St Germain conjures up rich and atmospheric landscapes equal to Navarre's earlier work. They're different from where we last left him, but they still seem to find him right at home.

The spirit of the concept is dazzlingly portrayed at times, but the LP also conveys the emptiness of these things, the true idea of a "new pleasure"—everything we want, though not always enough of what we need. But it's great while it lasts.

Salton Sea feels engineered for eminent listenability.

It's something more functional, familiar and safe.

Brute's most interesting flourishes are all surface-level. Take them away and you're left with Al Qadiri reusing the same musical ideas.

Ultimately, Tears In The Club could have been a nearly flawless six-track EP--though the filler doesn't detract from the more noteworthy tunes on here, it doesn't really contribute either.

Without its academic trappings, Projections starts to grate, with its middle-of-the-road niceness and mood of tepid celebration. With them, it's borderline offensive.

"Napoletana" got the Project Pablo ear for melody and signature sweet mood, but the sonics are pristine, every lead flourish and bassline wiggle perfectly placed. Elsewhere the mood deepens, and Project Pablo flavours his melodic groovers with rich atmosphere.

Live manipulation gives In Situ its textures, as Halo hardly lets a few bars go by without tweaking rhythmic elements, introducing new sonics or briefly leaning on an effect. The movements are unpredictable but never distracting or overwhelming.

Serious and focused but also enormously fun, it represents the late flowering of a distinctive, accomplished talent.

Providence marks a muscular new path for Fake, but he sounds as singular as always.

With a relatively small number of building blocks, Acre has built an album that feels varied, showcases a range of emotion and, most importantly, feels whole.

The State Between Us does, at times, attain a depth of its own, particularly when it's dealing in the sadness of separation Brexit engenders in roughly half of the population. But at other points it just seems to be saying, "Ooh, aren't we quirky?!"

It's unclear if Elements of Light represents an evolutionary mark for the producer or a one-off exercise inspired by a summer's day in Oslo, but as an effort at minimalism, it's a modest success at best.

Bridging that pop-underground divide has always been what makes Gou an interesting artist, but on I Hear You, she can't seem to veer from the middle of the road.

No Lube is an impressively literate expansion of Peaches' sonic universe and stands in stark contrast to the one-note tonality of their previous work.

If you come to Foals from an exclusively indie rock perspective, this may blow your tiny mind. But if this is Foals' attempt to infiltrate clubland proper, it falls short.

Their lush synth textures are a few tints darker and their songwriting is a whole lot tighter.

The twists and turns can be compelling, but they make The Catastrophist feel somewhat lopsided, with scattered ideas too disparate to congeal as a cohesive listen.

Most of The Triad lacks darkness or tension, which results in a lack of depth and contrast.

Days Gone By focuses on the band's smoky, bedroom-ready style. It's only half the story, but it's still a pretty good one.

It's a rare example of him writing and singing lyrics, and it's endearingly youthful.

Butler's troupe have always been unique--a dance floor-friendly manifestation of the dissenting, politicised queer underground--but now they're making transcendent music again, too.

Love Letters is more mature, doleful and disconnected from club trends.

And while there's no percussion in any conventional sense, the likes of "Uptown Psychedelia" jerk manically to their own spasmodic rhythms. Yet where those tracks are marked by an almost feverish nervous tension, from "Racist Drone" onwards Hecker and Lopatin seem to drift into an almost tranquilised state-one which strays closer to ambient clichés.

Where Ufabulum felt like a garish souvenir from the performance built around it, Damogen Furies is more substantial and self-contained.

Clarke sounds reinvigorated here. It's clear he feels he has nothing to prove to anyone but himself.

The tracks that feel like direct tributes to older, better tunes tend to fare better than the majority of the album, which is hugely sentimental but never sufficiently sharpens its edges to counteract all that mush.

The complexities of romance, alcohol dependence, the fragility of life and untimely death weave in and out of intricate arrangements of manipulated vocals and bold melodies.

While that pop sense is here yet again on THEE PHYSICAL, the difference on this album is that it feels written, large empty structures playing host to actual songs.

As with all of Copeland's records, surprising angles and intriguing touches are strewn throughout. But this is also an incredibly fun record, which is enough reason to play it over and over.

Instead of building on the momentum of her songwriting career, Still pulls her back into her comfort zone, with promising hints of something new waiting in the spaces between.

Born In The Echoes follows the duo's formula of saving the more psychedelic tracks for the end.

It's the "electronic music" aspect of Strange Passion that's most fascinating.

