It has all the joyousness, all the Pet Sounds hallmarks, and yes, all the bloody echo chamber of the best of the genre.

9 1/2 Psychedelic Meditations on British Wrestling of the 1970s and Early '80s is, other than a long title, a quintessentially Luke Haines record, it's just not one of his best

Even with today's technology, harvesting emotions as such is perplexing and strenuous. But Kirby does it with a special kind of grace.

It's the work of a mature and serious artist, who has made a unique and lasting contribution to pop, and this album will continue her reputation.

On The Water relies less on the vocals than its predecessor. The music is more robust, adding more layers than the minimalism of before.

Even if his insecurities can illicit a few cringes (he sounds genuinely upset with his haters on All The Shine), there's enough empowered anthems like Bonfire and Outside for Childish Gambino to pull through.

It's not a love-hate relationship I have with his stuff, it's more like a so what attitude. So what if he gets Laurie Anderson to recite drab poetry on his record, so what if he can play tens of thousands of notes in one breath.

It's not up there with their very best, but it's actually not that far off.

There's something seductive and illuminating about Stott's new music, something that transcends the terror being emitted.

Fortunately, his two other pieces on the record, Mallet Quartet, and Dance Patterns are nothing short of the flowery style that make Reich's music so rich. WTC 9/11, on the other hand, just sounds muddy.

Get Lost may not be the incredible experience that Living was, but it's still a very enjoyable listen.

If only Jones would also add some color to his verbatim accounts to match his minimal pop songs, then we would have a real contender in our hands.

He never gets beyond either producing a meditative song or joyful song. The difference between this album from all the millions of other acoustic albums out there? Not much.

Either way you bend it, his confessional accounts on how men view the female gender is all too relatable under any context.

It's another brilliant album from one of the genre's foremost artists.

There's a significant lack of depth to Within and Without.

To be fair, if it weren't for Lynch's lacklustre vocals and lyrics there might be a fairly solid collection of atmospheric retro rock 'n' roll here, but as it seems to be coming at the expense of his film career that's still not quite good enough.

These tracks are not enough to justify the second disc as anything more than marketing filler, so again, unless you've purchased the biggest, baddest, bank-breaking box set (complete with a replica of The Fly sunglasses), it would be smart to stick to the single-disc version.

Cox sounds comfortable and confident, and has made the best solo album of his prolific career.

It's yet another labor of love from The Weeknd, and it does not disappoint.

Humor Risk rhythmically shakes off the lingering sad sick and triggers back the talky, rambunctious oddments of wisdom we've come to know from him.

Up until Lulu, I didn't think it was possible to be both enamored and disgusted at the same time. Mind? Blown.

As it stands, the best that could be said about Ceremonials is that it's a pleasant enough listen that will change absolutely nobody's mind about Florence and her machine.

Shadow's production is wantonly flashy, but it can't mask his lack of flair.

The band's fourth album, Empros, seamlessly threads together a mire of unmitigated sonic emanations with a consciously utilized sensitivity to sound and beauty, crafting a less than monotonous or laborious listen.

Whereas those earlier songs brought to mind a stream of sunlight trying to break through a grayed sky, now there's a battering of haphazard lightning striking against a furious ocean.

That's Real Estate. The composition is flawless, but the feel is mellow and meandering, subdued and slight.

It's an in-the-moment album that's best when it's in the moment.