One of the most frustrating releases of recent times. Tracks meander insipidly, crushed by the weight of a solipsistic “message” and the real moments of quality only serve as a reminder of what might have been.

Each and every selection here has loads of character, confidently bringing back the kind of polished guitar dynamics that many contemporary indie rock bands either take for granted or don’t have the capacity to arrange into sharp, rock-sculpted songs.

Temples aren’t shy in applying a hazy, glitzy gloss to a lot of their work, but the strength of an ungarnished tune--Oh! The Saviour--shows that their rare disrobed moments can be stronger than their decorated ones.

It may be Power’s most fatalistic declaration, but also his most engagingly diverse, and his marked exasperations do reflect a not-so-distant dystopia that suitably aligns with today’s societal disconnect.

JAMC’s reclaim for glory is expectedly uneven: it’s as carelessly abrasive and reverb-heavy as it should be, but it’s also mounted with a heavy number of throwaways that document different periods of their celebrated past without a clear notion of how they should move forward.

Tei Shi has honed a dynamic spectrum of poppy R&B full of dexterity and revelations, and produced a solid debut LP in the process.

While Ainsworth is getting closer to making an impact with her sultry romanticism, she also hasn’t refused to give up that producers’ mentality that stifles her more spontaneous urges.

Owens consistently and effortlessly locates sweet spots without ever falling into a specific alcove, showing a maturity and understanding of her craft seldom seen on a debut LP.

Mental Illness is first and foremost an album about achieving self-sufficiency through trail and blunder. And in doing so, she once again stands tallest, and quietest, in an exceptionally consistent career.

The whole record is crafted with an air of distrust, but its execution is surgically precise. Spoon’s stream of critical acclaim shows no sign of slowing down any time soon.

With such a huge repertoire crammed into a record not much longer than 30 minutes, it’s all the more impressive that the tracks mesh together so seamlessly, never losing the cosy, affectionate motif that hangs over its entire runtime.

While Season High has its showstopping moments, as a whole it tries to cram in too many ideas into a variety of disjointed themes.

The Far Field is a cathartic listen, an album that wears its emotions on its sleeve. It's all here, the good times and bad, the hope and despair, laid out for all to see and feel. It's rare that you hear albums that brazenly bear their writers' soul, while remaining this effortlessly enjoyable.

They write songs that make you feel good, and sound good, whenever they come on, and they do it in such a way that you truly feel like you’re listening to them for the first time.

Rather than going for broke, Depeche Mode eked out a half-decent release that doesn't do either the theme or their abilities any justice. It may be called Spirit, but this album is sorely lacking in soul.

Though not as conceptually absorbing as Bestial Burden, Contact is a no less challenging effort that seeks to find some kind of understanding from its listeners.

For an album steeped so much in coming to terms with loss and grief, with finding redemption, and with starting anew, it captures Surfer Blood doing something they haven't done in years, and that's have fun making music.

With Bunker Funk, if you were expecting Silver Apples, you’re getting Can instead. And, it’s a good thing.

A Crow Looked at Me is what all art should aspire to be: honest, affecting, and unforgettable.

From the fuzzy way-wah bridge of Serve the Song to the soft and gentle swing of Holding Patterns, the band is taking great strides in diversifying their musical palette even if it primarily coalesces and not expands on their established personalities.

Different Creatures is likely to prove too nostalgic to win over critics of 00s ‘indie landfill’, and Circa Waves still lack the spark that is going to reignite British guitar rock, but that won’t matter for most fans of their debut. This is another exciting, polished album that's destined for outdoor stages.

While Marling's lyrics come across as powerful and worldly, it's the conversational tone that makes Semper Femina work so well.

Syd hasn’t quite molded herself as a pop luminary, but the self-determined themes on Fin do portray an independent woman who’s fueled by the power of love.

Saturday Night is a record that is almost misanthropic in its progression, and an intriguing insight into Tim Darcy the artist.

