A riot of dumbness, 'Hot Cakes' is predictably brash and Queen-like.

On Four Bloc Party manage to make their affecting and dizzyingly devilish music sound relevant and exciting again.

Magic free and generally shapeless, TEEN have some real growing up to do.

Whilst possessing the rich production values Dear's typically celebrated for, 'Beams' sees its creator grow with confidence, slipping into James Murphy's grubby Converse with ease.

A very, very brilliant thing.

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

It's the freakier corners here that shine bright like neon.

This debut's sophistication might mean Jessie slinks to the forefront rather than shoving her way to the top, but however long it takes, Devotion marks a new chapter in this future-pop superstar's journey.

The gripes of her debut album--chiefly that the quality of her songs didn't always match the strength of her voice--again prevail here.

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.

In throwing his emotional locker wide open, Frank Ocean has made a tender, engrossing classic.

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.

'Major' is a more refined second effort, but one that still holds true to the band's promise of back-to-back hooks.

Their LP betrays nothing other than attention to detail, enviable knowledge of their musical history and the ability to chisel hunks of belligerent punk that could revitalise the genre.

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

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

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

A manic experiment that bodes well for album two.

A jubilant collection.

It's pretty f***ing awesome.

"Milk Maid are great!" Shout it from a rooftop.

For a Tarot-themed rock album made by an immortal megalomaniac, it's actually OK. Especially the loud bits.

DIIV exist in the hazy, blissful end of the shoegaze spectrum, where every day is a stoned slice of summer.

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.

[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.

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.

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

It's a head-swirling selection of the swankiest electro, techno and house, plus silky soul from Blood Orange, geo-political pop from Condry Ziqubu and howlin' funk from Gospel Comforters.

A band so capable shouldn't have settled for a debut as average as this.

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

A gentle collection, evocative of a transitional time.

This sticky mess is his best yet.

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

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

Perfect imperfection.

Delightfully creepy.

A sweet, sad record full of wide-eyed wonder and a charming, youthful naivety.

Two Wounded Birds' pains make for mighty pleasurable listening.

A loveable pop debut.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

Traps shakes with stoned-in-a-basement riffs and sarcasm.

Initially it is exciting – the title track and 'Hips And Lips' pack a visceral punch – however, repeat plays reveal that 'The National Health' offers nothing particularly new.

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

They've left easy indie-disco hits behind and are now proving they're some of the most capable songwriters around.

With frantic whip-crack beats, chirruping synths and a booming 'no messing' baritone, the NYC duo's anti-authority anthems rage against the hypocrisy.

Constantly exhilarating, it's a sensory obliteration that proves that now, more than ever, APTBS are much more than just noise.

Whatever their reference points, Friends always end up sounding like Friends: now but new wavey, cool but catchy, spare but packed with odd sonic squiggles.

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

Occasionally there are garish synths nauseating enough to induce a hangover on their own, and it's only then that WHB remind you why nu-rave is a genre best forgotten.

One Day finds Rowland weary, woozy and nakedly accepting of loneliness and age; a true soul man.

[WIXIW is] dizzying, discordant and heavily rhythmic, as Andrew, Hemphill and Gross weave found sounds, freaky fragments of melancholy off-kilter melody, spiralling keyboard motifs, flurries of strings and distorted vocals and riffs through electronics that crunch and crack like shattered glass.

You'll only get a kick out of this record if you think all music made since 1976 is terrible and have absolutely no desire to hear anything new whatsoever.

Bookended by snippets of crackling fireworks, the aptly-titled 'Celebration Rock' is big on anthems, euphoria and fistpumping rock'n'roll thrills.

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

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

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

This second album is exciting rather than essential, but if it's blown-out ears you want, PS I Love You oblige in style.

Occasionally it's beautiful--the acoustic breakdown in 'Thoughts' is unexpectedly sublime--and often beguiling.

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

'Here Come The Bombs' is a sublime first solo effort.

'A Different Ship' is a magnificent return.

'Walk The River' is defiantly sky-punching stuff, chipping away at its own corner of neoclassicism between latter-day Pulp and late-80s Tears For Fears and displaying not only an excess of soaring Dangerfield vocals but also plenty of roaring guitars...and deftly-exploring haunt-pop suss.

A witches' broth of soothing vocals, swooshing 90s synths and computer drum beats.

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.

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

In The Belly Of The Brazen Bull is honest, sweaty and delirious.... Their most exciting album yet.

Raw, exhilarating and completely mystifying.

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

Essentially, Crybaby is an album that achieves exactly what it set out to do.

Their minimalist throb is challenging at first, yet allowing the likes of 'Brains' and 'Propagation' to seep in is to be submerged in an invigoratingly ballsy album.

Their boldest and most fantastically frisky record to date.

From the moment jumpy, garagepop opener 'Falcon Eyed' trapezes towards you, it's clear that Cate Le Bon is in carnival spirits throughout her second LP.

As engaging as an album of mood swings can be.

Although she retains the cool cleverness of an indie icon, this New Yorker's detached demeanour eventually ends up sounding, ahem, trullie dull.

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

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.

[Once Krug's genius is realized by the world] then riches untold will pile up and allow him to do nothing but make albums like 'Heartbreaking Bravery'.

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

The album captures little of the Opera's live spirit.

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

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'.

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

Grips you like summer flu.

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

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.

One of the most brilliantly chaotic, mesmerising albums you'll hear all year.

At his best, Oberhofer packs emotional punches in the maniacal vocals of 'I Could Go', underscored by proggy synths, billowing flutes and a chorus that stomps around like a giant drunk toddler. Somehow, Oberhofer's melodrama makes getting dumped sound fun. If only he could keep it up over a whole album...

'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.

Wonky yet warm, it's an accomplished balancing act from an ever-growing band.

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.

Morbid one minute, cute the next, finally untangling 'Choreography' is an engrossing pleasure.

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

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

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.