Konnichiwa isn’t just the sound of young Britain, but a bar-raising example of just how creative UK music can be.

As a whole it’s all rather wearing; it’s a space oddity that doesn’t quite have lift-off.

On this latest effort, Edwards conjures echoes of various esteemed mongers of sweet-melodied sadness but never manages to equal their miserable majesty. At the same time, he fails to stamp much of his own individuality on the collection.

Fellow musos will stroke their beards over this uncompromising pop compromise and devotees of the group’s collaborators will dig it up as a surprising bit of deep catalogue.

After the lengthy wait, at over 20 tracks and about an hour long, Wildflower doesn’t skimp on quantity even if it does resemble a pent-up outpouring of everything The Avalanches have completed (or at least legally cleared), rather than a meticulously curated collection.

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.

There’s feisty attitude in abundance here but significantly, also substance and sincerity behind the rhetoric. Sensational stuff.

In between more scattered wibblings, (sometimes overly) damaged yet lush textures abound on this long but often rather good and shoegazing-influenced record, the vocalist’s true worth finally being illustrated on the naked Purpose (Is No Country).

Spring King might have plenty of bangers, but they should switch up their MO more often.

It’s more of a reaffirmation of what Plaid have always been--dancing between the clever and the clever-clever, always remembering that you need to have gone clubbing to enjoy any post-club chill out.

There are a couple of tracks that veer rather too close for comfort to boy band and eurovision territory, but for the most part, assuming you like the better end of synth-pop, you won’t be disappointed.

Post Plague is stronger, more menacing and, as ever, on good terms with melody.

The results are messy, fascinating and frustrating all at once.

Her most assured album yet and one that will undoubtedly garner her some well-deserved attention.

These are not easy songs to sing, but Harvey, more than anyone, gets to the heart of darkness within even the most luscious Gainsbourg arrangement.

An appropriately joyful and celebratory eulogy.

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.

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.

While this is unlikely to achieve the same status [as their debut], it proves that these veterans are definitely not yet ready for the scrapheap.

Fun, typically subversive and largely memorable, Copeland’s latest work could be one of his most enduring, whether we were meant to hear it or not. Makes you wonder what else he’s got up his sleeve.

Ever-evolving they may be, but Satomi’s oddball pop songs are another band staple; this time they deliver the cutesy, punky, and thoroughly entertaining Nurse Me.

Earle’s slurring nonchalance and Colvin’s precise delivery are a joy as they weave around each other amid squealing harmonica and distorted, rocking guitars. The result is very much a band (rather than acoustic) album.

An aural pool party for anyone who digs the nu-Baleric compilations of Psychemagik and Too Slow To Disco.

Along with equally genre-transcending Ryley Walker and James Blackshaw, here is stunning proof that Tompkins Square have serious intentions beyond the reissue market. Watch this space, listen to Brigid Mae Power.

It may be a touch overlong and that relentlessly 80s production won’t be for everyone’s ears, but this is a triumph.

Occasionally you find yourself flinching at how closely Biffy Clyro have adhered to the uplifting radio-rock format.

It’ll be a shock to the system for Futureheads fanatics anticipating herky-jerky guitar pop, but with the distraught Monster Again, nakedly vulnerable Thunder Song and the graceful, elegiac titular song standing out; it makes for an intensely cathartic and wholly absorbing experience for listeners prepared to dump their preconceptions at the door.

Winningly, their wit is matched by a thrilling, fizzing set of noisy, melodic songs that ought to inspire utter devotion and soundtrack many, many summers of abandon and heartbreak.