The themes explored throughout the record’s massive 130-minute runtime are remarkably current--for example the Orlando shootings and the Paris attacks--and it’s these moments where the album commands absolute attention. Not even Kozelek can command it entirely for 130 minutes, though.

His voice is an art form in itself, breathy and warm and aching with impartial soul. The track’s arrangements are stunning, from the sparse opener Plastic 100°C to the propulsive beat of Blood On Me, while the devastatingly beautiful, reflective piano ballad of (No One Knows Me) Like The Piano would stop the coldest of hearts.

Please Be Mine is a charming record that remains engaging and consistently pleasant, but you have to feel that there’s another gear in Molly Burch’s engine-room that could get the most out of her prodigious talent.

It puts you on a kick after soothing you with its pacifying hooks. And really, it’s in making those small variations where The Feelies find their gentle collision of energy and contemplation.

It’s an unfettered display of eighties-evoking posing that suits them perfectly well, but it also sounds like a step back after they’d already figured out how to match their compositional smarts with a clear message.

Dirty Projectors ultimately leaves one too puzzled to empathize with apart from letting out a false, mouth-gaping awe.

After a promising EP that hinted at many directions (not to mention that it was a succinct five tracks) Blue only amplifies their indecisiveness instead of pointing out their strengths as songwriters.

Sleeping Through The War is the embodiment of a gentle giant: huge in presence but unwaveringly accessible.

On Offers, NE-HI never really commit to a major departure. So while there are glimmers of a new, more refined sound, it’s the carefree, guitar pop that still stands out.

There are so many ideas in Heartworms that give substance to Mercer’s unremitting passion to create, and though he manages to enliven and push the project forward it more so blurs Mercer’s artistic and commercial ambitions.

With some of their catchiest songs yet and Gareth's muse in top form, this album stands among their strongest work.

Stormzy makes every minute of this album count. By giving a voice to both the street and religious sides of his life he is able to produce a well-rounded, exciting project.

The band is categorically known for their disciplined uniformity, an approach that gives the band more room to inject more personality into their straightforward rhythm section; seeing as the indie rock landscape has also considerably changed, it’s actually a welcome throwback that’s aged well.

Applied with both spunk and sophistication, The Courtneys II is a laudable follow-up that deftly captures their growing musical rapport.

It amounts to one of the more dense, layered, anxious, and fun things they have released in a long time.

Migration is a sparkling, crisp display of Green’s ability to completely immerse a listener, and it’s strong as it’s ever been.

Hang appears as an album of ambition that outdoes itself so spectacularly that it appears as a jazzed up, Disney-esque caricature of its own end product.

Carter’s default psyche is an afflicted one, and his lyrics commenting on the migrant crisis typically don't pull any punches. On the other hand, his first steps into a more ornate sound on Neon Rust is a welcome change.

Hear the Lion’s Roar is filled with positivity and joy, and though sometimes the silliness buries some genuinely tuneful compositions, it’s yet another worthy escape that preserves Fair’s endearingly idyllic fancy.

While the range of tangents explored makes it a more interesting album, its lack of incisiveness prevents Lemon Memory from being called a better record.

He’s is nothing short of a chameleon when it comes to garage rock, and this is one of his most impressive outputs yet.

Both cynical and biting, Nothing Feels Natural is a timely and involving call to arms that promises great things from Priests sooner rather than later.

It’s impressive in small doses, but as Culture progresses you get a strong sense of deja vu, where each track upends the next with a petty familiarity that is just frustratingly repetitive.

Little Fictions is Elbow's weakest album since their second LP, Cast of Thousands. Despite the flaws, several tracks stand out among their strongest work.

What the lyrics lack (and they certainly aren’t bad by any stretch--simply not particularly strong), the vocals mask.

The result is a tighter and more collaborative sounding effort, and it shows throughout the album from the taught disco-funk of Telephone to the sunny and joyous brass-driven lead single U'huh.

It’s almost as if Pinhas isn’t quite committed to offering this much of himself to anyone, as if, in spite of this written and performed maelstrom of odds and ends, he’s proceeding with caution.

