Despite its noir inflections, it’s a lighter, at times impish, and vibrantly melodic, album. Wherever it takes us, we’re likely to enjoy the ride.

Architecture Of Language manages to redeem itself with its final disc, Architectural Salvage. Though an apparently randomly sequenced grab-bag of rarities and outtakes, it’s actually a pleasantly consistent experience.

Much of it, admittedly, treads familiar, fanbase-appeasing ground, though the beautifully-crafted, Jeff Lynne-esque Losing It has broader mainstream potential and even the uninitiated are advised to heed the title of the atypically graceful, string-kissed Come And Listen.

For connoisseurs of the form, there is so much to recommend, from previously unreleased, grime-caked demos (including Street Walking Woman by The Phoenix and Trust by Hellmet) to ringers that somehow managed to claw their way into the light of mass acceptance (Race With The Devil by The Gun, Gypsy by Uriah Heep).

While Dâm-Funk’s singles and albums have established him as funk’s most forward thinking artist, his DJ sets have concentrated on classic 80s boogie gems. His entry into DJ Kick’s long-running mix series is less rigidly formatted.

Bamboo Diner Rag is a gentle, almost jolly piece of contrapuntal country picking, while Hot Little Hand doffs its cap towards Muscle Shoals.

Rooted in funk grooves and infused with squelchy and crackling electronic textures, their compositions flow in and out of krautrock, afrobeat, art rock and desert rock.

A lot of the morsels are unremittingly 80s in flavour, which leaves them divided into sassy material that still works, a few oddments, and a significant minority that are almost unpalatable, and which could probably be dated down to the day they were recorded, they’re so of their time.

Angular but well-rounded; Pere Ubu remain as paradoxical as ever.

Phillips’ melodies are solid and simplistically accessible, never swamping the lyric’s articulate message; protest songs have rarely been so polite in their persuasiveness.

Chris Illingworth’s glistening piano is glacial yet strong and majestic, elegantly floating above the turbulence created by Nick Blacka’s throbbing bass and Rob Turner’s kinetic, febrile drums.

It’s typical of Merchant’s trademark lyrical articulacy, her passion and poetic vocabulary illustrating how she remains powerfully evocative writer over a 40-year career peppered with high watermarks.

The mix of glinting guitars and sing-song vocals can risk evaporating, but there's plenty here to beguile and charm. [Jun 2024, p.101]

If Common himself has never quite made it into such rarefied company [Prince, Biggie, Maya Angelou, Martin Luther King, Jr.], the album acknowledges that dependability is a desirable asset in turbulent times. [Oct 2024, p.100]

It captures her on spine tinging versions of 60s mod club favourites. [Dec 2024, p.90]

Campbell'n'Lanegan-ish duet Driving Nowhere (with Pat Dam Smyth) could use more tension, but the guitar spiked likes of Daily Rituals and Ceremony sow determination and fortitude. [Dec 2024, p.109]

There's no slouches on this exquisite release. [Jun 2025, p.105]

The abstract industrial textures complement tastefully and spookily rather than overwhelm in confrontational fashion. [Jun 2025, p.103]

The ballads are less effective at keeping Thomson's troubles on track, with six-minute closer Go All The Way lacking a hook to justify its dramatics. But it's easy to root for a band plainly so committed to aiming for grandeur. [Jul 2025, p.103]

Musically, it is akin to a stack of chairs balanced precariously on a tightrope. [Aug 2025, p.105]

While the album (understandably) feels fragile in spots - Furman's falsetto vocals in particular exude sensitivity - Goodbye Small head bolsters its serious subject matter with sturdy, gorgeous musical statements. [Aug 2025, p.103]

Barnes and a cast of collaborators rebuild tracks powerfully and atmospherically using free jazz, hip hop, drone, acid funk, breakbeat and ghetto house, Barnes using a mix of rapping, sprechgesang and soulful falsetto, to create a powerfully atmospheric album. [Aug 2025, p.103]

