Afraid Of Heights takes the formula he toyed with there and beats it into something more coherent, focusing on decorating his punk with this new sonic tinsel.

Chvrches are effortless and close to svblime.

A lot of it is quite earnest, dealing with subjects like rejecting the mainstream (‘Run Boy Run’) and, on ‘I Love You’, unrequited love.

The AM radio pulse of the title track, the San Franciscan sway of ‘Old Friends’ and the loveliness of ‘Country Queen’, with its sweet acoustic fade into ‘In The Rounds’, is overshadowed by a nagging lack of imagination.

Gone is the orchestration of 2008’s ‘Entanglements’, though the melodrama of the Portland band’s baroque pop remains.

The monotone pace is lifted by the sprightly ‘3 Days’, but ultimately Woman is cloyingly pedestrian.

They may never outshine M83 but Rituals at least establishes Team Ghost in their own right.

Both musically and lyrically, Daughter ain’t half as clever as they clearly think they are (people get serious and clever mixed up a lot, weirdly).

There are ponderous moments later on, like the uninspired ‘Teenage Disease’, but this is a band who’ve found a second wind.

Whether she’s playing loser or victor, the swathes of frenetic energy that buoy every note are always present.

Woolhouse mostly lives up to the dark nature of his moniker, but for brief moments he glimpses light at the end of the tunnel.

Bloodsports finally provides the send-off Suede’s legacy deserved 10 years ago. And, fittingly, it’s due to them thumbing their noses at the notion of growing old gracefully, and making brilliantly daft pop music instead.

It’s Dire Straits teamed with louche New York cool--a combination that shouldn’t work, but totally does.

Too often, however, Flory is prone to overcomplicating matters, and tracks like ‘In Time’ and ‘Get Down’ wind up too governed by the soulless stamp of the laptop.

Not ‘dance’ music by any stretch of the imagination, but beautiful all the same.

Henson spends 20-odd minutes working his tremulous voice--somewhere between Paul Simon and Wayne Coyne--around echoing guitar.... Then suddenly he finds the socket and ‘Don’t Swim’ rages into life, his guitar bashed and throttled.

The risk pays off.

Inevitably it’s also an adventure in need of an edit.

It’s truly dreamy.

It’s the kind of album that sounds best listened to solo.

It’s not only the boldness of Mason’s subject matter that makes this a brilliantly disquieting record, but also his ability to make it consistently warm and wholesome.

The album ends up as a tribute to each of the individual singers rather than Sound City itself.

It’s still occasionally a bit too ‘nice’ for its own good, but in a cynical world, sometimes a little hope and buoyancy doesn’t go amiss.

Only the overlong ‘Ice Age’ disappoints on a solid, often stunning record.

It’s about as exotic as a cocktail umbrella.

Because a grand and fabulous mode of theatre pervades everything about this band, you’re often a few degrees off completely connecting.

A nightmarish listen, but in a good way.

Much of the charm of The Deserters lies in the winter-blasted chime of Zeffira’s voice, and those frozen-hinterland soundscapes.