A notable progression from the foursome, and plenty of huge riffs to enjoy at the summer festivals.

Sylvan Esso’s fourth offering doesn’t dwell in solitude, despair, or desire for escape. Instead, it resides in what is left after the darkness clears: tighter connections to the surrounding world and the people who populate it. To borrow Meath and Sanborn’s own words, the album is a bold and defiant example of what could happen when you walk back into the world, “wilder and stranger” than before.

Boasting their strongest set of songs for an age.

Maya Hawke might not be preparing to go back to school, as the character at the heart of this record would be but, if she were, ‘Moss’ would guarantee her top grades.

They're silly but their songs demand to be taken seriously, just like Prince, Ultravox and Bowie. And yes, they're like MGMT--in that they're great.

Ten tracks of exuberant, blissful pop later and it looks like the Mackem lads have actually come good on their promise.

This, their third album, continues the Atlantans' slow but upward career trajectory to date, almost akin to an American Elbow in that they're grandiose, utterly lovely, but unlikely to sell any records for at least another couple of releases down the line.

This is a frequently dazzling piece of work from one of hip-hop’s most ambitious and imaginative stylists.

Villagers fans will no doubt love this record, which has the capacity to obtain a new fanbase with O’Brien’s newly found sound.

Gives hope to a hip-hop stuck in a mire of mediocrity. [18 Jun 2005, p.64]

It sounds like a long-overdue coming-of-age. It’s never been easy being a fan of Doherty, but it’s certainly getting more rewarding.

‘McCartney III’’s freshness lends it to both faithful covers and complete rewrites – there’s no baggage to these songs.

Beautiful. These are soft, lush pieces that deep-dive into life’s everyday moments and turn them into something extraordinary.

It’s the sound of the man inside the ball feeling an unknowable fear and trying to accept it. The rest of us should join him in his strife, if only to enjoy that psychedelic drone groove. It’s an anxious riot.

The mental processes, emotions, and reflections that have defined a transformative period, and the years that preceded it, all come to life here.

Easily their finest record yet, a genre-shrugging masterpiece of delicate musicianship and warm feeling.

There’s plenty of fun, filth and frills to go around with McHale’s latest venture.

Vek truly exploits the benefits of being in a one-man band: all instruments and ideas can be used as often or as sparingly as he likes; the feelings of the Mellotron and crumhorn session musicians do not need to be taken into account.

As the album unfolds, the band continue to nail the balance between rebellious anthems and cutting social commentary.

Ode to Joy is the culmination of a musical evolution Wilco have been working towards for years. Ode to Joy holds a microscope to the small moments of life – which, thanks to the current political landscape, we’re often in danger of missing – and encourages us to see and cherish them.

Though they've shed the cheap - but undeniably fun - Day-Glo immediacy of 'Fever...', it's been replaced by a range of expressions that most artists will only stumble upon by their fifth release.

We know what we’re getting from here: effervescent pop-punk smashes with a political edge. The lyrics are more personal here than on previous Sløtface albums, as Shea dissects her experiences growing up in Norway with American parents.

If you were looking for a new Bowie, Patrick Wolf is proving himself the Thin White Duke's successor in more than just his extravagant dress sense.

On 'Octopus' The Bees find their groove and sound blissfully unaware whether anyone else is listening. You should, they've made their best album yet.

There are cheesy moments--Jesso pretends to cry on 'Crocodile Tears', and 'Can't Stop Thinking About You' mimics the theme from US sitcom Cheers--but the compelling fragility of his demos remains. Because of that, Goon is a triumph.

With 'Here Come The Bombs', frontman Gaz Coombes does a surprisingly adept job of retaining [former band, Supergrass's] oddball pop sensibility, but shaping it into something that's, if not mature, then at least slightly less frivolously young and free.

Compulsive and conflicted.

McCartney’s always been about inclusivity and openness, but this latest glimpse into his life feels like a particularly enlightening one.