All Day is Girl Talk's cleanest album in that sense. Pitch disagreements are virtually non-existent, and save for one ill-advised Creep mash-up, it's as close to perfect as he can possibly get.

As strong as the hooks and melodies are in British Home Movies, it’s her artful narratives and evocative choruses that really stick, enveloped in micro stories of traveling along paths that are paved with memories.

This album then delivers anger, honesty and arrogance, all in sporadic scatter-gun fashion: the overriding feeling is confused, uncertain, often unreasonable, but ultimately well intentioned.

You only need to read through the song titles to get a sense of it all, but the carefully constructed builds of tracks like Wish We Had More Time and This Is Where It Ends make spending time with sorrow hard to resist.

The end result is the kind of unique album that only results from someone who has spent a career staying true to themselves, playing every instrument, writing every song, adopting a singular fashion stance, and even opening their own record label. This album is a reflection of that growth, and hopefully a promise for more of the same.

With a perfect combination of loose noise and tight melody, Eagulls’ self-titled debut puts the group on the fast track to be taken seriously, even compared to peers on their third or fourth try.

Few albums are truly perfect though, and Bon Iver is not without its flaw.

Good as a heartbreak-balm, an above-average way to spend a night in bed or just something to dance with your special lady / man / whatever to, Love is All's latest proves that they can be counted on to bring quality pop, no matter what.

There’s so much here to enjoy, we can tolerate the occasional lyrical overreach.

Their most accomplished statement thus far. Expanding far beyond their hardcore roots, Mannequin Pussy delivers shimmering alternative rock with more precision and less abandon.

Bradford Cox has created a work that musically and lyrically will attach itself to your consciousness, reflecting exterior experience and encouraging inner association with the former.

NO DREAM carries the listener comfortably through Rosenstock’s entire wheelhouse, leaving no genre unturned

So in a sense the imperfections are actually its perfections because it represents E’s state of mind purely: his every whimsical thought, his waking up and not knowing how he’s going to feel that day and his whole-hearted honesty to allow every fucking shred of it be put to record because he has the audacity, intensity and conviction to do so.

No gripes here as IDLES deliver their most consistent album to date with a handful of their most rough-cut diamonds sparkling through.

The Monitor makes the listener feel unified with the band in their alienation. The Most Lamentable Tragedy presents an abstracted story as its emotional core, and it’s significantly harder to respond to that more distant lyrical perspective.

Please don't let any negative first impressions put you off though, as it just might be the album that Ladytron have been working towards for a decade.

Nonetheless, Saturdays = Youth finds itself in the higher echelons of '08 so far for radically different reasons, and, unpredictedly, it wouldn't be too surprising if M83's decision to avoid making a by-the-numbers album saw those overdue dividends finally reaching them.

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.

Though Out Getting Ribs already gave us little reason to underestimate him, 6 Feet Beneath the Moon holds up as the kind of statement to truly brag about--a debut that’s masterfully crafted, reasonably ambitious, and, more importantly, exists as a truly unique statement.

Fuckbook is a fantastic, energy-fuelled riot of an album and--if you wish to view it as such--yet another brilliant addition to the embarrassment of riches that is the collected works of Yo La Tengo.

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.

Smith doesn’t make any compromises to make things any more agreeable--in fact, the album’s bloated runtime and cogent lyrical content makes it a somewhat weary listen that rewards more when taken in short, sporadic sessions.

Adem has outdone himself, and has created what may be the strongest record of his solo career so far, and Takes merits hearing as an album in its own right, as well as being one of the best exponents of the maligned covers album genre. Highly recommended.

The sound remains unmistakably Shellac: guttural, sarcastic, and chock-full of anger.

There’s a lot more diversity in the sound of the album, and it’s there that Wolf immediately shines.

Most of all, the music is a nostalgic trip to a time that most of its listeners have never actually experienced. That concept makes Out Of Love enchanting, but it's one of those albums that mood, time, place and company all have to line up correctly to capture the intended experience.

The wondrous sonic beauty of Morning Phase sheds light into Hansen’s otherwise absence of presence, so when the swelling, cinematic strings of Cycle open the record, it’s as if we’re surrounded by an omnipotent being coming down from the heavens.

Despite clear flaws though, enthusiastically raving about the album, even when taking into account that a third of it (including those aforementioned ten minutes of Fracking… ) is borderline irritating, feels entirely justified, rather than an exercise in willful perversion, thanks to the quality of everything else on offer.