Hypercaffium Spazzin is a great collection of their trademark short and snappy songs.

Boy King is too one-dimensional to be effective. It’s as if the band have taken their sound to army college to beef it up, but in the process forgot all the books they’d read, the ugly facets that made them such interesting wallflowers.

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.

This time round Walker has brought influences from his native Chicago scene to the forefront of his music, loosening up and expanding his sound with frankly blinding results.

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

He has certainly struck gold. This is out-and-out the best pop release so far this year.

In My Hour is a gorgeous prayer with gently plucked violin, and there are gospel and jazz tinges too, with rock adding bite to tracks like Lorelei. Indeed, one could wish for a little more of the latter, and some songs do sag a little under their own weight, but generally speaking, Carolina is a lovely thing.

Bismillah and Karam add gentle layers of spiritual jazz and afrobeat to the mix. Best though are the tracks which plot a less quiet path; Indefinite Leave To Remain begins with intermittent, raindrop-like piano flourishes over recorded vocal snatches before guitar and drums build into a monsoon-like barrage.

The arrangements for all 11 songs are exquisite; much has been said about the proliferation of vintage echo and reverb machines used during recordings but much more central is the orchestration and use of instruments, with Tom Moth’s diaphanous but pulsating harp particularly notable.

This is a remarkably confident, intimate and rocking debut. Grunge fans need not necessarily apply.

Konnichiwa isn’t just the sound of young Britain, but a bar-raising example of just how creative UK music can be.

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

On this latest effort, Edwards conjures echoes of various esteemed mongers of sweet-melodied sadness but never manages to equal their miserable majesty. At the same time, he fails to stamp much of his own individuality on the collection.

Fellow musos will stroke their beards over this uncompromising pop compromise and devotees of the group’s collaborators will dig it up as a surprising bit of deep catalogue.

After the lengthy wait, at over 20 tracks and about an hour long, Wildflower doesn’t skimp on quantity even if it does resemble a pent-up outpouring of everything The Avalanches have completed (or at least legally cleared), rather than a meticulously curated collection.

At times it’s like the aural equivalent of wandering round a sparsely-attended fairground; there are echoes of a pop melody drifting alongside an eerie waltz, or the frenzy of a whispered lyric that cuts through somehow, despite its subtlety.

There’s feisty attitude in abundance here but significantly, also substance and sincerity behind the rhetoric. Sensational stuff.

In between more scattered wibblings, (sometimes overly) damaged yet lush textures abound on this long but often rather good and shoegazing-influenced record, the vocalist’s true worth finally being illustrated on the naked Purpose (Is No Country).

Spring King might have plenty of bangers, but they should switch up their MO more often.

It’s more of a reaffirmation of what Plaid have always been--dancing between the clever and the clever-clever, always remembering that you need to have gone clubbing to enjoy any post-club chill out.

There are a couple of tracks that veer rather too close for comfort to boy band and eurovision territory, but for the most part, assuming you like the better end of synth-pop, you won’t be disappointed.

Post Plague is stronger, more menacing and, as ever, on good terms with melody.

The results are messy, fascinating and frustrating all at once.

Her most assured album yet and one that will undoubtedly garner her some well-deserved attention.

These are not easy songs to sing, but Harvey, more than anyone, gets to the heart of darkness within even the most luscious Gainsbourg arrangement.

An appropriately joyful and celebratory eulogy.

The Colour In Anything is wall-to-wall longing for old flames and tales of relationships in freefall. It’s also infinitely beautiful; a meshing of gloomy piano and club-ready sounds that show Blake still can’t quite be pinned down.

It’s not all essential--Yellow Stone is a bit of instrumental filler, and you’ve heard everyday metal like Silvera far too many times already--but the high points are satisfyingly high.