As strong as Dillon's songs are, the idea that there are some missed opportunities here can't help but nag at even its strongest moments.

Equal parts rock, hip-hop and experimental, it's one of the most interesting records of the year thus far.

Rinse Presents: Brackles is a cohesive, singular statement that finds his sound truly rising to the occasion.

The album stays reasonably well-balanced throughout, straddling that fine line between understatement and being sledgehammer-esque obvious.

Stones and Woods is a frustrating body of work, with good ideas poorly realised and arresting moments interrupted by annoying ones.

The appeal of this LP lies in the adroit splicing of this aesthetic with that of dance floor techno, a combination which has the potential to be horrifically stale, sterile, smug—but ends up being anything but.

Waverly is constant and consistent in its crossing between a less exotic Dead Can Dance and a more lo-fi Fever Ray, which is certainly a captivating enough blend for a debut album.

Where their first album felt like a definitive statement, Natural Selection sounds, as so many second albums do, like a diffuse bunch of half-realised ideas.

No Sounds Are Out Of Bounds, with its stylistic and thematic missteps, too often shakes us out of this trademark groove.

With a couple of cuts hovering around ten minutes, the album requires patience but remains accessible.

Even with so few words uttered, it's a vital entry in a vast discography that constantly seeks answers, building spiritual strength along the way.

Even in the depths of despair she still managed to turn out something that feels lush and enticing. DREAMER is one of those albums people revisit for all kinds of reasons, whether they're sitting drinking wine with friends or out on a walk in need of a good cry.

On Turn Blue you can tell the duo remain integral and solidly at the core, new influences or not.

In the style of Arthur Russell, Tophat uses studio trickery to weave contrasting material into dreamlike narratives. Programmed drums morph fluidly into live ones, while samples and voices circle each other like planets in unpredictable orbit.

There's a nagging feeling that the project uses such a vast grab-bag of references to mask a lack of clear, foundational ideas. That could be slightly unfair though. Moffa and Troxler wouldn't be the first artists to take up residence in a maze of their influences, and as muddled as things appear at times, on Lost Souls Of Saturn they do some pretty striking work.

So short and concentrated, the album feels like a style exercise rather than a major work, but it nonetheless finds Cutler refining his skills and presenting the best version of his 1992-via-2020 approach yet.

The album gets off to a rough start with "Don't Leave Me Like This," whose poppy melancholy could be better appreciated if Bobby Raps's vocals weren't distorted to an infuriating chipmunk pitch. ... But on tracks like "Way Back," Moore shines, and his knack for earworm melodies, genre mashups and collaboration comes through.

His music appears to be the stuff of mid-morning TV interludes and inconsequential memories, yet it ends up plumbing great depths.

The album is incredibly rich from beginning to end, and totally unpredictable.

Listening to the album feels like opening a time capsule to the early and mid-10s, a period marked by a cheesy, over-the-top hedonism that might only be truly understood if you survived the Great Recession and saw Obama become president twice. ... It's easier to get behind Quest For Fire when Moore's dubstep influences are subtler.

This is a record that Biosphere fans will enjoy losing themselves in. Like the Wolski forest and its ghosts, Departed Glories brings you far into its unknown expanse, never showing you a way out.

It's a record that balances the hardcore continuum with emotion as she turns out club tunes touched by vulnerability.

Most tracks have a near-total lack of reverb that suffocates sentimentality without starving the record of atmosphere. As a listening experience, it's like pushing on a bleeding gum: knotty and perversely satisfying.

All That Must Be is a smooth journey from start to finish, but it too often feels familiar. In spite of a new cast of collaborators, little about the LP improves on its predecessor. What sounded unique from FitzGerald three years ago isn't quite as satisfying this time around.

It's like listening to the sea, before the strings slip in and out of tune like crashing waves. The beauty that emerges throughout the record requires patience to be appreciated in full and—to Frahm's credit—when it arrives, it's worth the wait.

Ghettoville doesn't sound like the work of a producer who's no longer able to make wondrous music; there's enough craft and intention here to suggest that, for whatever reason, he just didn't this time.

The album is quite possibly his most stirring and accomplished work to date.

At over three hours of half-lidded drone and ambient, Rainbow Mirror is one of the quietest Prurient albums, yet also one of the most demanding.

There are moments of hymnal beauty, but it's unmoored from the hardcore nostalgia of Bevan's most affecting music. The context for Young Death / Nightmarket is harder to grasp, and before you know it, it drifts away.

The first new Plastikman material in over ten years was always going to carry some high expectations, and as solid as it is, this one doesn't quite match up.

