Psychedelic leanings and Le Bon’s fragile Welsh lilt make Mug Museum a typically unusual listen, but its sincerity shines throughout, finding beauty in the strangest, sometimes saddest of places.

It's audaciously hit and miss, inevitably, but 'Out Of The Game' is anything but shy and retiring.

When the wrecking ball stops swinging, however, there are moments of emotional weightiness ('Leader Of The Pack') and glimpses of tenderness ('End Of The Line') that give this LP a more human edge.

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.

The result is a collection of songs that really soar in a way that some previous material hasn’t.

Forget hidden depths, Plumb exposes every inch of the Brewises' brilliance.

We know a damn good noise rock debut when we hear one.

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

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

Expansive, orchestral and delicate, its beauty [the band's music] is totally deserving of another round of critical acclaim.

Hawley ditches his heavily orchestrated, Indie Orbison Of The North shtick in favour of a sound that's darker, ragged and riff-heavy. It works.

What’s impressive is that, for all its hymnal melodramatics, Impersonator somehow bypasses insufferability.

It's an album that reels you in, enveloping everything in a black mist, from the slick protestations of 'Dark Star' to the surging intensity of closer 'Leading To Death'.

The Clearing is a subtle, expansive work.

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.

Something's exquisite charms confirm that Chairlift mk.II are a much-improved proposition.

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

It's a record that effortlessly juxtaposes chopped up electronics and ghostly effects with James' supersweet voice to create eleven strange but simple pleasures.

The Californians still play ethereal tunes that could waft on forever.

Despite not reaching for particularly new ground, Confess still manages to excite.

Perfect imperfection.

[Unsound] is as rough, ragged and wracked as they've ever been, the likes of 'Dust Devil' and '7's' pushing needles thoroughly into the red.

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

These are songs that flinch as much as they fight, that veer wildly into strange territories but never overindulge and that, essentially, draw all of the best bits from Coxon's weird and wonderful arsenal into one inimitable package.

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.

'Never' walks a fine line between experimental and exasperating.

It’s a sensory experience throughout.

'Tiger Talk' allows YB to earn their stripes as purveyors of plush, 70s-inspired powerpop.

Balanced, measured and, when necessary, jump-out-of-the-scented-candle-filled-bath creepy.

Although it doesn't stray hugely from the meandering blueprint of last year's '936', 'Lucifer' throbs with warmth, occupying a dreamy hinterland beyond Big Youth and Beach House.

Most of the songs here start like slowburn opener ‘What We Done?’, with Stelmanis’ constantly tremulous voice front and centre surrounded by ever-increasing layers of synths, padded beats and distant percussion. If you can get past it, however, there’s much to enjoy.

Some way off a breakthrough they may be, but they're still a chilling thrill for those unafraid of the dark.

A peculiar unwillingness to climax is something that many Shearwater records have suffered with over the years, and Animal Joy is unfortunately no exception.

It's enough to hold the interest, although we'd prefer Alabama Shakes to capitalise on their more esoteric elements and cut out the cliches.

Samantha Crain’s debut seems inextricably tied to that spirit [of alt. country], with its simple melodic warmth trumping contemporary notions of waistcoat-wearing ‘authenticity’.

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

Grand and grizzling, 'Gossamer' begs for adoration, but too often leaves an uncomfortably bittersweet aftertaste.

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

It's muggy and consuming in the way that using 96 effects pedals at once will be, but there's a vital sweetness that shines through.

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.

Girls Names make sadness moreish and hypnotic.

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.

Don't be fooled by the benign title of James Yorkston's latest album--the songs have some real bite to them, both lyrically and sonically.

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.

Featuring cameos from David Longstreth, Chairlift’s Caroline Polachek, Kindness and more Cupid Deluxe is a rich, rewarding listen.

Though the grappling guitars of 'Riot In My House' wouldn't seem out of place on an MC5 album, Blues Funeral doesn't always kick out the jams.

Spoek Mathambo's mixture of rapid rhymes and genre-melding combining thrillingly.

A refreshingly innovative take on the decade [the 80's], and though it occasionally lacks a little heart, 'Interstellar' at least pushes Rose's talents in an impressive and unexpected direction.

An accomplished, repeatable debut.

More often than not Stasia Irons and Cat Harris-White get bogged down in a psychedelic maze, struggling to get their intelligent and issue-led rhymes heard above distracting production.