Ultimately, it’s disappointing to see how The Menzingers are continuing an unremarkable plan of action when they should be challenging themselves even further.

Tourist in This Town finds Crutchfield learning that travel or exorcism aren't solutions. Instead, she finds the solace in her craft. The words may be heavy, but she's found a path forward.

This is smart, meditative music that needs the appropriate time to vest, where further listening provides new perspectives and details that weren’t as apparent at first glance.

It’s an honest, soulful and superbly well-executed body of work, and one of the best British rap debuts for a long time.

Uniform’s American nightmare is relatable and honest, revealing the dangers of dependency, the want of escape, and the problematic effects one can experience while trying to end that bond. One can’t say that there’s hope within the contents of Wake in Fright, (one might even say it’s a tad overwrought), but it’s a story worth telling nonetheless.

It’s an occasionally uplifting, but mainly standard, declaration that suggests they’re currently experiencing a transitional phase as songwriters.

Not Even Happiness isn’t just an extension of the spare, if sometimes unremarkable, compositional elegance of her debut, Room With Walls and Windows. The production is slightly enhanced, and she’s also raised the stakes by featuring a wider array of instruments.

Swimming under the four-on-the-floors and blaring horns, the haunting vulnerability that defined The xx’s beginnings is as potent as ever on I See You. This time, it’s effortless.

Alexis Krauss is still a potent vocal performer, though the same cannot be said for an album that stubbornly covers the entire contemporary pop gamut with an an irritating self-confidence. It ultimately sabotages their own efforts.

Dupuis has engineered a candied vehicle to convey a highly relevant paradigm, and although its lo-fi sound means that the messages aren’t as bullish as they could be, it is sonically deft, and an excellent record.

Generally speaking, the beats remain hard enough, and the riffs have a sharp enough edge to maintain Woman’s effect throughout, and the elastic textures created by Augé and de Rosnay display a real lushness, warm and cold in equal measures.

It’s easy to make comparisons with contemporaries--namely the likes of Best Coast--but Stina Tweeddale and Cat Myers transfer so much personality to their tracks that a deeper, more lasting impression is given.

It’s an arc that she manages to complete with her conceptual solo trilogy, and though the pop chart-minded songs devalue the album’s more adventurous pursuits, Richard is still devoted to push her art in new, unexplored directions.

It does breeze on by without any major impact, but there’s a select number of pleasantly bittersweet cuts that are sure to liven up your afternoon commute for weeks on end.

Devil Music sounds like a compilation of unpolished ideas taken from scrapped recording sessions, and though it highlights The Men at their best it also portrays them as lazy underachievers. And they’re too smart to be labeled as such.

It's too long, with too many tracks that go nowhere. But those songs that do work are some of their best in the last couple of decades.

So Long Forever has a knack of sounding nothing like your prototypical debut album, with no sign of any unsanded edges or rawness. Instead, the album’s sound is that of a band that have honed their sound over a number of exponentially strong releases.

Even if it does cover too much ground, Clear Shot is another fine effort from a talented band who tend to get caught adrift in their own ways.

A Seat at the Table is intensely rich and gracious in its candor, so much so that it’s quieter, painstakingly personal moments are every bit as robust as direct aggression. Its soulful flow is luscious and languid, and simply dazzles in the graceful, airy beauty of Cranes In the Sky, where Solange’s voice floats to stratospheric altitudes.

Stewart has enlisted the services of several vocalists of an R&B ilk to add a more radio-friendly feel as well as structural steel to the otherwise frantic procession of convulsive electronics, but this is a dizzying listen that is ultimately erratic, but enjoyable.

This retro carnival is a trip, but it’s also a downright mess riddled with poor songwriting choices that are disguised as clever.

The resonance of Let Them Eat Chaos is mammoth, and Tempest’s lexical flair is the difference maker.

Aside from Billie Joe’s willingness to open up on more troubling personal issues, of which he only hints, the majority of Revolution Radio is all sheen and no spark.

The overall effect is pristine and seamless, and the work of a supremely talented composer and producer.

