Brasher, younger-sounding than the band’s previous records, but with the hard-won wisdom that experrience brings.

Take your cues from Twin Peaks and find solace in their best effort yet.

Though it falls some way short of the arid, acid-fried surreality of their key early releases Meat Puppets II and Up On The Sun, their 14th studio set, Rat Farm, is one of their better post-millennial efforts.

Singer’s Grave works as a great record in its own right and--perhaps surprisingly, considering its gestation--could be the best starting point for those yet to explore his work.

While Steve’s fingerprints continue to leave a few smudges, six albums in, Justin looks like he’s better equipped than ever to step out of the shadow--and he’s apparently done so by exorcising a few ghosts.

It’s an absorbing, plaintive record that gets under your skin.

Hayman’s lyrics, vocals and musicianship add up to a frequently touching whole. One wonders though if the presence of others has previously helped smooth out any little wrinkles.

It’s infused with enough rhythmical disturbances and difficult time signatures that it ends up straying far from that path. It’s still full of joy and wonder, but there’s an extra element of wilful confusion. While it makes these songs less accessible at first, in the long run, if you stick with it, it actually adds to their clout.

Some tracks don’t develop as much as you might hope, and as a whole The Deaner Album is a bit of a mixed bag, albeit with some winning flavours.

So, while this represents not exactly business as usual, but definitely still in the office, it does mean Dead Meadow have managed to sustain their identity for over two decades now--comfortably their longest, sludgiest achievement to date.

Standards Vol IV will get deserved airplay thanks to its electronic take on classic pop (from Bacharach and The Beach Boys to early Harry Nilsson) but hidden in all that sunshine and heartache is a progression from a sound that once so defined them. Standard? Above standard, more like.

The opening Angel’s cavernous bass is a clarion call for Sisters Of Mercy fans pining new material, yet Sickly Sweet and Dream Of Me are simple, spiky pop made distinctive by Julie Dawson’s slow-build guitars. As singer, Dawson channels a quiet despair in the more vulnerable Nosebleed, but it’s the defiant full-throated charge elsewhere that’s likely to see NewDad emerge as festival favourites.

Holy Island is a magnificent opening statement and the mind boggles as to where they might venture next. [Christmas 2025, p.135]

Adamson's score is suitably eclectic, reflecting both his mastery of film scoring as well as the broad range of content that once thrilled London audiences. [Jan 2026, p.100]

Hardwired is a slightly less gripping version of the same, as is Moth Into Flame. There’s some sweet doom in the form of Dream No More, an obvious Sabbath homage, and a nod to their late mentor Lemmy with Murder One. In between, we’re treated to a lot of mid-tempo plodding.

It’s garage rock by numbers and sounds like it took as long to write as it does to listen to.

Through its folksy acoustic front, Vol 1 brims with passion.

Nobody particularly wants the descriptor "mature" to be slapped on their work, but it applies perfectly here. [Nov 2025, p.102]

So they’re not reinventing the wheel, but Willie and Merle are comfortable in their own company.

A no-frills, 10-track set that’s almost permanently cranked to the max.

This new compilation focuses on projects she released under her own name plus sundry collaborations, remixes and assorted feature spots. Above all else, this 34-track assemblage highlights the fact that Thorn’s trajectory has been an unpredictable and surprising one.

The more you add of yourself, the more of the classic song you risk losing, and this is emphatically homage, not reinvention. Diehard Hitchcock fans – are there any other kind? – will nevertheless devour. [Nov 2024, p.100]

A mixed bag, but when they’re good, they’re great.

Hyped as the final batch of unissued material assembled during his lifetime, like most mythical artefacts, the reality proves a little disappointing. Not that there isn’t decent stuff to enjoy here. The Introduction and the Gary Numan-sampling Trucks are both capable head-nodders while The Ex features prime production work by Pete Rock and a brilliant vocal turn by Bilal.

Rarely breaking into the kind of wryly humourous abandon at which she excels (Twix is the closest anything gets to Music Hole or Ilo Veyou territory), the results are hypnotic, if arguably more short-lived than previous efforts.

The cumulative effect is one of a dizzy America, and one that would make even less sense if ever unpicked. Much like the Americana of McCombs; gloriously messy.

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

The rebounding sounds that dominate Undying Color have a cumulative effect, and form a kind of aural mist within which the listener can get lost. Charming.