At times a lick more panache might have leavened proceedings, but ‘Winter Reigns” celebration of the great English pub (where “the dark’s never far behind”, naturally) rounds out this confident debut in style.

If this is bedroom pop, it surely stems from the most cluttered yet colourful bedroom imaginable.

Anger, bitterness and scorn spike the discomfiting atmosphere at every turn.

The Kasabian-ish 'Danny Come Inside', with its predatory stride, and the tautly atmospheric 'Had It Coming' are rallying gear shifts; disappointingly, the remainder of 'Milk Famous' seems to be on cruise control.

This sticky mess is his best yet.

Disenchantment should always be this spellbinding.

What richly rewarding, flourishing, beautiful songs they are.

As engaging as an album of mood swings can be.

A jubilant collection.

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

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

'Dead Set On Living' also explores such lyrical subjects as being the offspring of a particularly nasty nuclear winter, but does so to a cauldron of riffs and deathly roars stolen straight from the depths of Hell so pant-wettingly exciting, that it's impossible to do anything but scream along.

[Their] slightly-off-kilter lyrical slant is probably the most remarkable thing about Evans The Death's Echobelly familiar indie.

Throughout, Niblett’s lonesome, PJ Harvey-like voice and grunge-bitten guitar are central, while disorientating snare cracks serve to underline her forlorn tales of domestic crises.

London Grammar’s polished take on trip-hop is quietly dramatic, sometimes beautiful and well worth a listen.

A well-rounded and mature second album.

A perfectly-crafted album rich in just about everything.

Saxophone solos! Samples that may or may not be from the Sugarhill Gang! The EastEnders theme tune sung in the style of Boyz II Men!

Guitar work comes across as the strongest feature of 'Spooky Action At A Distance' – tricky arpeggios and impeccably crafted feedback combine to create bleary, Kurt-Vile-esque smokescapes.

There’s a handful of ballads too--the surest sign of maturity--but just when we think they’ve given up the pacy numbers forever, they sucker-punch us at the death with the perfect one-two combo of ‘Unwanted Place’ and ‘Young’.

Two Wounded Birds' pains make for mighty pleasurable listening.

It's slicker than anything Katy's done before – maybe not as long-term-lovable, but certainly worth living with for a while.

Nostalgic, positive and romantic, it pumps new warmth into Copenhagen’s cold and concrete punk movement.

Grips you like summer flu.

Sure, there’s clunky country passages (‘Houston Hades’), brassy crooning (‘J Smoov’) and Cream-y jams (‘Cinnamon and Lesbians’), but Malkmus’ wit remains more than intact in his middle-age.

These are tracks made for the pub, to be bawled to with beating hearts and swollen lungs. Get involved.

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

This mostly-great follow-up is occasionally waylaid by its determination to make bad instruments sound good.

A strange, interesting, occasionally brilliant album.

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 majestic medley of eight 'exercises' is a fine display of creativity, where morphing piano loops sound like the modern classical of Philip Glass honed into a structured formula.

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

A fully realised work of intellect and warmth.

Irrespective of genre or decade, 'Rispah' is an astonishing tsunami of emotion which above all, makes you feel alive.

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.

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

A comforting return to the hazy psychedelia and laconic 1960s bohemia of prime BJM, only now with added eastern twinges.

Another twelve inches of brilliance.

Solo Piano II is an enraptured performance but, unfortunately, it's not always an engaging one.

It’s intimidating at first, but once your eyes acclimatise, you’ll relish joining them in the shadows.

It’s undeniably a slacked out soundtrack for dopey wallflowers everywhere, but Unreal is also a surprisingly progressive affair that speaks to your soul.

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

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

Their debut is yearning blog-pop, which might be a bit ‘2009 called...’ if songs like ‘New House’ weren’t just as sharp as their 80s, sax-ballad ancestors.

Overall, this is a daring, dynamic and dramatic debut.

Shulamith picks up pretty much where that album left off, mixing elements of yacht rock, soul, hip hop and dub into a smoothly melancholic whole--but at times Leaneagh’s vocodered emoting makes you wonder if this isn’t just Dido for the blognoscenti.

The potential for unfocused drudgery could've been huge, but they've sidestepped far enough to create an involving and endearingly creepy work.

On An Object, their blissy ambient tinkerings finally feel earned and essential.