Across nine tracks both men stamp their respective identities on the album, with mutual admiration and respect echoing through every bar. The occasional Kinksian flourish sneaks through the speakers, most notably when Dave sounds uncannily like his elder sibling on King Of Diamonds, but in the main this is a generations-spanning love letter written in familial blood.

He breathily conjures up memories of the excellent recent Anohni album, and drops an ominous-sounding male voice choir into the mix for good measure. The industrial vibes are there in the rhythms, but softened immensely by clean Scandi strings. One to keep an eye on.

A hit/miss curio of a record. [Jan 2025, p.104]

These reinventions work best when Campbell's invention pushes Allison's gorgeous voice to the fore. [Sep 2025, p.103]

Praying at the church of Eighties pop and boingy synths - from Madonna to Tears For Fears - they add just enough heavy-ish rock detail to prevent it getting sickly-sweet, and the beaming bravado wins you over. [Feb 2026, p.101]

It’s certainly the best down-to-earth storytelling item to emerge in ages.

While not as refreshing as the previous album, it still feels on occasion as if multiple pop crossovers could theoretically beckon, especially the songs fronted by guest vocalists, including Molly Schnick of early 90s riot grrrls Raooul.

Alt-J’s retelling of this age-old tale of ill repute has less edge than a mesh sack of Babybel cheeses.

It rattles along at a fine old pace, awash with cheek and charm, and is genuinely touching on paean to lifelong friendships The Lads. [Mar 2024, p.103]

Without You, Death To The Lovers and We Are The Flames--showcase Skin’s still-gobsmacking voice and will be welcomed by fans of earlier, underrated heartstring- pluckers like Infidelity (Only You) from the 1996 album Stoosh. The rest of the album is much rowdier, powered by Cass Lewis’s immense, distorted bass and punk-indebted riffs from unsurnamed guitarist Ace.

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

That this is a good album should surprise no one; that she managed to make it at all is another matter.

With Bovell subjecting the nimble Pure Ones to his spacy, Channel One-esque trickery and City Of Eyes’ monster groove capable of electrifying the most torpid dancefloor, Honeymoon On Mars is never in danger of getting lost in space.

On the whole, it all helps to convey the peripatetic atmosphere that flows through these two dozen tunes. At the same time, it means the album feels less complete and whole than most ...Trail Of Dead records, but there are moments, such as closer Before The Swim, where it shines bold and bright.

Krieger still has an ear for organists, and moody interplay with Ed Roth, as on the track Samosas & Kingfishers, remains his comfort zone. More genteel than their name would suggest, The Savages are nonetheless consummate players, with textured grooves at their dexterous fingertips. [Mar 2024, p.104]

Musik, Die Schwer Zu Twerk rarely comes down from the krautrock klouds over the course of its 30-minute running time.

Grey’s skills are undeniable, but this feels too all-encompassing to pass muster as a perfectly rounded album.

[Shivers is] the only weak moment on an otherwise enjoyable release, it sounds phoney, purposely strung-out, as if self-consciously aping Neil Young’s wracked-out Tonight’s The Night.

Although multi-instrumentalist Scott Jacoby’s production reduces the wall of sound to a digital prism, the starker backdrops provide an unobtrusive frame for that towering voice which, while displaying some Marianne Faithfull-style gritty life experience, still sends vintage shivers on her respectful renditions of Sandie Shaw’s Girl Don’t Come, The Beatles’ I’ll Follow The Sun, Ray Davies’ Tired Of Waiting, Gerry Marsden’s Don’t let the Sun Catch You Crying and Lulu’s Oh Me Oh My (I’m A Fool For You Baby).

42 minutes of rewarding new music for those who still believe.

Fans of any of the artists involved will be satisfied.

Clearly, Bartos carries the romance and self-aware humour of the “classic” Kraftwerk in his genetic code: the sweet, buoyant, dignified and melodious Nachtfahrt and Hausmusik, for example, breathe the same rarefied European air which rendered The Man Machine and Trans-Europe Express such heady and immaculate touchstones.

A record that’s strongest when at its most unassuming.

Bloodlust is close to being a political metal manifesto of sorts, and a convincing one too--but the gangsta tropes have long outstayed their welcome.

Matador is a multi-part opus of gothic indie via The Stranglers in smacked-out mode, and Walking Home’s classic early 60s feel is enhanced by a splendid end-of-the-pier Hammond organ swell, before falling into wimoweh silliness.

An uninspiring audio fluff. Cruel, after having previously reached such satisfying heights.

A fantastic and powerful rock album, Idol’s return commands attention.