Secondhand Rapture feels overlong, hampered by a lyrical palette that seems to mirror the relationship struggles of a Twilight film.

More Light is prosaic, but also proof that when you want to rally a new generation, it’s not Marcus Mumford you want holding the megaphone.

Not a great leap forwards, then, but a welcome throwback nonetheless.

In the end, it’s all a little too demure to really shout out loud about.

Though Modern Vampires Of The City is flawed--there’s no stand-out single, and the low-key ‘Obvious Bicycle’ is far too sombre to justify its billing as the opening track--repeat listens to this third act are rewarded.

It is violently un-confrontational, startlingly uninventive and no fun whatsoever.

The raspy sonics can’t mask some of their most shrug-worthy songs to date.

The suave Londoner’s debut is a deeply ridiculous affair, but something about his Cave-meets-Cohen shtick endears.

A complete lack of compromise anywhere. Yet, whilst that means that it takes a few listens for the intricacies to fully come through (alongside stormy brooder ‘Strife’, early single ‘Husbands’ is still the most sonically independent offering here), it fundamentally endows the record with a clarity of vision that justifies all the hyperbole.

Though Brightest Darkest Day isn’t a world-changer, you have to admire this pair’s indisputable dynamism.

It’s a pitching and yawing listen, and it’s compelling and punchy in a way that’ll have you bouncing straight out of your chair.

So, all in all: not a bad album, but most of the time it’s more harmless midge than lethal mosquito.

An intimate and very British release to cherish and hold close; it also happens to be one of the year’s best so far.

He’s absorbed new influences into the unique framework he creates around his songs, pulling in aspects of house, gospel and R&B to create something alluringly strange yet pleasingly palpable.

Despite its length and moments of lyrical self-loathing, Wakin' neither bores nor depresses.

While some of the abstract material here is frustratingly opaque, how many other ‘pop’ acts can you name that would have the brass cojones to drop a near 20-minute track right in the middle of their record? Astonishing.

It doesn’t quite rank alongside their very strongest material, but there are still more rippling vocal harmonies and gutting one-liners than most bands could be proud of in a lifetime.

By turns, If You Leave is word-in-the-ear intimate and mountain-range massive.

Fortunately, the contents don’t disappoint.

It’s happy to take the listener on sudden, unexpected, journeys but also to just be exactly what it is; a really great rock album from a man who knows a thing or two about writing really great rock albums.

Her classically trained sensibilities shine through on her first solo effort, which sparkles with understated beauty.

Girls Names make sadness moreish and hypnotic.

So with their fourth LP, where they burst from the tracks with peppy numbers like ‘Holy’ and Biffy-esque choruses on ‘The Woodpile’, it’s a mite disappointing.

It’s a rewarding mixture of romance, wit and fantasy.

Oozing more nihilistic youthful abandonment than anyone since Black Lips, their manifesto sounds pretty appealing from here.

At times it can be a bit round-the-campfire twee, but when they’re doing something as cut-yourself-sharp as ‘Wall Paper’, it’s easy to forgive Concrete Knives for the odd moment of artistic bluntness.

Dutch Uncles’ third album is easily the Manchester band’s most accomplished effort to date.

As with Real Estate, producer Kevin McMachon has coaxed the wispy dreaminess of an excellent debut into a progressive, immersive successor.

[The album] is a natural progression from the first, as the band’s distinctively jangly, incessantly upbeat guitars are remodelled in increasingly eccentric ways.

Philippakis’s words are open and raw. As for their sound, it’s as vital and as fresh as ever.

Too often inaudible, the band’s uncathartic noise can still test patience as well as nerves.

Far-out, fascinating, fantastic--just plain F-ing good.

There's absolutely no attempt to innovate, but it's not a huge problem when the tunes are as sweetly and simply put together as this. [Jan 2013, p.62]

All designs are firmly fixed on a glorious technicolour gem, but it's fair to say results are mixed.

Over far too quickly, it's another near flawless record from the Manchester trio.

The band's fifth full-length is a sluggish drone of guitars so muddy they sound like they were recorded in a bog married to pseudo-spiritual waffling from singer Dave Heumann.

O'Brien's voice is beautiful and his songwriting often adventurous, but there are times when the aim isn't as true as it could be.

An album of chilly, detached beauty.

The studio remains the band's fourth member and their wind-tunnel intensity is a constant. The compositions are more focused this time round, however, while quiet-loud dynamic shifts are more arresting.

It's really bloody good.

That Christopher Owens' songs are so simultaneously vivid, immersive and indulgent is one thing, that he has crafted the character to execute them so expertly is quite another.

If a sense of staleness had begun to creep in round 2009's 'Popular Songs', Fade pretty much puts them back on track.

This sinister, skittering collection (recorded before the sad passing of singer Trish Keenan in 2011) is the perfect compliment to Peter Strickland's marvellous film.

A quantum leap it ain't--and Glass could do with putting her fangs back in--but (III) has just enough up its sleeve to keep Crystal Castles on track.

Nocturne still treads the same paths, but it finds Tatum taking far bigger, more confident, strides.

Whilst Hegarty's extended speech in 'Future Feminism' fails to grasp wholly, (but will probably fill a void in your pseudo-intellectual appetite), the collection as a whole is an impressively captivating soundscape.

No new tricks, but there's life in these old dogs yet.

