While much of the record has one foot in 70s AM radio, Friedberger’s past cannot help but ensure that there’s an inquisitive, often eccentric worldview at the heart of each of these songs.

Against the odds, it is worth the wait. .... The 12 new songs mostly recall the commercial peaks of Mind Bomb and Dusk, and there’s a comforting, analogue hum to the proceedings. A Johnny Marr-esque lick here, and a Bernard Herrmann horn stab there: all help create the warm, dusty sound instantly recognisable as The The.

These moonlit serenades and hand grenades are, as ever, ingenious. [Apr 2025, p.105]

It’s not that it’s a bad record--it is an enjoyable listen and is successful in achieving what it set out to do, namely to evoke the true sound and spirit of the London orbital world that claims bored teenagers, squaddies and suburban rebels as its own.

Earthling gives an uplifting sense of the creative energy shared between Eddie Vedder and his keenly empathetic collaborators, distilled into striking, memorable songs, and unified by a fresh, cohesive sound. On this evidence, it’s to be hoped the partnership forges ahead as the day jobs allow.

Ultimately, the highlights here are those where Deerhoof are left to their own devices, as on the perky pop of Con Sordino or Kokoye, a scintillating blast of garage rock that might just be the best thing they’ve put to tape in years.

Whatever’s ailing him, he cuts through the murk for his most confident, affecting and clear-sighted album yet here.

The signs were all there, even though Bowie briefly ignored them as he recorded the landmark Hunky Dory. But as The Width Of A Circle shows, everything he’d put in place would soon come around.

A collection encompassing wistful dreampop (Football), evocative indie (Gumshoe (Dracula From Arkansas) and delicate introspection (Beautiful Girl). [Apr 2025, p.105]

On the whole, Woods have produced an inviting, communal listen seemingly designed to soundtrack lazy summer afternoons.

Factory Floor have achieved a pure distillation of their live experience: this is as direct, exciting and thrillingly minimal a dance record as you’ll hear this year.

Whether you prefer him pensive or primal, his 20th solo album brings that big time.

LUH can write a spirited song, that’s for sure, but if you’re not ready, forget it.

The songs on Electric are given more opportunity to breathe and worm their way into our hearts.

A classic compilation of a well-kept-secret of a band.

While Vulnicura Live may not cut quite as deep as Vulnicura proper, rest assured that it is every bit as breathtaking.

2017 could be the perfect time for Alabama 3 to bust out of their long-surviving cult status. This is the LP to do it.

he Last Rider is yet another confident stride along that path, and anyone with a passion for smart and savvy grown-up pop is enthusiastically urged to follow him wherever it leads.

Yello (Glue Head), Cluster (Caramel) and even Factory label signatories Minny Pops (Son) also make the cut, but the most effective entries tend to be the unfriendliest ones: PIE (Versión) by Esplendor Geométrico, redolent of filthy concrete blast walls and quasar radiation; Sexual Discipline by Die Form, robot-blank and remorseless; and Krematorien by Universalanschluss, a strobing migraine of dots and squiggles.

While there are thematic similarities, There Is No Space For Us is sharper and more urgent than last year’s jazzy Stories From Time And Space. It has fewer songs. Half of these last around eight minutes, with multilayered instruments and effects galore, so nobody will feel shortchanged [May 2025, p.100]

Where they step into new territory is with Skin's restrained vocals and more electronic elements: whether you enjoy the ethereal synth of Shame and This Is Not Your Life will depend on your taste for stripped down beats and dark textures. [Jul 2025, p.105]

Although Holy Visions teeters on the wrong edge of mope-rock melodrama, it's an exception; otherwise, Silver Bleeds The Black Sun is a black-clad, clove-smoking triumph. [Dec 2025, p.100]

Things become a little more introspective later on, with acoustic guitars, abstract soundscapes and restrained percussive patterns taking the fore, but, thankfully, the material remains hypnotic throughout.

