyond it. It’s by no means without merit, though.

[He] flips his hip-hop, rave and reggae on their head, using them to produce cute, beautiful tracks rather than ear-shattering junglist uproar. [20 Aug 2005, p.58]

Despite being a record of two halves, ‘My Turn’ is an enjoyable collection of tracks for his loyal fans. He would do well, though, to stay away from the whiny sounds and rap with a little bit more clarity.

The result is a thoroughly modern pop album that will best appeal to ageing clubbers.

It doesn’t always work, not least in ‘Shotgun’’s iffy mix of Nashville-ready instrumentals and a chugging house beat. On the flipside, ‘Do I Have To Talk You Into It’ sticks so stubbornly to the Spoon template it could be a discarded number from any of their previous records.

Given the period of separation we’ve had from them, it feels a little phoned-in in places and lacking cohesiveness.

The inner battles of ‘Permanent Damage’ are unflinching, and will likely stay with you long after the songs finish. It’s slightly deflating, then, that its instrumental flourishes often fade into the background, making for an album that takes risks without ever quite putting itself out there.

Trouble is, although forced to move on, Howlett had nowhere particular to go, and so much of this album sees him squatting on the floors of other acts. [14 Aug 2004, p.47]

Intrepid it ain’t, but sometimes the straightforward approach has its rewards.

Merely a decent Morphine album.

Not a classic, then, but you could just listen to the good ones a lot.

A welcome change of pace.

Their taste in remixers still tends to the indie-friendly, but their imposing guitar squalls are repeatedly processed into a wildly different beast.

The more experimental side of the record is where things get really challenging.

Britain’s foremost whiteboy funkateer has learned enough since his 2005 major label debut ‘Multiply’ for ‘Compass’ to pull off a neat trick. With his heart as his guide, Lidell gives us a tour of soul through his geographically-removed ears.

The four-piece’s debut is a forcefully soulful affair.

With their brattish Long Island manners, spiky wit and (middle-class) B-Girl 'tood, it mightn't be all that lazy to re-baptise them The Beastie Girls.

Although the decision to release what sound like half-finished tracks purposefully left in the draft folder somewhat misguided, the album doesn’t do anything to tarnish his legacy. Instead, there are moments where it shows how capable of an artist Åhr was, a gentle reminder of the stardom Lil Peep could have achieved.

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.

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.

Guy Garvey’s solo debut follows the classic pattern--he’s off to play trad-based songs that “don’t fit the Elbow template” with his mates from I Am Kloot (bassist Pete Jobson) and The Whip (guitarist Nathan Sudders), don’t wait up. But as it reels out the old lines it proves quite the charmer.

The reason that 'Come With Us' seems unsatisfying is that The Chemicals no longer seem rooted in club culture the way they were in their Heavenly Social days.

The ramshackle energy and unpredictability of their live show has been sanded down into something more clinical and precise.

It can feel – despite the vivacity and thrilling, shack-shaking garage rock beast that this whole album is – that Romero are stuck in a single gear. There’s a sameness to the songs that won’t trouble any listeners who only want to throw their heads around, pogo bounce and get deafened by riffs.

You feel the need for something other than Bryan's croon, and it isn't there.

It wouldn’t be a Deerhoof album if there wasn’t a barrage of unexpected riffs, squeals and feedback littered across most tracks, as well as a few madcap lyrical excursions.