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.

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.

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

It’s good to have them back.

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

It’s a half-hour packed with ideas and wonky ambition.

Their boldest and most fantastically frisky record to date.

The enjoyably fluffy, pacy tunes here match Best Coast’s debut, but the content makes you want to scream ‘Get a f***ing life and chill out!’ at the speakers.

On NZCA/Lines, he achieves his goal [to make 2012 sexy], slipping from slick pop that transforms the mundane into sheer seductiveness ('Okinawa Channels'), to monastic barbershop harmonies ('AM Travel Approach').

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

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

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

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.

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

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

There's a nagging sense of melancholy throughout that gives these tracks a compelling and slightly haunting quality.

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.

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.

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.

An album of chilly, detached beauty.

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

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

Though Shangri La is at least entertaining, it’s without that lasting, killer incision that will guarantee longevity.

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

The Londoners' ramshackle summer vibes are still happy to coast along on a slacker wave rather than streamlining too directly.

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

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

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

A manic experiment that bodes well for album two.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

The five songs here are awkward bedfellows.

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.

Born To Die may ultimately prove too-blinkered a vision to fully appeal to the Sheeran-loving public in the long run, but Lana has certainly proved that she's not just here to play games.

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

Ecstatic, raucous, spine-tingling and delivered in the only way they know, Baby is a piece of Tribes for their devoted followers to hold onto.

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

Social commentary ('Blaze Up A Fire'), emotional nudity ('Elephant') and confessional bravery ('Angel Wings') illuminate a warm, honest album.

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

Errors have never sounded more magnificent.

Mostly, these are exquisitely constructed slow jams--especially recent single ‘Cookies’, The-Dream-esque ‘Crazy Sex’ and the cashmere-soft, Kelly Rowland duet ‘All The Way’--but the pace becomes stagnant after a while.

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

With psych bite and cosmic volume stripped away, Nielson’s brilliant, dextrous playing and addled lyrical bravery are illuminated brighter than ever.

It's the inconsistency of Future This--particularly the band's newfound tenderness vs. Their miscalculated explosions of noise--that make it a largely baffling listen.

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

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.

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

Magna Carta Holy Grail is a solid example of a decent modern rap album and nothing more.

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.

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

What lets it down is that it is unutterably, irrevocably and unswervingly dull. Dull, dull, dull. As boring as the hum of a fridge.

Form And Control is a pleasant enough offering, but there's nothing phenomenal on show here.

Listening to Babyshambles’ horrible third album is like being stuck on a roundabout with no exits.

Raw, exhilarating and completely mystifying.

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

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

‘A Ton Of Love’ shows they’ve not lost their knack for passably impersonating Echo & the Bunnymen, but really, you deserve better than this hazily indistinct angst.

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

The Brazilians’ fourth is a tuneless, tiresome rabble of a record that does just that [make you feel glum].

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

Altogether, it's an insipid assault of dribbly, sub-Billie Piper pop sludge.