It’s not all essential--Yellow Stone is a bit of instrumental filler, and you’ve heard everyday metal like Silvera far too many times already--but the high points are satisfyingly high.

There are touches of My Morning Jacket in the vocals too, but in chief it is the already-mentioned artists who dominate Dolls Of Highland and if you’ve been missing them a lot, then this is an album not to be missed, filled with yearning and melody.

It all adds up to a bold celebration of difference that feels like an album made for these times of divisive unease.

Long-time Jacket-watchers might miss the wig-outs of their previous album, but the band’s range and power haven’t been compromised so much as integrated and harnessed. .... My Morning Jacket’s ongoing momentum feels earned and assured. [Mar 2025, p.102]

If the quality flags on Spanish Eyes or Girl Of Mine, that’s down to oversentimental material. And when the completed versions kick in with Raised On Rock, it ain’t hard to see why Elvis was still scoring hits amid glam, metal and Philly soul; class wins out.

Witness is the work of a singer equipping himself for the long haul.

Willowy, wiry, windswept, it’s a haunting, hardly immediate but certainly growing, collection of songs that speak from deep inside. Intriguing stuff.

Opener Fly On Your Wall is oddly reminiscent of the plodding, tense quality of some of John Lennon/ Plastic Ono Band – the bits where Ringo appears to be playing biscuit tins--that is, until Olsen’s soaraway, otherworldly vocals take it somewhere altogether more spectral. Special follows, a languid jam that could have easily slotted on to the last album.

It adds up to White’s most relatable – and accessible – record in some time.

I Know Where Mark Chen Lives and The Opossum, both of which race by in a blur of sawtooth guitars, spring-loaded basslines and earnest vocals. Yet there is dynamic range here, too. [Jan 2026, p.101]

Not Here Not Gone reaffirms Blackwater Holylight's status as metal elites. [Feb 2026, p.101]

The result is a record of many radiant treasures, inviting and rewarding maximum immersion. [Mar 2026, p.105]

Love Is Magic feels like three shredded albums spliced back together. But it’s nutritious, colourful and occasionally funeral-level mournful, an emotional pick’n’mix that, by its very nature, increasingly repays revisits.

While it’s churlish to accuse the young of veering towards the childish, the frustration from some of the outré moments on I, Gemini only comes as a result of the satisfaction derived from the more involved, accomplished half of the record.

COW makes massive gains from having been created quickly, much of the source material being recorded on the road, and the samples and titles provide pleasing echoes of the group’s earlier work. Despite the nostalgia, those samples manage to sound fresher than those of more recent projects.

Wherever you listen, these are some of the loveliest examples of Lytle's wryly empathetic story-songs yet, with widescreen closer Nothin' To Lose teasing at potential future attractions. Long may his wav roll. [Feb 2024, p.101]

Arguably not as good as his main act, it’s still a welcome addition from an otherwise “non-moonlighting” type.

The lyrical dimension jars a bit painfully with the generally highly serviceable blasts of clanging, paint-stripping, mildly experimental, and somewhat extended rock.

A fairly decent substitute for those who can’t snag tickets.

Community and self-realisation win out on Our Girl's sublime second album. [Dec 2024, p.108]

This isn't quite up there with his very best efforts, but it nevertheless includes some typically excellent (and poignant) reflections on human existence. [Apr 2025, p.102]

At every turn, the vocal powerhouse reminds us why her songs have connected on such a large scale. [Dec 2025, p.101]

An endearing compendium of styles, if perhaps lacking any real headline-grabbing tunes. [Feb 2026, p,101]

It's rock in the same way that Springsteen rocks, rollicking and without a preconceived direction. [Aug 2024, p.105]

Other highlights, such as the Ngoni-driven Kenia, the desert blues of Tu Voles and an atmospheric take on Nina Simone’s haunting lament Strange Fruit confirm that she is an artist still very much at the top of her game.