It's a metaphor for absence, loneliness and disconnection, which Harding explores via eleven songs whose retro soul feel is enhanced by Steve Hackman's lavishly elegant string arrangements. [Oct 2025, p.131]

The result is low-key and likeable. [Dec 2025, p.101]

They unleash 12 songs driven by earnest vocals, fuzz-tinged riffs and steady grooves. If there's a quibble, Selling A Vibe is often cohesive to the point of being monotonous. [Jan 2026, p.101]

They whack the volume up to 11 million, and warp familiar songs with a blend of manic posturing and slick postering. [Mar 2026, p.105]

Great stuff. [Mar 2026, p.105]

This is their finest work to date.

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds release a live album recorded for the radio station in an intimate venue. It must have been something for the lucky few present, but this document doesn’t quite do the job.

A fraught album that reaches out furiously for release, forming a push-pull of pressure and release around the band’s defining attributes: Tucker’s tumultuous vocals and Brownstein’s livid guitar.

Certain tracks are closer to the power ballad moments of Skunk Anansie. Spellling's vocal skills remain impressive as ever. [Apr 2025, p.103]

With all those components in place, the results could have been properly astonishing, instead of only admirable.

In the absence of a live album, these re-recordings with a band including son-of- John Cody offer loving snapshots of Carpenter’s reckoning with his track record, here covering the years between 1974’s goofy Dark Star and 1998’s macho Vampires.

A solidly satisfying set.

The Colour In Anything is wall-to-wall longing for old flames and tales of relationships in freefall. It’s also infinitely beautiful; a meshing of gloomy piano and club-ready sounds that show Blake still can’t quite be pinned down.

Previous looks to companionship and melody as bulwarks, from Talk To Me Talk To Me’s “ecstasy of company” to Come On Home’s buoyant spritz and A World Without You’s show of constancy.

The more the album continues, the more these become influences absorbed and owned, the sound of a band not so much reinventing as realigning themselves. [Apr 2024, p.100]

They have that whole male/female duality down to a tee as well. It’s just that a few more sonic peaks and troughs wouldn’t go amiss.

Liam inhabits a range of oddball characters throughout, making it tricky to determine which are closest to his real self, but that hardly seems to matter when the results are as dreamy and diverse as this.

Night Life is enigmatic, entertaining "dark" rock which will thrill those too young to be familiar with the work of Psychedelic Furs, Sisters of Mercy or Depeche Mode. [Apr 2025, p.102]

While not an explicitly political record, Omnion is nevertheless the right one for Butler and crew to have made in 2017.

Album highlight Cumbia De Donde, featuring Spanish guitarist Amparo Sanchez, is a goofy Mariachi riot that manages to incorporate odd, cartoonish electronic elements to great effect. The flipside is their increased tendency towards clichéd, characterless attempts at straight-down-the-line MOR.

It’s a real coming of age for them as their songs, emerging from woodshedding sessions with producer Richard Swift in a studio in Rodeo, New Mexico, are spontaneous, immediate and really hit home.

Pinballing between modern fright and fervent fight, I Can Feel You... exults in the thrill of self-determined discovery.

It’s a heartfelt, human and inspired way of celebrating Haggard’s work.

Far from instant, spectral in feel and altogether dark in tone, The Bride is a challenge--although one with glorious pay-offs. Fans expecting the poppier sheen of Daniel or What’s A Girl To Do? might be disappointed, its treasures lie just beneath its surface.

On the whole Ape is a chilled listen. It’s glorious that Banhart has found this high watermark plateau so far into his career, especially when you remember he was once in danger of becoming the one-time token hippy at the party.

If the album’s remainder veers from hit to ho-hum, the Death In Vegas-ish bass pulse and deep-immersion dream-techno of Me Swimming offer clear hits of hypnotic electronica.

The result is a bizarre, dark album that slowly builds and improves with extending listening.

