At its best this album is innocuous. Don’t focus on the lyrics and it is palatable and will be Fleetwood enough to please some. At its worst it is the musical equivalent of trying to squeeze yourself into your favourite clothes of yesteryear: uncomfortable, unflattering and not worth the struggle.

An innovative release in the style of the recent Kate Bush and Tracey Thorn seasonal offerings, Snow Globe is a very welcome, wistful and idiosyncratic addition to the festive market.

Daniel Kessler’s guitar lines remain inventively distinctive, but a gentleness now exudes from Paul Banks’ voice, and his pseudo-absurdist lyrics consider that things might not be so bad after all.

Words surface out of the swirling maelstrom, an occult ritual within the architecture, another tone adding to mood, but always subservient to the texture, which sweeps from the muscular to the persuasively melodic.

In one sitting, Dudeblood might seem wilfully esoteric, with recording levels and musical styles as scattered as they’ll be in Sartain’s 45 box. But that’s always been his style, and it’s ultimately the greater part of his charm.

The album can probably be considered the most successful effort of the band’s current incarnation, with members Fenriz and Nocturno Culto balancing the visceral and organic spirit that has long defined their output with an increasingly considered (but never, ever polished) approach to songwriting.

Is This The Life We Really Want? is a stunning accomplishment, as rich as anything Waters has ever managed.

These are well-written, well-delivered songs. Look Up works because Ringo is being taken seriously. He is, of course, his own worst enemy at times, but Burnett won’t allow Ringo to stray too far into ‘personality’ songs. [Feb 2025, p.102]

Much more than The War Of The Worlds for indie kids, thoroughly recommended.

It all makes for a mouth-watering amalgam of rock, country and soul that gets richer with every listen. [Sep 2025, p.103]

A mixed (body) bag it may be, but Danse Macabre is a fiendishly fun collection that only the undead would remain unmoved by.

Beautiful as it sounds, Double Roses largely reminds you of other things without ever fully settling into itself. It’s deft and accomplished, but Elson has yet to fully bloom into her own talent.

Don't let the bubblegum lightness obscure her visionary talent. [May 2025, p.105]

Crisply produced by Glyn Johns, working with EC for the first time since Slowhand, the record proves a remarkably rewarding listen.

Anything But Words is the sound of two worlds colliding and finding a golden middle ground.

The pretence of mental struggle can be artifice too and Bugger Me might be nothing more worrying than an eccentric art project. Either way, it’s a fascinating glimpse into an unusual mind.

While this doesn’t mark a new beginning for the band, it nevertheless represents a step down a different path that they’ll hopefully continue to follow.

Neither classic comeback nor addled disaster, it's hopefully a stepping stone to again becoming a functioning exciting live act and more productive studio band. [Mar 2024, p.105]

Colors suffers for sacrificing personality for immediacy.

Some of the sisters’ rippling Kate Bush worship is so high up in the ether (or vocal register) that the listener feels a little queasy when glancing down to the ground below, but this nausea is only short-lived and sporadic. Most of the album is in fact rather comfy and well thought-out, lightly jazzy in places and often soaked in reverb seemingly inherited from Dead Can Dance.

Not since Space Ritual-era Hawkwind has anyone so successfully combined workboot riffing with the swirling bleeps of the unexplored cosmos. Honestly.

The overall sense of experimentation arguably makes Dizzy Heights Finn’s most surprising and accomplished release since Crowded House’s Together Alone, the work of confident tunesmith daring to stretch himself.

The record works best at its most direct and personal. [May 2025, p.103]

At times it's near pure pop--the slow, echoing Queen Of Hearts and the synth sensations of Honey while Superstar sees the voice soaring above an electronica rhythm. Self Love is a blistering guitar rocker while the near five-minute title track switches from balladry to boisterous roars. A fitting finale. [Mar 2024, p.103]

Though billed as a salute to Armstrong, Ske-Dat-De- Dat… could more accurately be described as a celebration of Crescent City, the magic and wonder of the burg embraced to the max on a gloriously heartwarming That’s My Home.

Young is classically trained, but beholden to the values of punk rock and for this collection he has decided to throw technical competence out of the window by basing each song around the strumming of a single chord. These tunes can thus, in theory, be covered by anyone within hours of picking up a guitar.

There’s now so little difference between an Oh Sees and a Damaged Bug record as for the two to be interchangeable. That’s certainly no bad thing, but not a new thing either. Perhaps Dwyer’s career is in stasis for once.

While ’Til Your River Runs Dry is unlikely to broaden his fan base to any large degree, longtime followers should be thrilled to find Burdon in such fine voice.