The descent into indie R&B anaemia on 'Animal' is less exciting, but otherwise, drenched in field recordings of whisked eggs and jangling bracelets, this album is an imaginative and accessible bout of boundary-crushing.

Whatever gear they have at their disposal, WITTR remain almost unbeatable for swelling, atmospheric excellence.

Their seventh album finds the London indie veterans dusting their melancholy songs with hope and loveable melodies, each a compelling tale in its own right.

Whether it's 'Tension Remains'' collision of religious chorale and space-age pulse or the jazz-soul cyberpunk of 'Never Defeated', the result is always original.

For the most part, Model Of You pushes Cloud Boat out into broader, more turbulent waters.

While it’s often been easy to sum up McGuinness himself with that statement, whether he wants the attention or not Chroma is a forceful enough effort to propel him centre-stage.

Departure isn't merely a psychedelia record cut with Suicide-aping proto-punk. These eight songs wrestle free of that assumption, flying off in myriad directions.

What’s really intriguing about Jungle, though, is its darker side. There's a tone of inner-city malaise, romantic ruin and psychedelic alienation to a raft of its tracks that speaks to those modern urbanites feeling screen-wiped and robbed of opportunities, busy earnin’ for nothing.

Taking so many chances means there are inevitable hiccups, but they scarcely matter.

Beverly’s effortless indie rock debut is the result of a casual collaboration between honey-voiced guitarist Drew Citron and her occasional employer, former Dum Dum and Vivian Girl Frankie Rose.

Remember Remember are more about awe than aggression, and resolutely their own thing: this is music to lose yourself in, rather than to.

What saves that song ["Slow Motion"] , and indeed the album as a whole, is Monica Martin's honeyed voice; it's full of soul, even when the arrangements aren't.

While it is maddeningly catchy in places and well put together, its defining characteristic is a conservative streak that sits strangely with this most anarchical of bands.

Of course, for all its honourable intentions, it still paints a picture of 100 dudes in a basement yelling the refrain, “She’s good for a girl”. But when they aren’t committing feminist faux pas, Greys stand on the verge of leading a new generation of punk.

This third LP is jumpy and beat-driven and banishes the memory of the dubstep scene he emerged from.

His attempts to revolutionise, strip bare and stretch the borders of R&B with all manner of glitches, gollums and glaciers are admirable, but it’s only when he tranquilizes his inner Usher for the downbeat piano throb of ‘See You Fall’, the spectral orchestration of ‘Pour Cyril’ and the acoustic minimalism of ‘2 Years On (Shame Dream)’ that he achieves the subtlety and invention of, say, Sufjan Stevens.

Currently, there are few notable British producers creating such brilliantly odd pieces of music as this.

Musically Once More 'Round The Sun is equivalent to having several tons of hot molten lava poured into your eye sockets for about an hour.

‘Archaic Revival’ is the centre-point though; nine minutes of tension-gripped, creeping bass and echoed mantras, its queasiness adds a weight of darkness to this mesmerising trip.

The cocky confidence that barrelled them into the big time might just be losing momentum--a band made of bold leaps have started dipping toes.

The line between self-aware irony and tragically conforming to type is thin, though, her knowing winks getting stuck in a tangle of false eyelashes, and ultimately undermining what had the potential to be a powerful artistic statement.

Ultra-lo-fi, but an album nonetheless stuffed full of rich melodies and arch lyrical observations.

Only when Leithauser relaxes the template does he start to cock it up.

Jaded & Faded strikes a fine balance between self-deprecation and the supreme confidence needed to get away with suggesting you've had your chips. But there's no second album syndrome here. It whoops ass.

Delve into the lyrics a little deeper, particularly the title track, and it becomes even clearer that Bauer sees his old band's split as the first step towards spiritual enlightenment and finding certainty amid the chaos.

Adrian Toubro sings like every word causes him a jolt of pain, but his songs are literate and fine-crafted, reading like distilled existential dramas.

heir lighter moments can be a bit cringeworthy--too earnest by half--but when they go slow and heavy, they’re unfuckwithable.

It might not kill the Mumford and Butler clones, but The Hunting Party is an energetic effort at least.