An album that veers between the lush pop melodies of her last two LPs and a full-frontal riot grrrl assault.

The debut album from the London five-piece is impressive enough.

The place where the anthemic, the noisy and the epic meet is where The Men sound most naturally positioned.

This collection has a tantalising flavour, the sense of an alternative history of rock.

Clearly, still in love.

All this greedy grasping means the London newcomers can’t really get a firm grip on anything, meaning Bad Blood comes out with about as much identity as a Facebook commenter without a profile picture.

The deft Tom Petty chug of ‘Indian Summer’ is anthemic enough, but there’s little else to get excited about.

On an album that rarely shakes off its shroud of unease, Suuns paint a pretty bleak picture of all our tomorrows, but their own dazzling Futur looks assured.

Tiptoeing through the dark fairytale forests of ‘Sleep Paralysis’ can be fun, but this is so woozy-sounding it should come with a warning not to operate heavy machinery while listening.

It demands that you listen to it in this moment, not that you give it an easy ride because this is the man who made ‘Heroes’; and its songs more than live up to the demand.

On Ores and Minerals, they ditch the giddy sounds of their early material and adopt a broader palette.

180 doesn’t contain too many weak moments; only the tacked-on-at-the-end ‘Brand New Song’ feels properly superfluous, an in-joke they’ve run a little too far with. Otherwise, you’re struck by the strength of the songs, and the roguish, self-assured charm with which they’re delivered.

The stories Rose tells are as fresh as wet ink.

Yet the easy chemistry between everyone on Amok means that more often than not the record is beautiful.

The Messenger isn’t just a summary of everything worthwhile in contemporary rock music, it’s an insightful and informed dissection of life in 2013 and all the futile iOS updates, cyberstalking conglomerates and financial travesties that clog up the spaces between us. In a world claiming to connect us all, it argues, we’re getting more and more dislocated.

Mostly, what their reliance on groove rather than tune adds up to is dirge.

This album really shouldn’t work. That it does is down to Kavinsky’s painstaking production and his dark vision of the place where rock and electro meet.

Anxiety moves between smooth grooves and kaleidoscopic electronics, but it’s the sensual vocals that carry the record.

Lyrically there are a few choice morsels (for example: “Cat fight, swollen lip/Hair caught in the teeth of your zip”), but taken as a whole it leaves a taste of saccharine.

The album itself consists of 11 tracks of unimaginative pub rock that, at best, rips off The Darkness, and at worst comes across like a bunch of teenagers in their first band.

In places it’s a bit samey, marred by a shortage of songs. But The New Life is, nonetheless, a must-listen.

Endless Boogie justify indulgence via countless glorious shut-eye air guitar moments that nod to the Groundhogs, Canned Heat, the Stones at their tuffest.

III largely eschews fuzz but has plenty of rough edges.

Almost every sound here is precision-tooled for maximum obnoxious effect.

Their debut album is 11 whispered R&B songs, all textured, considered and thoughtfully constructed.

It’s a bit TEED on a beach, or SBTRKT with mask exchanged for a tasteful side-parting.

Most of the time, though, Be Your Own King is so chipper and catchy it comes over like an indie version of Alphabeat.

It’s unconventional but at the same time totally pop--a tricky balancing act Lidell just about pulls off.