Can you hear it? It’s here! Biffy finally make that sprint-burst into the rock stratosphere and trample over the competition like badly tattooed elephants smashing through dead branches.

he may toy with everything from Detroit techno to dubstep, but Harvest Festival hangs cohesive.

Recorded under the radar with producer Jason Lader and Bright Eyes collaborator Mike Mogis, it’s a strange little album, just eight songs long but deceptively dense with ideas.

Given what we know about Cuomo’s eccentric inner world, it’s hard not to find those dazzlingly perfect melodies kind of hollow.

Though the harder of heart might not be able to swallow the rock’n’retro stylings, Invisible Girl is an ice-cool, analogue-warm winner. Make like its creators and loosen up.

In truth, the majority of this largely monotonous second outing becomes a one-size-fits-all affair, and you’re left digging around in this hallucinogenic haze for a new high.

Out of the lo-fi punk/hardcore/black metal bedrock clatter of sound they create, lysergic and buzzing riffs clarify gloriously before melting back into chaos.

Butler’s done well to harness the fuller ideas first explored on "Smokey" but, in doing so, has sacrified raw Devendra for something just a bit too, well, Bees-y.

Butter is twitchier than a smoker on a 12-hour flight, and you wish Hud-Mo would have more confidence in his majestic melodies before shredding them. For the intrepid listener, though, this is popping candy for the ears.

You could argue Wolfmother’s ballsy and carefree hi-octane music is all just innocent fun, ideally washed down with a six pack of tinnies. Yet it’s utterly devoid of soul and intelligence.

It’s a fantastic record, a slow-burn masterpiece that buds gradually and thrives on the oxygen of repeated exposure.

It may be breathtaking in places, but Flossie's Lungs are just a bit too full of bluster.

Despite the odd catchy moment such as ‘Die Happy, Die Smiling’ you’re left thinking that those yodelling fucking elf-botherers Sigur Ros have got a lot to answer for.

Whereas Mogwai’s more recent work threatens to make a formula familiar, Fuck Buttons’ fizzling DIY laboratory still has the invention and ingenuity to surprise.

Cox may have tagged Atlas Sound as just another side-project, but Logos is a clear indication that his solo creative output is just as richly rewarding as what came before.

OK, their lightweight bossa nova songs grate, but when they go all funereal, you get great lines such as “We move like knives through scars on land.”

Complex and artful, there’s no need to understand fugues and canons to appreciate this--its utter perfection and joy is self-evident.

Even shorn of their comedic context, the best of these tracks still have the power to rupture internal organs at 20 paces.

No surprises here, but it’s hard to fault Kannberg’s strongest solo album yet.

We’re all for people celebrating the music they love free from boundaries of race and that, but there’s something inescapably grating about hearing a German/English newspaper heiress wittering on about fucking Babylon in thick patois. Crushingly disappointing.

Geneva blossoms into an evocative, inspiring album.

It’s a challenging, warm if understated effort destined to thunk into the indie solo album dartboard somewhere between Julian Casablancas and Duncan from Maximo Park.

Bracing brilliance channelling the spirit of Yoko Ono, Le Tigre, Aphex Twin and Alice Coltrane.

As an album, the moments of intelligent beauty aren’t quite obscured by the gloom-by-numbers and, considering how rabidly commercial this really is, that’s something of a little victory.

The Temper Trap relocated to london in May of this year in a bid to woo the uk: this is not a bad calling card at all.

London-based collective Fanfarlo’s debut is a carefully orchestrated treat.

Ten years after their last masterpiece, The Flaming Lips have finally produced another one.

Yeah, it’s his shtick, and you could laugh with him if the music was in any way exciting. Unfortunately, however, Dark Touches filth-funk fury is made impotent by sheer lack of hooks.