Moore’s followers will glory in the winding passages of guitars scratched, spiked, stroked and droned, now with the added bonus of fuzzy solos from latest axe accomplice James Sedwards.

The bulk of the previously unheard material mainly comprises Prince’s original versions of tunes he gave to other artists. .... D&P showed how Prince could still work his magic while operating in narrower artistic parameters. This wasn’t the grandiose vision of Purple Rain or Sign O’ The Times but rather revealed Prince operating in a new guise, as an artisan who was tuned into the pop and rap zeitgeist.

On (watch my moves), sticking to what he knows is all the fuel Vile needs for lift-off.

A pulsing electro cover of Floyd’s Have A Cigar might be an unexpected (though warming) surprise, but the closing quartet of Shadow Memory, Walk, Myriads and Only Lovers Left Alive sees Foxx and Benge simmering in exquisite fashion.

The first [half] sees Adams’ spectral vocals go up against a furious string section, while the second is reminiscent of Joanna Newsom’s work with Van Dyke Parks. It’s all interesting stuff--albeit with a predilection for the twee--but may be a little much for some listeners to take in one go.

After the more immediate pop-metal of Epicloud and Sky Blue, Transcendence is a spine-tingling return to something more substantial. Also managing to advance the DTP sound, the breadth and quality of the material is simply astonishing.

Lamdin and Fatty have created sympathetic backdrops for the Poets to declaim over: lightly jazz-tinged reggae grooves, dubby production flourishes, spacious arrangements that allow for the Poets’ words to take centre-stage.

The kids aren’t alright as decades get mashed; conspiracy theories and misanthropy, leavened with wit, abound. A fantastic record. You auteur hear this.

The result is an album that feels a long way from the ragged, Replacements-meets-Arcade-Fire alt.rock of The Stage Names or the sleep-deprived folk of Black Sheep Boy. The majority of Away sees Sheff’s winning wordplay married to a skewed take on classic country-rock.

While its beauty may be a bit abstract for some, Mother is intense without being dark or oppressive; timeless, a windswept, life-affirming work that makes more conventional music seem stale and staid by comparison.

His most cohesive effort yet.

From the very outset, songs scream with insane ambition.

As a unit, Eternally Even misfires every now and then, and the impact is integral to the structure of the whole.

Atlas sees a further distillation of their sound; where once appealingly fuzzy, guitars now chime with crystalline clarity.

Indeed, incessantly nattering samples are The Field’s trademark, as acquired a taste as a falsetto vocal or an electric bouzouki, the long pieces sometimes leaving you floating through the Land Of Nod and other times walking through treacle.

Another mix of sloppy slacker-pop, warped, indie jangles and insolent post-punk expressionism, Sunbathing Animal nevertheless feels more assured of itself than its acclaimed predecessor.

Though it’s short and sweet, the 10 tracks that make up Dury’s fifth album are cinematic in scope and yet laser focused.

Between the weather-worn blues reflections of Hard Times and the euphoric lift of closer Coalinga, the sense emerges of a band rediscovering their footing, a little saddle-sore but riding tall once more.

D'Addario’s melodic flair and virtuosity are on full, inviting display here. [Apr 2025, p.101]

The results are very pleasing indeed, from the mean faith-bating blues of Face Of God to the howling prairie wisdom of Wind Don’t Have To Hurry, the nononsense declaration of love, Marlene, to the hobo jazz of the title track.

The Stones are the Stones; a law and legend unto themselves, with nothing more to prove and no need to compete with the latest crop of young turks who covet the crown but know they’ll never wear it. Hackney Diamonds sparkles brightest when it touches base with bygone precious gems.

Quite possibly their most essential waxing since 1982’s irresistibly suave Eligible Bachelors.

Instead of the rich brass that embellished his band’s last album Familiars or the warm electronics of 2011’s Burst Apart, this is based around stripped-down guitar and hushed, sometimes mantra-like intonations, with plenty of space.

