3OH!3 are electro-hip-pop white bread American scum.

Macy effortlessly combines the classic pop of Chic and Bill Withers with the sort of flamboyant, contemporary chart-frippery Mika probably thinks he's up to.

Seven albums in and Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons might no longer be raving on the most future-facing side of dancefloor, but their way with an effortless arms-in-the-air banger is undisputable.

"Relapse" should have been the end of his career, but by admitting his mistakes as well as trumpeting his successes, Shady's given himself one last stand.

This album offers an elegant blend of trilling piano, strummed guitar and crisp digital beats, but it's dominated by Mason's voice, and his monastic chants prove as soothing and stirring as when they wafted across The Beta Band's deathless debut 'Dry The Rain'.

It takes half a dozen listens before the quality of it really sinks in, and is so all over the place that only the most devoted won't find it initially maddening. But throughout is a braveness and naive sense of wonder.

This first instalment is impressive, but thin at eight tracks. Would it not have been better to hold back, and release just one, truly stunning record?

It's fair to say Gaslight are a band who have made people's lives immeasurably better simply by existing; American Slang won't change anyone's world and it's unfair to punish it for not, but we just hoped for… more.

It's those constant and predictable superstar interjections that prevent the album from standing out as much as it had potential to do.

They're having their own sonic keg party here: coasting through the fuck-ups on the basic likeability-- the sheer shaggy melodic charm--of the hosts.

The songs compiled here were the public face and sound of that--all-inclusive, heroic and, for the most part, bloody catchy. As eulogies go, it's not half bad.

It’s a late resolution; like their debut, Crystal Castles feels long; not too long for comfort but too long for coherence.

Yes, we could have done without the plodding, church-baiting 'Hash Wednesday', but songs such as 'Explode', and 'On A Fix' more than make up for it and are so incredibly abrasive that you probably shouldn't put 'Eyes & Nines' next to valuable records on your shelf.

While the only revolutions here might be the creaky cogs of the Fannies' 20-year career turning nicely, there's little denying they're still worthy of the reverence they effortlessly garner.

Daring as some of the tracks are, they overwhelmingly loop her vocal around a generic house lick that has the effect of giving her very little to do vocally.

This fifth set (their second since breaking out) pushes the city limits of their fantasy world even wider and masks an uncomfortable truth.

The clarity is chill-wave level rather than that of a tape that had been dropped in a bath, then dried with a hairdryer. And, more importantly, the songs sound better than ever.

This psychedelic folk pop-athon of tickled riffs, snappy elastic basslines, shimmering synths and sweetly sung vocals is all dreamy eccentricity, with a bittersweet hint of rhythmic unrest, from start to finish, and should send Hidden Cameras fans into an amorous tizz after just one listen.

The hooks have gotten naggier, the production crisper, to the point where 'LP4''s wide-eyed squelchy funk is carving them an oxymoronic niche: 'utterly compelling background music'.

There's depth, sincerity and beauty in abundance here.

Back with less pressure, Champ packs that sweet sucker-punch we craved the first time around.

Their careers adviser-flouting debut is in the mould of the greats rather than carving a new sound.

Their spooky, sexy, dark folk is kept bare and bolshy, like Laura Marling with sex and humour.

It's a collection of ludicrously fresh-sounding, short and sharp material (the majority of tracks are under two-and a-half minutes) that confirms he's in the midst of a seriously impressive rebirth.

Though The Futureheads' established formula still sticks steadfast, there are enough wild cards peppered throughout to prove that, far from stuck in a rut, they're still moving playfully forward.

Although Cruz’s downfall comes when he acts the player (‘Break Your Heart’, ‘Dirty Picture’), it’s obvious his real talent comes when he exchanges vocal manipulation for balladeering as on ‘Falling In Love’, and disregards romantic cynicism for a rather hopeful ‘The 11th Hour’.

This album is an onslaught of brutal drumming and bowel-loosening riffs, occasionally leavened by surprisingly delicate vocal interplay.

‘Say It’ recalls the airy refreshment of Vampire Weekend’s ‘Contra’ and the garage-pop fun of Jonathan Richman’s ‘Rock’N’Roll With The Modern Lovers’.