Once more riotous than riot grrrl, Luscious Jackson return as a welcome blast of old school New York grit, happily still brandishing their smouldering, idiosyncratic magic.

Overflowing with gnarled pop melodies and stuttering beats, Sweatbox Dynasty may be decidedly askew, but the manipulations and distortions simply add character to what is in fact a very listenable album.

Aureate Gloom continues in this vein but, while Sylvianbriar was Barnes’ most mellow offering yet, this album is more aggressive and troubled.

There’s nothing here as inventive as the ambient electro, hip-hop, psych, and string-orchestra versions made by the amateurs and semi-pros who embraced the project 18 months ago. There are, however, some very good takes indeed.

Hexadisc is, for the most part, a difficult listen that doesn’t really seem particularly groundbreaking.

It took several listens for the potions on Move Through The Dawn to take effect. ... Sometimes, slow burners provide the best flames.

These eight experimental tunes combine the old and the new, but funnel the former through the latter to such an extent there’s very little distinction between them. It’s an approach that’s much more successful on the shorter tracks here.

The works of a mature band with a confident mix of musical hooks, earworm choruses and a direct beat.

True, goofy lyrics are littered about, and the questionable Babble On seems a misfiring pot-shot at global religion/terrorism, but Subculture is a surprisingly potent cocktail: far more insightful and balanced than it might first get mistaken for.

The result is that each side cancels the other out, rendering it somewhat ineffective.

An album of adroitly chosen covers and something more. Poke around in its shadows and the songs often investigate the idea of putting on a front as a kind of catharsis, their ravaged depths trawled for high drama.

Acoustic At The Ryman is an unplugged album done right. A live record that’s not just for hardcore fans, it’s a must for all lovers of alt.country.

With just a couple of standout tracks, this isn’t earth-shattering stuff--but it will resonate with existing Warpaint admirers, introducing Lindberg’s intoxicating siren call and reminding of the unique potency of her pin-sharp bass playing.

While this is a project of inherently limited appeal, many of its 14 tracks certainly work better than one might otherwise expect.

The band’s writing and performance is so tight it’s actually become uptight and as one accessible masher follows another, Only Ghosts reveals itself to be regrettably one-dimensional.

They focus on the mundane without giving much life to it, leaving the songs hypnotic when they’re playing, but hard to remember when they’re not.

While not entirely lacking new ideas (the louche, second version of Infinite Content would make Wilco proud), Everything Now feels like a brainstorming idea with one too many executives in the boardroom.

The result, unsurprisingly, is a record that’s both maudlin and wistful.

While fans can rest assured that rampage is still on the menu, be prepared to well up, too.

Plenty for 80s collectors to appreciate, then, but this deserves a wider hearing.

Their legs haven't gone entirely, but this feels more weathered warhorse than Warhol. [Apr 2024, p.103]

Following austere lament Ruins is the album’s final track, Death of the Ego. Calmingly sparse, its dignified strums bring to a close an album of great sensitivity.

Particularly bad is For The Kids, which could come straight from an amateur production of High School Musical (complete with repellent husky spoken-word middle eight), while the just up-to-scratch Beck track, Time Wind, and his presence on the record as a whole, only really serves to illustrate how poor the songs now are.

The songs aren’t a huge departure from Folds’ regular style, with sweet melodies, vocal harmonies and lyrics that switch between the quirky and the emotional.

Words To The Blind doesn’t really stand for anything. Nor are its interludes or passages particularly interesting or exciting. Perhaps that’s the most Dada thing about it.

If you want to hear the emphasis of some of Callahan’s most satisfyingly minimalist lyrics shift slightly in this foreign landscape, this is a keeper. Otherwise, it’s merely a cool, respectful diversion that’s way better in practice than it looks on paper.

Over the 20 tracks spread over two discs, Steve lives every subtle nuance he wrings out of his voice or guitar. Now one of our most articulate links to a vanishing past, he deserves to be treasured.

As Light Return pushes The Telescopes’ sound to newer, often much darker places. It’s a bracing and occasionally totally disarming listen, but utterly compelling throughout.