Sincerely captures the mood of our dislocated times with style and bite.

Can – The Singles is laid out logically and chronologically, and makes a convincing, consistent case for the accessibility of enigmatic, semi-abstract art rock when delivered in concise and chewable chunks.

If you like your house served tartare then this is an uncommon delight: 15 brutally raw tracks to smack, jack, bump, pump, pop and drop your way through.

The result is a fourth album that conveys Maus’ confounding persona with total confidence: sometimes silly, sometimes stentorian, it gives the impression of a man in full command of his off-piste forays, rendering it fascinating even as it befuddles.

It’s Yorkston’s most accomplished work yet and the best album by a British singer-songwriter so far this year.

Fun, the track which is most obviously Booker T, is ordinary, and Feel Good is so-so; Can’t Wait, despite Estelle’s distinctive vocal, suffers from gimmickry and is the track with the least of Mr Jones on it.... The rest of the album, in which the veteran meets current talent, is mostly great.

Those who fondly remember Goldfrapp’s early noughties primal glitterball electro-pop peak will thrill at Alison Goldfrapp’s debut solo effort.

Boy King is too one-dimensional to be effective. It’s as if the band have taken their sound to army college to beef it up, but in the process forgot all the books they’d read, the ugly facets that made them such interesting wallflowers.

Fifty years on and 50 tracks that never falter in their blistering energy and humour.

Change Becomes Us sounds almost like a lost fourth Harvest release.

There are elements of anti-folk here, too, but as deliberately unpolished as these songs are, Kempner and band ensure that her songwriting talents aren’t muddied or obscured by it. Rather, they add to its realness, making these songs all the more powerful.

Just like Iceage’s output however, Telling It Like It Is doesn’t always convince.

The tunes might be a bit basic, but there sure ain’t any hackneyed love songs here, even Come Over having more of the feel of faux-cute early White Stripes material than drippy radio fare. Garage rock’s not dead.

While Tangk may bring us a more compassionate, empathetic version of the band who seem to be trying to find something that resembles peace after years of tumult, they still haven’t quite lost their punk spirit.

While few would suggest that there’s material here rivalling Bowie’s 70s peak, there are more than enough elegant, standout moments. You may not exactly fall in love with it, but you’ll certainly strongly admire the work here.

The Swedish-Malawian duo of Johan Hugo and Esau Mwamwaya decamped to a rented house on the shores of Lake Malawi for album number three. That apposite choice of location has paid off with a warmer, more pointedly African sound as insects provide environmental chatter and local villagers add laughs, jokes and musical accompaniment.

If it is a mess, it’s a glorious one.

Chalice Hymnal is Grails’ kinkiest record to date but that doesn’t mean there ain’t an underlying poignant melancholy to their chameleonic offerings, just like that sadness behind the eyes of the man who’s been carnally distracted from fixing the kitchen appliance.

Nocturnal Koreans is a testament to their continued relevance.

FFS is actually exciting to listen to, which can’t be said that often these days.

The 90s revival starts here... maybe, but It Hugs Back is also a warm, fuzzy species all of its own, and well worth cozying up to.

It’s unlikely to have the impact of their career-defining Lights... Camera... Revolution, but it’s hardly a folly akin to a Chinese Democracy either.

Both as a protest against subjugation and an affirmation of Mali’s world class musical heritage, it’s hard to imagine a more eloquent and powerful riposte.

Certainly, Childish should never be making laptop beats or recruiting choirs from the DRC, but there might be a sense that his sound needs fresh vigour.

She has lost none of her power in the interim.

While labours of love are always hard to knock, if Godin is trying to convert untested ears to Bach’s charms, he might be better off using the more effective tools in his impressive arsenal.

What Mind Over Matter does exceptionally well is meld the playful and the cynical while always bringing it back to the songs--in both a lyrical and musical sense.