Ultimately, it may not include anything that will endure as long as some of his Wings classics, let alone the Fabs’, but it’s a powerful and persuasive album from a man whose innate knack for melody is still firing.

The songs sound more muscular than on record, swollen by live strings; Cripple & The Starfish, from his debut, is a standout.

The luxurious strings are heavenly, while the twang of an electric guitar and understated drums push it gently forward. [Jan 2026, p.103]

Like all Los Lobos albums this owes little to anything else, the band single-mindedly going their own way--and getting away with an extraordinary collection.

The misty, murky sound he strives for, regardless of its influences or genre, works best when a voice or idea makes itself known clearly, and though those moments are few, their inclusion just about justifies the whole project.

The mixing of the waters, swirling around Merritt’s pure, soaring vocals, produces a record that’s elegant and intelligent, only country in the same way that Emmylou’s own later work (think Wrecking Ball) could be said to be.

Fleeting pleasures aside, the focus becomes wayward afterwards.

Lacking a common language (they were forced to communicate via sign language) the sessions--recorded in a garage on the outskirts of Lisbon--have nevertheless resulted in a winning hybrid of styles.

Bereft of freestyle ivory plonks, You’re Not Alone captures WK doing what he does best: that utterly distinctive fusion of metal riffs, Springsteen bombast, pristine ABBA hooks and choruses bigger than Hercules’ biceps.

The cumulative impact on Mother Of The Village and Take Me Home (featuring the Beaufort Male Choir) is potent: packing robust poignancy, these lullabies for working-class pride deep-mine history with great storytelling skill, sensitivity--and, pointedly, a kick of sustained political relevance.

Bardo Pond often shine brightest at their most long-form and Volume 8’s closing track is a case in point. The only conceivable criticism that could aimed at And I Will is that it winds down after just 17 short minutes.

He lends his delicate, soulful voice to just one track--a delightful cover of Paul Simon’s American Tune--and the rest of the time is heard on piano. There are several unaccompanied solo pieces, including his own composition, Delores Boyfriend, which is rendered in an ornate style that encapsulates the New Orleans sound.

Not every track is brilliant, but Petty’s intention to make a rock album has been realised for the most part.

A great record in short and well worth hunting out.

It crackles with a credible contemporary energy and parades a succession of brutally accessible would-be hits courtesy of Still Hurt, Insecurity and the soaring, Hüsker Dü-ish Tides.

The band doesn’t come off sounding as distinctive as Gane’s most praised ensemble, but there’s certainly potential in abundance.

There is perhaps a great album here. But amid this 17-track sprawl, it’s hard to find.

With its subtle and strange arrangements, Be Ok is a most engaging listen.

Beneath the noisy sludge and distorted mire of these six tracks there lives a gorgeous, golden majesty.

He writes songs that could be straight out of Allen Toussaint and Dr John’s repertoire. It’s intentional--both are touchstones for the cult hero, and he uses them well, conjuring his own sound from them.

Sing It High deserves investigation, and LITA do Tumbleweed more than justice, documenting a time when risks were actually backed, regardless of whether they paid off.

His latest set sees no let-up on the quality, yet feels a lot more home-made than 2015’s The Boombox Ballads.

Eight songs from an artist with 20 years of amazing in his back pocket is way too frugal, but as a proper introduction to Karl Blau, it’ll do for now. More please.

Their eighth studio LP, is fearsome stuff. Tracks like The Grind, Lung and A Slow Reaction display perfectly pitched aggression to fine effect but Unsane are at their best when they allow a circular groove to really take hold and lock down for the duration. Not all is quite as compelling--Distance and Avail feel rather leaden, but this remains a fierce listen.

The level of consistency remains high throughout a 14-track running order encompassing the belligerence of Evil Never Dies, and the title track, mid-tempo maulers (Lone Wolf) and epic closer Sea Of Red.

After a handful of stirring ballads set to create further communal festival experiences, Here Is Everything peaks with Magic, golden funk worthy of Odelay-era Beck. The album cover depicts singer Jules Jackson during her pregnancy: her band have given birth to something magical here.

The voice charms at every turn, brimming with personality on what might just be the party album of the year.

Veering between raw intimacy and a suffocating world-weary sigh, O'Brien mostly gets the balance right. [Jun 2024, p.103]