A spectacular, modern take on a classic, timeworn formula.

The change becomes Pinback rather well, with newfound self-assurance adding warmth to their melodic nous: sweet and soulful.

The arrangements can be flabby, but what you'll hear at the heart of Carry On is the voice of one of music's great troubadours.

This is a missed opportunity, but it's commendable that when both parties are not at their strongest the results can still satisfy.

Surrounding himself with talent that far surpasses his own doesn't hide the weakness of many of these tracks.

A joyous sense of imagination proves to be its own reward.

Errors have never sounded more magnificent.

Melody's magic combination of dreamy sonics and saccharine vocals is an inexorable pleasure.

There are times when all you need is a stompy bass drum to underpin a killer melody, and that's exactly what makes Beacon tick; nothing's overworked or overcomplicated.

This, their fourth full-length in as many years, proves the San Franciscans are a dependable force.

Deerhoof's eleventh album continues their long tradition of delighting and confounding in equal measure.

'Lost Souls' is so preposterously raucous it should have the record industry running scared at the point of a pitchfork.

The overall feel is of a semi-fascinating compilation album, making Tall Ships easy to appreciate but very difficult to love.

An album that's sprinkled with magic.

On the whole, Tender Signs struggles to get beyond the level of an immersive period piece.

When it works – as on the heartbreaking 'Together' and a barrelling 'The Magic Position' – it highlights his gifts as a songwriter, but on the dreary 'Bitten' and a seemingly endless 'Vulture' it makes you long for something simpler to mark his brilliance.

The zingy, careening pop of 'Do The Right Thing', and the grandiose welterweight rock of 'Teenage Daughter' are their most effective communiqués.

As the title track gradually morphs from delicate ballad to fisherman shanty to blissful climax it's hard not to be awed, even if those casual listeners might not find much to keep them.

[Parts of the album are] bogged by balladry and at times blighted by tales that teeter on puerile, but this Nottingham scamp has got chops beyond his tender years.

Articulate lyrics, brutality, aggression and hot, thick-and-fast sequences that could turn Benjamin Francis Leftwich into a spliff-stealing thug characterise 119.

METZ is pulverizing, but in an artistic, superior way; the Canada-based trio balance noise, aggression and tact expertly.

Halcyon is a bold and confident step forward.

Another twelve inches of brilliance.

An explosion of Snaith's warm-yet-manic verve, this is euphoria from a new master of the dancefloor.

Mostly, it's a success.

Ultimately, though, such moments [eight-minute behemoth 'Rolling Out' and 'Free Action''s endless harping on a major seventh chord] of purgatory only make tracks like the sweetly-countrified title track and the blissful 'Trails' sound more like some kind of heaven.

The scale [on The 2nd Law] is such that you have to stand back in a kind of addled awe. Much in the same way that you might regard a 75ft-high luminous pink pissing flamingo water feature; you have to admire the size of the ambition and the craftsmanship, even if it's not something you'd necessarily want at your own house.

In short, this time, they've nailed it.

Effectively, it is emo for Blacksmiths. This would all be semi-tolerable, were it not for the sickeningly overwrought poetry bobbing on top.

On [Strapped] they've toned down their trademark do-or-die spirit and returned with something far more considered and refined.

An album of controlled explosions that reclaims rock for the oldies and gives the kids something to mosh to.

Far more stripped back than the Charlatans frontman's previous offerings, Oh No flits between affecting moments (the rather gorgeous 'Hours') and repetitive down-beaters ('A Case For Vinyl') that seem to go nowhere.

'Infinity Overhead' finds [Minus the Bear] pondering The Big Questions, confirming suspicions that amateur existentialism and post-millennial indie rock comprise a winning formula.

A fully realised work of intellect and warmth.

¡Uno! is Green Day's least ambitious record in years and a return to what they do best: short, sharp, scatterbrain pop-punk.

Another near-flawless piece of work.

Unfortunately, the result is usually a bit syrupy and mawkish.

As ever, his lyrics sound better the less you think about them, but you know The Killers are getting it right because most of the time, you don't need to.

The record overflows with the tell-tale nuances of a band who have learnt how to translate grandiosity into something more restrained, yet no less forceful.

A couple of piano-led downers bring us to a close; bruised and bleeding, but breathlessly exhilarated.

We can only hope they soon renew their collaboration; 'Love This Giant''s too big and clever, and Byrne-Vincent too perfect a pairing, to be a once-in-a-lifetime affair.

It's the frontloading of moonstruck, airy pop songs that make this album worth your time; snobs who ignore 'True' will simply be wasting theirs.

'Coexist' is a refinement and crystallisation of their debut.

If TOY are a gateway drug, you'll be too high to care by the time this one's done.

This isn't a reinvention of Dinosaur Jr. so much as a sideways glance; a new angle to help us appreciate their wonder in a new light.

Algiers, then, is everything we know Calexico to be: lucid with grit and tempered with melody, easily the equal of their career's best work.

A perfectly-crafted album rich in just about everything.

Contact is a collection of catchy pop tunes and an eclectic one at that.

As the title makes pretty clear, this is a break up record, weeping with Magnetic Fieldsy candid cynicism about love.

Some of the best material she's ever penned.

They've honed their ability to be urgent and primitive, to write songs that make boys and girls want to snog each other, and added nuance and depth. Everything feels bold, fast and confident.