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.