Way more folk-ridden than Orc’s hysterical prog racket, this one’s soaked in acoustic guitars, lush strings, early-Bowie eccentricity and singing saws.

Thirty years on from its relief, in seeking a wider truth for contemporary times, NMA plumb paganism and tribalism with a powerful resonance.

All in all, a stellar mix of tracks, performed exquisitely and, in light of their split in 2011, now with added poignancy.

There are gloriously sunny melodies (Cali is a breezy masterpiece), near ambient drones (Integration Tape) and even a touch of politics on Home Is A Feeling. But it’s 100% a Ride record, and neither time nor current fashions can alter that. And nor should it.

Frontman Ellery Roberts remains elliptical of word and gravelly of voice, and even if their clear shot for profundity is not always matched by their sound - Letting Go sounds like a hipster take on Joshua Tree-era U2 - there is no doubt this is once again powerful, arresting stuff. [Jun 2026, p.103]

Not since The Smiths or Pulp had an indie band so keenly evoked and vivisected the spectacle of lubricious, learned masculinity at large. On this final hurrah, they sound like the last of a dying breed.

No one’s taking anything too seriously, but if this were a DVD it wouldn’t be a surprise to see Ry flashing the biggest grin in the room.

Producer Youth has described the record as Wobble’s “Miles Davis opus” and while that’s maybe a mite fanciful, it’s certainly a courageous contemporary fusion of afro-beat, jazz and polyrhythmic funk.

While heavier moments such as the scuzzy, stoner-grunge Heaven's Breath and the Nick Cave-esque gothic folk epic The Ox Driver's Song shine, the more straightforward folk/country tunes are pleasant but not distinctive enough to be memorable. [Christmas 2025, p.132]

The Canadian musician's addiction to discovering the new and unusual remains nothing less than compelling, although sometimes this results in truly great music (here that means Volume's dreamy house reinterpretation of MARRS' 1987 rave classic Pump Up The Volume, the albums standout) and other times the expansive sense of ambition doesn't achieve lift-off (such as Campfire's nebulous and hard to grasp electro-folk). [Dec 2024, p.106]

Presley is a powerhouse, prolific and ever changing. But as with all churn, sometimes unwanted bodies float to the surface. The Wink does not suffer from such issues, and with Le Bon’s help, Presley’s created something magically timeless.

Singer Julia Cummings’ saccharine vocals overpower as they search for meaning and purpose. Sadly, they end up being somewhat more tepid and irritating.

Producer Glyn Johns captures a laconic, organic vibe throughout, aided by such top-notch players as Ryan Adams, Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, on an album that oozes good taste and effortless class.

Some flattening elements that are hard to put your finger on lurk deep in the mix, below the whumping bass and the bewitching sax riffs. These perhaps include the aforementioned vocal treatments or the occasional use of other obviously studio-born effects.

One Day All Of This Won’t Matter Anymore is the perfect example of a band still moving forward, without losing themselves in the process.

Keery frequently channels synth-rockers The Cars (Link finds Keery doing his best Ben Orr impression, while Delete Ya is reminiscent of Ric Ocasek); ELO's crisp pop (Charlie's Garden); and Cake-meets-OK Go jauntiness (standout Basic Being Basic). [May 2025, p.103]

La Di Da Di comes across a tad too studied, never lifting out of the complex math of the group’s music.

Arguably, the album lacks a stand-out killer to take to radio but, by the same token, there’s hardly anything that could be described as filler; it’s a solid and confident collection from a veteran songstress who still has a lot to offer.

With the forensic detail one would expect from the Elvis reissue programme, Way Down In The Jungle Room is the most complete and comprehensive collection of Presley’s final studio recordings ever assembled in one anthology; and very necessary it is too.

Occasional MOR slumps aside, most of Resistance comes sharpened by the Manics’ innate extremes of intelligence and instinct, populist extroversion and prickly introspection, melody and over-stretched meter.

It’s her inability to comfortably fit into those convenient boxes that makes her so great.

Melancholy levels are high--but that’s a distraction, as beneath this motif is a wealth of songwriting nous that continues to set Mercer apart from his peers.

The collection is likely to be remembered as a curious transitional chapter rather than placed on a pedestal alongside 2006’s meisterwerk Drum’s Not Dead. Even at its patchiest though, the sound of Andrew re-finding his feet offers greater rewards than most groups’ fully realised records of derivative blues-rock mating calls.

10,000 Maniacs fans may yearn for the simpler music of old but, sad to say, given the effort involved, uncommitted listeners will simply shrug their shoulders.

Sébastien Tellier appears to have got his mojo back on his eighth studio album. [Feb 2026, p.103]

Despite its sheen and icy edge, the album proves that Dan Sartain is one of music’s great personalities; a little unhinged maybe, talented definitely, but never dull and never treading water.

Raw and unfiltered, Invitation oozes with the exuberant energy of an 18 year-old, but shines with their collective experience, delivering heavy strikes to both the head and heart in the process.

Half Japanese albums are like the proverbial buses, and this is their third album in as many years, after nothing for the previous decade-plus. Jad Fair’s art-punk outsider unit return with an album that reflects their early days while taking the Half Japanese story into a new chapter.