Kwes' voice underwhelms throughout, as if he's embarrassed by his own singing, and he ends up underselling the songs into which he's put so much effort.

Time Team is intergalactic, ambient, Rustie-ish drug music set to snare kicks and sturdy hip-hop beats that at its best is deliciously mind-bending.

Mainman Anton Newcombe is now sober, and here has made his best album since 2003's '…And This Is Our Music'.

The Brooklyn-based quintet traverse an unplaceable pop-era on grooves, prog chops and a spellbinding ennui, sounding effortless throughout.

Here is the ultra-Keane album, with tinkling, histrionic, arena-ready piano motifs™, soaring, emotive vocals™ and songs called 'Day Will Come', 'In Your Own Time' and 'Silenced By The Night'.

It's a bolshie, unapologetic barrage of electroshock rock'n'roll that's as snarlingly pissed off as it is inanely entertaining.

Clearly Damon is pleased to be carving a niche in the world of high art, but perhaps 'Dr Dre The Opera: Nuthin' But An ENO Thang' might have served his legend better.

It still defiantly goes against the grain, but also explodes with immediate, attention-grabbing riffs.

This is an impeccable debut: two feet in the past and one open mouth pointing towards a very bright future.

Capped with Dan Devine's vocals – a scream as angry as it is distraught – this is despair with a backbeat, and punk as it should be: courageously self-destructive.

Radio-friendly insipidness.

Focus-grouped, paranoid and please-all.

Much of this record plays like a tribute to '90s miserabilists Red House Painters, all phantom-like reverb over misleadingly comforting folk tropes.

Not just a fan oddity--a fine pleasure.

A striking funereal stomp, considering its bleak subject matter, it really shouldn't be quite as sensationally sexy as it is.

A common thread can be found in CYRK, Cate's second album: the application of a sincere pop-song sensibility, and a yen for the surreal that sidesteps the zany.

Not sure-footed enough in its subversion, its artificiality feels fake rather than carefully plotted.

Something about them is essentially alien--yet, very probably, that is the source of their strange, uncanny power.

The truth is, though, there's just a lack of magic, a lack of something special going on. It's not bad. It's not good.

Things limp from bad to tedious with 'White Noise', a song so passé it just bought its first shares in ITV Digital.

It's a substantial and rewarding work.

This is the side of Jack White III he's happy to show the world right now, and it's absolutely fascinating to behold.

It reasserts Benson's standing as one of America's greatest songwriters.

With the help of 'Cisco fuzz-pop linchpin Mikael Cronin, they've turned out a collection which displays a fondness for vintage '60s psych and the spooky microdot-pop of Thee Oh Sees.

Love gets to indulge his sweet tooth over a whole record. That freedom turns out to be part blessing and part curse, his delicate-as-a-feather jangle and wispy vocals eventually wearing just a little thin.

The Money Store offers a glimpse of sonic dystopia that's utterly convincing.

She's far less successful when she goes into full-on retro pop mode, as on the incredibly cloying 'Put Your Brain In Gear' and 'Runaway', but when she decides to plump for the darker end of the spectrum, she shines.

Labrinth may work wonders in the background, but he's far too anonymous on Electronic Earth to mark his card as much of a solo star.