To paraphrase just a touch, post-crash, necessity is very much the mother of inventiveness here. But out of that echoing vastness comes a gentle sense of melody that reveals itself, bit by bit, through repeated visits.

The radio-friendly gene appears to be lacking entirely from their approach, and as a result the album is among the most immersive listens in some time.

While Calexico have been bridging their influences and styles for long enough to be able to take risks, never letting an overriding mission statement cloud an album’s quality, here the foot is ever so slightly let off the gas, and the breathing space allows gems to be uncovered.

Anyone feeling the mildest desire to get on with their day may reach for the volume control and reduce the endless drone to background level – hardly the point of the exercise.

Ones And Sixes sees Low churning out some of their most accessible work, with What Part Of Me having the potential to be an unlikely hit. As ever, strong stuff in every way.

The Low Highway is an album brimming with characters, be they Earle himself, his collaborators, his fans or, just as importantly, the long roads he’s pounded all his adult life.

With nary a filler in sight, it’s an exquisite, richly evocative listen infused with the very smoke and steamy atmosphere of its natural nightclub habitat.

Unbelievably good and groundbreaking, even at a point in heavy metal history when every third band sounds more like Pink Floyd than Pantera.

The second half is a striking electronic makeover: the Baxter Dury-ish title track and the Prince-like S&M cosplay electro-strut of the sultry Goddess Rules are joltingly un-Dexys. If the premise is laid on a bit thick – Rowland never does things by halves – at least torch song My Submission is the most beautiful thing Dexys have ever done.

Shonna Tucker may have left the fold for a solo career, but in Hood and Cooley the Truckers still have two of the most eloquent songwriters working in Americana.

If the album takes fewer side roads than long-term fans may be used to, it also rewards repeat listening, revealing a little more each time. They may have covertly tucked their idiosyncrasies behind an accessible sound, but their unique vision remains.

The sounds are cosmic and enveloping, yet at times comedic, and full of joie de vivre. It’s fulsome, nattering with treble, and all quite similar, and is hence something of an assault course, but is a great reaffirmation that Yoshimi holds the keys to happiness, as viewed through a cracked mirror.

Despite the crossroads much of The Waterfall suggests, the band and their leader seem wholly, spiritually aligned--thrillingly so, in fact.

A matured yet playful execution, Kline takes the struggles of being a young woman in the modern world and transforms them into stripped-back offerings that--despite the scarcity of instrumentation and simple song structures--leave a strong impression.

There is nothing revolutionary about Cayamo but as an example of what world class performers can knock out on their holiday it can’t be beaten.

A sultry take on Burt Bacharach’s The Look Of Love, pitch-perfect version of Herbie Hancock’s Maiden Voyage and an emotive rendering of Ruby Andrews’ soul classic Casanova (Your Playing Days Are Over), are among the highlights on this welcome boon for lovers of high-grade instrumental funk.

Truth be told, Strange Peace’s series of succinct bludgeonings are more a case of ain’t-broke-don’t-fix and the appointment of likeminded racket fetishist Steve Albini as producer comes less as a surprise than foregone conclusion.

Jenny Lewis and The National’s Aaron Dessner guest this time out but to be honest, the spotlight is increasingly and deservedly Taylor’s alone to enjoy. Surrender now.

A 12-minute version of the album’s title track is more séance than song. ... Elsewhere, the audience’s enthusiastic response to the first few bars of Helpless is rewarded with a despairing deconstruction of the CSNY favourite, Nils Lofgren’s funereal accordion aiding the communal catharsis taking place onstage.

At times it’s like the aural equivalent of wandering round a sparsely-attended fairground; there are echoes of a pop melody drifting alongside an eerie waltz, or the frenzy of a whispered lyric that cuts through somehow, despite its subtlety.

Sad Clowns & Hillbillies is another sturdy set of bittersweet portraits viewed through melancholic eyes.

Brooks, though, stands out by dint of a nimble melodic touch, compositional sophistication and a broader historical frame of references. This makes From Out Here both satisfying and hard to pin down.

