Namechecks for Peter Beardsley and Peperami show eccentricity, but once you get used to his atonal delivery, Dawson emerges as a talented chronicler of the tiniest, realest details.

While it's an impressive document, it can’t quite recapture the nocturnal intimacy of ‘Nothing Else But This’ and ‘Dream’.

This is more than just a superior soundtrack album, and the 18-year-old prodigy can mark it off as another job expertly done. Her approach to alternative pop music is frighteningly adventurous.

It’s another excellent addition to Brewis’ catalogue; for Smith, it’s a confident step towards the avant-garde.

It's the sound of a band once introspective but alive, now lost, depressed and completely unavailable.

His default mode--brisk canters with elements of beefed-up psychedelia and proto-punk--can be a little samey, but deviations occur, see the bludgeoning folk of ‘Dark Road’.

Ultimately though, sensitivity outweighs ’80s cliché.

TV On The Radio have returned from an uncertain period sounding remarkably fresh.

It’s funny, melancholy, randy, touching, disgusting and deeply, deeply strange. It will baffle many--but at 17 tracks and 70 minutes, it has the feel of a magnum opus.

The Curse Of Love is a neat record, filled with the mystic folk and lithe psychedelia that made them so refreshing back in the day.

This compilation may only offer a limited snapshot of the Dunedin sound, but rarities like the unreleased ‘Christmas Chimes’ make it worth the trip.

The resulting album is a heartfelt set that showcases the 42-year-old singer and pianist’s elegant style.

A diverse but wholly coherent set of songs, this spaced-out odyssey is well worth the trip.

At times its Cure guitars, thudding drums and eerie vocals get lost amid the fog (‘In The Mirror’, ‘South’). But when it finds a solid rock stomp, as on ‘Crest’ or ‘Raptor’, 2:54 loom like a monster in the mist.

It’s still clear that The Voyeurs aren’t reinventing the wheel. But they’ve greased it with enough fun that it scarcely matters.

This is an album of difficult rhythms, squawking guitars and bohemian eccentricities that will leave fans delighted and everyone else baffled--just as their 12 others have done. Business as usual, then.

It all adds up to a cerebral and entertaining tribute to the many and varied incarnations of dance.


Factor in some brilliant shards of melody in songs like 'Clearing', 'Call Across Rooms' and 'Holding' and Ruins becomes an unexpected gem: that rare album that reels you in without even trying.

IX sees the Texans at their most focused and thrilling.

It skilfully combines Neil Young’s dusty American songcraft with scratchy lo-fi and wandering electronic influences.

While the quartet's reference points (Weezer, Pavement) are hardly unusual, their sound is fresh and invigorating.

The important thing is, the tried-and-tested and the "new" mix fairly well.

While the journey isn't quite as as spectacular as you'd hope, the destination is reassuringly familiar: Foo Fighters making fist-pumping rock'n'roll.

The Hum is all feel, no bullshit, and it truly gets under your skin.

It’s interesting from a certain geeky perspective, but it's never quite as satisfying or substantial as you want it to be.

Cranking the urgency and confrontation of last year's self-titled debut to neck-breaking intensity, RTJ2 is an urgent, paranoid album for a violent, panicked time.

Stateless is impeccably executed, but also unsettling to the point of off-putting.

Ultimately, though, Rip This prevails through bloody-minded ear battering.