A handful of great songs might not be quite enough to sustain a new listener, or placate an older one. ‘Gigaton’’s saving grace? There’s plenty of malcontent here, even if Vedder leaping from amps might be a thing of youthful memory.

It is all-consuming and consistently impressive from the off.

The only downside? You don't get to see the band's plentiful hair thrashing about. [30 Sep 2006, p.39]

‘Talk Memory’ is technically proficient but all too often the record lacks the playful spirit and brash confidence the band carried themselves with in the early days.

They’ve pitched their comeback between an emotional exorcism for Homme, but with enough fan-service for the die-hards; this is up there with their darkest, knottiest material to date, and will be appreciated all the more for it.

Believe the hype, this is even better than 'Ray Of Light.' [12 Nov 2005, p.45]

Don't start here before the essential LPs... But once you've fallen in love (and believe us, it's inevitable), this is a mesmerising next stop. [17 Jul 2004, p.48]

An album scored through with a vehement beauty that, with each listen, becomes all the more acute for its unwillingness to shy away from life's bleaker, more painful moments. [25 Sep 2004, p.62]

A volatile brew of uneasy drama and emotion from a band that, on this showing, should always record live.

Evan Patterson's lyrical turns of phrase are still subtly unsettling, and the overall collision of punk and blues is a bit like Grinderman, without the spectre of ironic smirking.

Jockstrap sound like nobody else at the moment, and they’ve barely started.

A record that establishes Ballentine as a clear-eyed truth-teller, with poignant songs that move relentlessly as she revisits cobwebbed childhood nightmares and the dark shadow of familial trauma.

Genre-bridging should excite, thrill, agitate; yet... Hood are--still--hipster-miserablist Pet Shop Boys fans threatening suicide during rainy countryside walks. [15 Jan 2005, p.43]

The fidelity is satisfyingly chunky, though, and while you’ll find better takes on, say, 1988’s ‘Fugazi’ EP, the previously unreleased ‘Turn Off Your Guns’ perfectly encapsulates their blend of wiry funk and firecracker dynamics.

Perhaps its issue is that it’s quite hard to feel anything throughout its running time beyond a sense of general malaise.

It showcases Solange's experimentation at its best, but is only a prelude to a full album in 2013.

About as funny as pouring weedkiller on your genitals and then setting fire to them. [7 May 2005, p.66]

The album you always want Sebadoh to make: unrestrained, kinda sensitive, speckled with paranoia and insecurities and, best of all, in love with the very idea of making music for the sheer thrill of it.

As a whole, it’s winningly Lynchian, and ballsy enough to open with an 11-minute song.

While ‘Old News’ also has a light, airy quality – every note of ‘Roadrunner’ is imbued with a deep melancholy. While it might not provide the same hit as the jubilant likes of early hits ‘Boogie’ and ‘Gold’, Brockhampton are still masters of tapping into a mood, and it’s an immersive trip as a result.

Somehow, even after you know all the punchlines, the tunes are solid enough to still bear pressing ‘repeat’.

Mad as a crate of stoats? Certainly. But worth investigation, all the same.

At 32 minutes it’s brief, but not without its thrills.

The guitarist and his normally hands-on producer are facilitators, with Tzur as the star. That might upset Radiohead fans expecting a stop-gap, but shouldn’t detract from an what's a largely immersive record.

There’s more to this record than excited confidence and a hunger for adventure, though. It’s not just the spotlight this gang need. It’s connection.

No Geography is another leap forward for the pair--it embraces new avenues of discovery and nods to the wider world, while having the feel of a victory lap and retrospective.

It was a risky move, switching from conscious R&B star to grungy punk beau, but WILLOW has knocked all doubts out of the park – again.

A record of beauty and balance, Swanlights cements Hegarty as the transgender: artsy and challenging enough for the Guardian chin-strokers, but with enough hushed melodic wallop to seduce all-comers.