Citizen of Glass is like entering a misty realm of wonder where each unpredictable turn holds a new set of unknowns.

Given the long list of contributors, the singularity and cohesion achieved in Goodnight City is something to be applauded. It is also solid evidence that Wainwright’s creative well has not run dry, but rather thrives upon the influence of others.

FLOTUS is much more than another genre effort, where Wagner deeply alters his usual country bearings and gives it a new and unexpected orientation.

Most of Beyond the Fleeting Gales hits with a uncompromising positivity that often contradicts the sorrowful gentleness in her words.

The dangers of crafting intricate visual and musical landscapes, as is the tradition with Empire of the Sun, are exposed with Two Vines. Getting it right is so rewarding, but it's a daunting task to replicate such a vision on each track. When they fly, they soar. But when their artistic façade fractures, the cracks are just too glaring.

It's difficult to judge a soundtrack separate from the production. But even without the visuals, Lazarus is still worth a listen or two. The performances range from solid to great, and the covers of these classics are often fresh.

Regardless of its more sophisticated tone, the same cannot be said for the album’s rather callow lyrical content, which doesn’t just border on, but fully embraces, mawkish poetic cliches, which causes one to question if the band is truly willing to insert more of their own growth and experiences into adulthood. Which, in turn, reduces their return as nothing more than just a faithful look into the past.

The Wytches mesh of sound is the musical embodiment of sixties surf dressed in severe Halloween costumes, and their ability to turn such agitation into something that is, against all odds, listenable, is a testament to this band’s grasp on their own sound.

Some tweaks are almost imperceptible, but when administered at the right place and the right time, Dusk shows an incidental dynamism that Ultimate Painting haven’t shown before.

We’ve heard enough from Slaves in their fledgling career thus far to know that their sound is always going to be abrasive, but with the exception of Spit It Out, the quirks that made Slaves as appetising a proposition as they were are nowhere near the forefront.

Every musical detour she takes on KoKoro sounds carefully plotted, and though it may occasionally wander without a clear center, it hardly lessens her severe case of wanderlust.

Away may only appeal to those who are truly committed to Shelf’s unyieldingly wry judgment, but the score that accompanies it is beautifully intoxicating.

Pretty Years doesn’t sugarcoat things just for the sake of it: the band is just as apprehensive about life’s everyday troubles, and it’s by holding on to a healthy sense of proportion that Cymbals Eat Guitars retain their quietly visceral power.

It is essentially indie-folk by numbers, with a nervy wistfulness and soft-hued canvas, but its aching beauty prevents the record from stifling a listener with its persistent translucence.

There is very little substance either musically or lyrically, and by the end of the album it feels like the album is already recycling ideas.

These songs are chaotic, unexpected and jarring. Samples, vocoders, and shambling synths crash together in an unstructured soundscape. But if you listen through the anarchy, you will find a stirring, masterful odyssey.

It’s not Pixies as you’d like to remember them, but for the first time in years it sounds as if they’re actually enjoying themselves.

From Gemini Feed’s bold awareness, to 27 Hours’ electrifying finish, The Altar is an accomplishment. There’s much more happening, but its tighter and fuller, filling in the most glaring gaps left by Goddess.

It is a solid and adept demonstration of his strengths as a dance producer and his ear for a hook. Roosevelt is intended to pacify the annual, somber, post-festival comedown. Every now and then, we just have to enjoy it simply for what it is, and not what it may lack.

Warpaint are at the very top of their game, showcasing a full understanding of their sound and the tools needed to get the best out of it. Heads Up is more of a sideways swerve for the band as opposed to a notable shift.

Preoccupations is a strong follow-up to an excellent debut record. It showcases a band that is evolving and finding new ways to stretch out their sound.

Ultimately, Skeleton Tree is the sound of feeling and not expressing sorrow.

Despite the wealth of glowing beats and rhymes, AIM would have benefitted from some unpredictability. Arulpragasam's sound is distinctive, but because she never establishes any kind of progression of ideas or strategically unites her songs around a theme, the album remains repetitive instead of cohesive.