It’s a delightfully trippy treat that improves with each encounter and deserves to build on the success of Loveless--an aching ballad that, to these ears, likely had some genesis in the work of electronic pop pioneers Alphaville.

The generosity of the endeavour can’t be faulted: hours on end of largely unheard/unseen audio-visual content relating to the era encompassing A Momentary Lapse Of Reason, The Division Bell, Pulse and The Endless River, new 5.1 mixes, a 60-page photo book, replica tour programmes, two 7” singles featuring a Pulse tour rehearsal version of Lost For Words and the 2007 Syd Barrett tribute concert version of Arnold Layne… and, ye gods, even more.

Their seventh effort might start with short, low-key ballad Bluebird but that turns out to be a complete misnomer for an album chock-full of effervescent indie anthems and buoyant guitars. [Mar 2024, p.103]

The 25 tracks offered on Why Don't You Smile Now: Lou Reed at Pickwick Records 1964-1965 vary from lost gems, through proficient approximations of hit-makers like Phil Spector, to throwaway misfires. [Nov 2024, p.95]

Jamieson might be left with more questions than answers, but her talent for emotional incisions is beyond doubt. [Jan 2025, p.103]

His own trio take garage rock to new levels with the inane vocals, throbbing bass, crashing drums and screaming guitar of Sherlock.... [Christmas 2025, p.133]

Is often highly demanding yet repays the listener's commitment, revealing some fascinating, imaginative ideas. [May 2025, p.105]

While the concept may be suitably unhinged and the music boundary pushing, little of it ultimately sticks in the mind.

There’s no instant standout, but the album both withstands and repays repeated listening.

There’s nothing to dislike about their creeping dread, but it’s hard to engage with it.

While older and greyer, Les Savy Fav's fun, raucous and occasionally silly sound remains largely intact. [May 2024, p.103]

Mug Museum emerges as another low-key intelligent pop gem from Le Bon.

Much of the album refuses to stick, drifting from one similar-sounding song to another.

CATCS have matured during their absence, yet continue to burn with whatever inner flame drives Bonney and his rabid co-conspirators.

Despite the eclectic background material, it feels like a consolidation rather than a development.

It’s this feeling of moving on from traditional folk at the same time as she pays tasteful respect to what’s come before that marks Tricca apart from many of her more celebrated contemporaries.

His band’s music has a stylistic affinity with Glasper’s Black Radio albums, melding jazz, R&B, funk, hip-hop, and neo soul into an unclassifiable hybrid that dissolves musical barriers.

This 14th offering is less reunion comeback, more business as usual. It's an album which follows a similar blueprint to most of their others. [Dec 2025, p.101]

Send A Prayer My Way exceeds any expectations, no matter how lofty. [May 2025, p.102]

Bajas Fresh is an unapologetically chilled-out album for the horizontal of body and the expanded of mind. See you down the ashram.

Twenty five years into your career, Dear is proof that heavy not only still rocks, but that under your [Boris'] charge, it is unlikely to get boring.

Emotional Mugger might be the very first glimmer of repetition in Segall’s collector-boggling discography. Enjoyable, chaotic, but occasionally lumpen and familiar.

There’s not much more than half-an-hour of original material here, but there’s a quality to the stories in these songs.

Lovely touches of deep soul back up the outstanding Nothing Feels The Same Anymore (reminiscent of Phoebe Snow singing Sam Cooke), and there’s a percussive and piano-driven backdrop throughout that makes this Sexsmith’s most rhythmic disc.

The results, mixed by Foster, are a broken, heady collage of cracked reflection and ramshackle cabin confessional. Acoustic ballads such as Soy Un Hombre are draped in luminous opiated frazzle, while The Whores Above recalls the most melancholy Alex Chilton psyche-trawl, reaching a desolate low on funereal closer The Knife.

Close your eyes and you can easily forget this fella is 84. [May 2024, p.103]

Dirty Projectors have released their career highlight to date and already one of 2017’s best. Encore surely.