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

As far as home-listening goes, Alpha is too inflexible to give a dynamic front-to-back experience. But that's not surprising: Alpha was made with DJs in mind. And on that level, the music has plenty to offer.

For Those Of You stands apart as a significant step up in Leeds' journey to carve out and master his own musical form.

Good pop is often pliable, its message broad or ambiguous enough for listeners to flex it to their taste. Political pop can be like this without compromising its message, but most of Hopelessness has no interest in pliability. It regards its audience as either fervent believers in Anohni's cause or a pop mass in need of blunt polemic.

The atmosphere is so consistent, the pacing so uniform, the sounds created with such a defined set of instrumental sources, that all the pieces blur into one.

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.

It's more about repetition than surprise, meditation than hyperactivity. Many tracks start slowly and quietly, and some hold entirely to that restraint.

2013's Half Of Where You Live was largely built around recordings made while traveling the world, including Japan, so what's unique about Good Luck is how it sounds less like a specific place than a flurry of memories made there.

That final third of DJ-Kicks might not be its strongest section but it no less feels like the most emblematic of Riddick's timeless appeal--connecting funk's past, present and future with an unbreakable thread of authenticity and positivity.

Elasticity rewards repeat listens from start to finish.

Folding Time sounds so manicured and lovely that it's hard to find fault with its production value. If the album has a problem, it's that it makes a lateral move rather than a forward one.

Recorded in one take, fabric 87 captures the peak-time spirit of fabric's Room 2, and showcases exclusive edits from the DJ and remixes of currently boxfresh tracks like "Lolly Pop" by Reset Robot. So it's a shame that the mix runs out of energy before the end, pulling the knockout blow it should have had.

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

Where his best music was like reading pages from a diary, Rojus can feel like a passionate retelling of memories that were never his.

Under The Sun isn't the major departure that it seems on the surface, but rather a pleasant detour through mythical, imagined landscapes.

For a debut album from such a young artist, 99.9% is remarkably self-assured. It sets up Celestin as someone carving out his niche.

Oh No is an inventive and enjoyable pop record that only falls short of Lanza's own standards.

Yoyogi Park is at its best on the tracks where Kersten wanders out of his comfort zone.

Konnichiwa isn't perfect, but it mostly accomplishes the goals Skepta set for himself, and is certainly one of the best grime has seen so far.

The permanent ache in Blake's voice is one of his most arresting qualities, but it grows tiresome as The Colour In Anything wades through its 76 minutes.

Following shaky albums from both Yorke and Radiohead, A Moon Shaped Pool suggests that they were right to keep the faith.

For a project of its size and vision, Vol. 1 is remarkably coherent. It's a testament to the label's endurance and vitality that they assembled so many top-notch exclusive tracks from friends both old and new.

On the self-produced Will, there's an extraordinary confidence behind Barwick's voice and arrangements.

The Ship, his sixth Warp record in seven years, entwines various threads from these albums [Small Craft On A Milk Sea, Lux, and Highlife] into a heady amalgam that stands as his best work for the label to date.

This LP has the duo's best music; each track offers something to marvel at. But put them all together and it's like watching the world end 11 times in a row: what at first seems fearsome eventually turns mundane.

I AKA I moves from peak to peak, and you're never more than a couple of tracks away from open-mouthed awe.

Honey lacks the coherence of her previous albums, but as a love letter to the rave it's eloquent and sincere.

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.