Yes, they write pretty and moving songs, but it’s reasonable to expect more from a band with a history of writing such sophisticated pop.

It’s at its best when it mixes Badu-style soul vocals and booming apocalypse bass ('The Road', 'At Night'), but there’s evidence of a lighter side in the sort of jazzy tribal stompers that Gilles Peterson would approve of (‘Ra_Light’, ‘Near The End’).

It’s a brave record, but also a frustrating one. While you’re persuaded by the clarity of Rostron’s vision, it’s hard not to also suspect a shortage of ideas.

There's so much beauty on Let's Go Extinct that it could hardly be anything other than a delight.

Its mixtape nature means it isn’t yet the concise album Keel Her might one day produce, but the breezy likes of ‘Go’, ‘Riot Girl’ and ‘Don’t Look At Me’ are tuneful pop pastiches in the vein of Dum Dum Girls and Ariel Pink.

July is a career high.

It’s their finest collection of songs to date.

here are patches of sonic soup--‘Kenworth’ suffers from a particularly acute case of moaning flange--but overall, Cheatahs is a triumph of content over style: a gleaming pop wrecking ball taken to the sonic cathedral.

Bagshaw’s tendency to spout arcane guff about the Odyssey, desert rituals, buried crystals and dancing on the stones is pure hippy mimicry. Sonically, though, this is a fresh and energised ’60s homage.

Real Hair works like a oujia board: dangerous, addictive fun with the potential for unwelcome answers.

It's functional, but dispensable.

His taste for sonic jumble can be overwhelming.

Oklahoma’s Samantha Crain does weird so very well. The only trouble is, she just doesn’t do it nearly enough.

As a self-conscious play for stadium-rock ascension, it may prove successful. As a successor to one of the most honest and affecting debuts of recent years, however, it feels a little empty.

Angel Guts: Red Classroom is his third album in under a year, and superficially it resembles many of Xiu Xiu’s others by draping wracked and fragile vocals over obtuse electronics and analogue atonality.

Somehow they’ve retained their pop nous, making for an album that’s unique, but maddeningly all over the place.

This fifth album resolutely refuses to tread water, instead coming on like a literary pop version of The Maccabees’ recent explorations in jittery psychedelia.

After years of chopping and changing, Bombay Bicycle Club have finally found an iteration worth sticking with.

Although his mission proves futile, he approaches it with a curiosity of spirit that makes ‘Along The Way’ a captivating and nourishing listen, less noodly than his early solo releases and more in the vein of the composerly streak exhibited on 2011’s ‘Get Lost’.

It's a timely refresh of rosy-cheeked indie-pop mores.

What diminishes War Room Stories is the songs themselves, which can feel a little ordinary. Rappak’s vocal is a bit sub-Yannis Philippakis, a monotone half-mumble that doesn’t make the most of his intriguing lyrics.

Former DFA man Tim Goldsworthy has helped them find more sonic sparkle in the production of their second album Dunes, but they nonetheless remain a confused proposition.

36 minutes and three tracks of rich, enveloping, meditative heaviness.

Shamelessly self-indulgent, you imagine their aim is to jam themselves into a sonic trance as much as the listener.

An adventurous and fun record.

Quilt really shine when Anna Fox Rochinski, Shane Butler and John Andrews harmonise impeccably over the spooky melodies of 'Saturday Bride' and 'Secondary Swan'.

Here Brian Fallon’s voice is as beaten and battered as the perfect leather jacket, and all the more beguiling for it.

Whether listening to them or foolhardily attempting to describe them, there’s little about Marijuana Deathsquads that’s easy, but that doesn’t make their third LP any less rewarding.