[Amphis (Reprise) is] a quiet, almost reverent close to an album that further refines the disorienting beauty we've come to expect from Luke Abbott.

The result is one of the most emotionally powerful synth albums in a time where they seem absolutely dime a dozen.

Tthe album as a whole is a step forward for Blunt. Though the music isn't his most gripping, he's never achieved such a powerful synthesis of sound, concept and character.

In the hands of artists as confident and unflinching as these three, the scope for discovery and growth becomes infinite. The darkest of gems.

For fans of Ø, or anyone keen on abstract, contemplative electronic music, this is a fine release with more than a few fantastic moments.

Approach the album with the same unhurried attitude as its creators, though, and you'll find moments to savour.

Speeed finds transcendence in loudness and distortion, making noise not so much to express frustration as to heal.

It is the very overfamiliarity with those same [80's] tropes that makes TRST an ultimately unsurprising, par for the course listen.

On first pass, A Minor Thought might sound like another Smallville record with all the expected tropes; listen more carefully and you'll hear a world of subtle tweaks and improvements. It's a beautiful illustration of the label's sound, a warm and welcoming style of house where predictability is a strength instead of a weakness.

There's nothing blank, or bland for that matter, about it.

It's an album of gorgeous sounds and textures that prefer to lay in the dark and be discovered rather than assert themselves.

They've become powerful songwriters since they focused on the craft in 2010, and Foam Island shows it off more than anything else.

An elegant, heartbroken album that wraps its dance floor influence in thick pop overtones.

As ever, there are great songs here, underpinned by sharp, imaginative production.... The problem is that Lidell doesn't go far enough.

Wonder Where We Land pads its vocal tracks with plush instrumentals, morsels of melody that would have been strong points if they weren't so half-baked.

The Predicting Machine sounds more like a homage to various styles, from the naive, exploratory ambient works of Radioactivity-era Kraftwerk ("Radio Channel"), to the whimsical homespun techno of label-mate Superpitcher ("Orbiter").

Dreams isn't flawless--the alt-folk ballad "United," for one, meanders a bit too much--but WhoMadeWho's best tracks are incredible.

while it's not perfect, Les Fleurs Du Mal is a brave leap into the dark, a place so suffocating, black and unknown that it bears revisiting just to see what you might encounter on your next descent.

Amidst all the flying debris and heart-stopping drama you have the most cohesive and powerful single statement from Terror Danjah yet.

Dear's latest, the four-track Headcage EP, finds the New Yorker continuing to explore what it might mean for him to be a pop star, even going so far as to bring in some outside help on the production end.

Where the artist's past work used abstract sound as a conceptual approach to trans identity, the choice to embrace lyricism makes Death Becomes Her a more fun and digestible listen.

As a whole, the music is warm and pleasant, even occasionally gorgeous, but it feels a bit bloodless.

Rapping with Paul White combines a series of moods and ideas and ties them together with quirky skits and a varied palate of samples, all with the charm we've grown to expect from White.

Such interventions, like the coughing fit that concludes "Brutal," are vital in the fabric of The Redeemer, which feels part art installation, part cri de coeur, but all true--further reason to believe the Hype.

There are few surprises here, but much of it is enjoyable.

Copeland is an accomplished collage artist adept at combining the highbrow and the trashy, but when the individual bits are laid out on their own they can seem a bit throwaway.

Remember... feels cohesive in a way that has eluded Fernow through the rest of his work as Vatican Shadow, and signals a new frontier for the producer that's as promising as it is grim.

A little less effects-led ebb and flow (and a touch more structure) might have made Square One more vibrant. The album's absorbing collection of mood pieces, though, are rewarding and evocative enough to make it worth your while.

The album certainly isn't a waste of time, but most disappointing is that it lacks an intensity and message.

A somewhat stunted, companion piece to their debut, all the more frustrating for their lack of real development.

Byen could use more of Torske's signature sense of chaos. Listen to this one when it's time to unwind. Save the others for when you really want to visit space.

Fabriclive 100 is without a doubt an inspired effort, an ambitious and highly creative attempt at capturing its selectors' musical lineage. But it's also a bit of a mess. It feels like the wild second-to-last draft of a creative project.

It's nice indeed, but it may leave you craving something a little stronger.

For an artist so intent on self-mythologizing--with his grand pronouncements, rare interviews and mask-wearing anonymity--With Love feels like a surprisingly comprehensive piece of work. But it's still a rambling outpouring of quick-fire songs.