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.

Glowing Mouth is as emotionally jolting and cosily reassuring as a night in with a David attenborough boxset.

Casiokids received a one million Kroner grant from fellow Nordmenn A-ha for musical potential....A-ha can consider their money well spent.

Refreshingly repetitive. We love you too, Bear In Heaven.

Their kings of the beach crown may have slipped a little nowadays, but Wavves still offer plenty of no-frills fun.

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.

In and of itself, So Long, See You Tomorrow is more or less flawless BBC; their music has always been polite, erudite and winsome, and that beat does not skip here.

While Dry The River stick resolutely--and somewhat predictably--to their 'start quiet, build to a stomping ending' mantra throughout, Shallow Bed is an uplifting debut.

If he'd shown us a little more, MU.ZZ.LE would be altogether more satisfying, but that's just not Gonjasufi's style.

Copious candid personal insights are shared with the gravitas of Johnny Cash over a bit of blues here, a fleck of folk there, and country stylings aplenty.

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

Provides far more ecstasy than agony.

It may be a skip away from the processes they know best but, in 'In Time To Voices', Blood Red Shoes find fresh invention.

For now it’s still deliciously entertaining.

At just eight songs, doesn't stick around long enough to outstay its welcome.

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

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

The tenth Magnetic Fields album sees Stephin Merrit returning to both form and familiar territory.

As far as second albums go, this is quite brilliant--enough of a departure to render it excitingly fresh, yet still tinged with all the bleeps, pulses and slides that put the magic in Magic Arm the first time of asking.

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

Whilst Lorde’s world creates its own incredibly distinctive atmosphere, it feels accessible and open to maturing.

A manic experiment that bodes well for album two.

Join The Dots makes good on the band’s promise to deliver a new album every year, though you can’t help but feel certain songs were neglected in favour of more sophisticated production values.

When it works, it’s brilliant.... But at times Caramel feels undercooked.

The very retro Sleeper is an acoustic affair, characterised by bluesy downers and portentous balladry.

An unholy marriage of the brutal and the brilliant, fuelling suspicion that their best is yet to come.

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

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.

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.

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.

Total Strife Forever (thanks, Foals) is an ambitious, absorbing debut, and still probably only a glimpse of what East India Youth’s capable of.

Beneath every stoner vocal or woozy guitar line there’s enough melodic nous to ensure Melbourne never wobbles too far into drug casualty territory.

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

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.

This is just the latest in a series of EPs from the Philadelphian, though some may quibble it’s light on original material.

Menace Beach may have their sonic ingredients already established, but the result is even better than the sum of their parts.

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

It all feels rather too short, which was surely Mazes’ plan all along: leave ‘em wanting more.

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

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

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

Pip retains the sizzling electronics and soaring melodies of her first offering, but delivers them like a sultry wrong'un wracked with self doubt, battering drums and attacking every guitar she can lay her hands on.

A loveable pop debut.

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.

Although it doesn’t always hit the mark, Swim Deep’s debut proves more than capable of matching to the dizzying highs they write about.

Whilst often brilliant, Crawling makes you wonder why Pure X have swapped pleasure for pain.

These songs are all excellent, and if the album had maintained that level of consistency it might have shaded into genius, but sadly the rest falls short, frequently lapsing into a pleasant but slight flexing of Thundercat’s considerable chops.

It's a startling beginning, but it's followed by eight equally mesmerising, if altogether different, songs.

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.

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.

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

'Blunderbuss'' weaknesses are diminished by moments of sheer greatness.

If you like the idea of blog occupants such as Washed Out and Neon Indian but want to take the hazy filter off their Instagram souls, then 'Gone' could be for you.

‘Morning’ is stately in a hopeful sort of way; ‘Heart’ an uptempo standout that hints at the quiet majesty of Nick Drake in his ‘Bryter Layter’ period. Meanwhile the striking ‘Wave’ pits Beck’s vocal against a lush, sad string arrangement by his dad--but there are moments where the introspection slides into an acoustic torpor, too.

[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.

At times, without the visual aids of the stage production, it whips from cohesive to confusing but, for the most part, 'Dr Dee' is a boundary-pushing triumph.

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.

Moments of cringe-worthiness aside, album two rejoices in TTT's expansive and elaborately emotional ballads.

Inconsistency's a little too much the watchword, but there are none more Something For Everyone.

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’.

Combining moments of instrumental grandeur with sections so stripped-back they verge on silence, Watson delivers the perfect summer evening soundtrack.

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

To say Michael Kiwanuka's debut is not the most modern-sounding album would be an elephant-sized understatement.

Generally Moonfire is an album big on melody, heart and hooks.

Raw, exhilarating and completely mystifying.

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

There's value in finding their [remixers] take on Nick Cave's already unique sound.

Mis-steps like the sticky Santana-worship on 'Hanuman' are far less palatable, but when the combinations match up, it proves exactly how impressive this band have become.

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.

A coy, slow burner, it doesn't kick off properly until its latter stages.

Be Strong is funny, innovative, uplifting and, most importantly, always fun.

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

It’s an interesting mix of the wide-eyed and sparkly and the beachfront and nonchalant that makes for a hugely radio-friendly record that won’t dent your credibility.

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

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.

White Denim continue to teeter there.

This is as forceful, salacious and dangerous as they’re likely to get.

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

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.

It veers wildly between the divine and the comedic, but this is positively imperious preposterousness.

The dreamy 'Clone' has a touch of the Cocteau Twins about it, while the title track's polished riffs are pure powerpop. Only occasional moments – the lame guitar lick on 'Breathing Under Water' being one – sound outdated, proving that when it's done well, a little nostalgia doesn't hurt.

Packed with shimmering riffs, synths and loops which sees the Californian mastermind diversify his much-tipped take on 'alternative 80s'.

Lynch showcases a grim neighbourhood that seems electrically oppressed somehow, synthesised echoes murmuring like residual radiation.

A strange, interesting, occasionally brilliant album.

An accomplished, repeatable debut.

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.

Its Yeasayer-aping can seem too familiar at times, but on the whole Young Magic's debut is a beguiling brain-burp of a listen.

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

Against all odds, 'Some Nights' is a hoot: huge-sounding, packed with tunes and not lacking in humour.

'Matilda' is superb, squirmy avant-pop, 'Tessellate' sports a pleasing, stuttering, polyrhythm, whilst 'Breezeblocks' skitters beneath multilayered vocals.

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

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.

Ultimately, Endless Flowers is a poppier, prettier record than Crocodiles have managed before.

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.

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.

Occasional cringe-inducing lyrics aside, 'Dry Land Is Not A Myth' gets everything bang on.

The moments of clarity indicate a record that yearns for change.