Lung Bread For Daddy’s inauspicious genesis plunged Beth Jeans Houghton deep into an artistic quagmire, yet she has escaped with another outstanding record.

Brickbat is not an indulgent “supergroup” affair or a rehash of former glories (what would a Lush-Moose-Elastica-Modern English mashup even sound like?), it’s a chance alignment of classic alt-rock pedigree, on and of its own time.

Homeshake widen their scope for their fourth record, Helium: a statement of identity. Homeshake’s sound on Helium captures the mood of our ears. hinting at zeitgeisty bedroon pop.

State of Ruin is as successful in embracing the genre's menace as it is subverting it, revelling in the fist-pounding and neck-snapping as much as dream-like and beatless. All in all, a solid debut.

Long term fans won’t learn anything new here, but a good Ladytron album is better than no Ladytron album, and seeing how they didn't even seem to exist a few years ago, this is something to be thankful for.

Triage is a spectrum of colour and abstract character, stained with a unique personality. Thanks to this approach, Triage is the finest work from Methyl Ethel yet.

Ephyra is an intelligent release, one that grows on its listeners far more than initial investigations would should suggest. Such things can be a double-edged sword however, and Ephyra is also a fractured record, the potential of which feels somewhat stymied by its own belligerence.

It's everything you've ever loved about Guided By Voices, all smashed together in one record.

This is intelligent, knowingly silly music that should have no place in 2019. It’s anachronistic, beholden to its influences, and just a bit lightweight to be anything but a bit of a laugh. But, as this is 2019, and the real world is anything but a bit of a laugh, thank God for records like this. The world is in a dire condition, and International Teachers of Pop have given us a beautiful distraction.

[An] intelligently-crafted album that repays repeated playing to appreciate its numerous qualities.

At times reminiscent of the intricate indie on Doe’s excellent 2018 record Grow Into It, Allanic and co. working through their own peaks and troughs is what makes Rhinoceros so special. On this basis, their main point of differentiation is that they do it so well.

Unfortunately Girl realistically functions as little more than a jumbled hodgepodge of colorless notions, and another notch on the wall.

They find even more to dig up and use as coal for their runaway train. Imagine a rollercoaster that immediately starts on a death-defying drop, that you’re white-knuckling through with a chorus of cackles and joy, which swiftly takes you on a psychedelic mosey through a twisted fairytale tunnel - and that’s just the first three songs.

It’s contradictory, assured yet tender. It’s delicate but strong. It’s sweet pop music wrapped in an unbreakable metal shell. It’s beautiful but vulgar. It is, frankly, much more than we could have ever hoped for from her.

Seven Horses is an ambitious soundtrack experience which works perfectly and will leave you moved, inspired, cleansed and a little afraid.

It’s a heavy record for heavy times, but another intriguing example of what the trio can achieve, even when they’re burdened with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

With this record, he’s laid to down a marker, not just for 2019, but for the future of UK rap. It’s hard to think of a debut so confident in every musical aspect since J Hus’ Common Sense. Advice: consume daily for effective mood enhancement.

While Jessica Pratt’s already-absorbing sound has been made fuller and richer on Quiet Signs, there’s still a charming simplicity to it all. And what do they say about simplicity? There’s a certain beauty in it. Here it’s ethereal and exquisite, with a magic that weaves its way into your being and transforms the world around you.

Tip of the Sphere tackles generally what we’d expect it to--but with no disappointment, McCombs functions as a fail-safe narrator for our time. Within the LP’s musings, we as listeners look to him as he maintains a sense of worldliness and top-tier deftness as a songwriter and within those wonders and expectations, he invites us along as we get the chance to engage with his particular, introspective vision.

Mould’s newfound optimism is nonetheless an interesting realignment from the revered artist.

If there’s any justice at all, the future ahead after the release of this deeply moving, often mesmerising, sparse yet still richly nuanced album will see Chapman conclude his much-overdue journey to wider renown from the shadows he’s operated in for far too long.

There are a number of beatless mood pieces ("Crush", "Keep Driving") which showcase a more restrained, cinematic style, but ultimately bring little to the table, especially when the non-committal, monosyllabic vocal ice of Jae Matthews is such a focal point. Overall, though, this record leaves quite the impression; if uneasy listening is your thing, Boy Harsher’s murky interpretation of dead disco will envelop you in its dark delights.

It’s a tense work, a deeply troubling piece--it evokes, at least in terms of mood, noise-terrorists like Throbbing Gristle and Cabaret Voltaire. It’s also a thrilling record, one that stands up to multiple listens, and with each listen it becomes easier to digest.

As a standalone document, this is a gem of an album.

hile Stuffed & Ready shares the glossy sheen (thanks to Carlos de la Garza, who returns for a second go-round as producer) and excellent songwriting of its predecessor, 2017’s Apocalipstick, the former is darker and more insular both musically and lyrically.

The Sun Will Come Up opens as a consistent story, but it’s not one into which all of its components can sensibly fit. That’s not to say Nesbitt’s diverse adaptability is all bad, it’s simply that she shines brightest when committing to a style without sacrificing her individuality.

In all Galipolli is the sound of one of our most talented musicians rediscovering his love for what he was born to do. It’s Zach Condon’s career highlight so far and shows that he's at his best when he enjoys making music and cares less about what critics and fans might think of it.

Sophisticated and sombre, Carney knows how to evoke emotion with precision; on this record, she does so with extraordinary effect.

The magic by which we were all spellbound in those early days remains, now augmented by a newfound range of diverse influences. Rogers writes anthems for the modern age, with all the paradoxical feelings of empowerment, anxiety, heartbreak and growth that that entails.

All in all, Almost Free is a FIDLAR album - brash, unhinged, wild, a tad nonsensical, but most of all, a testament to their nature.

While it’s difficult to not fully engulf yourself in his ethos from the LP’s sit-in folk jam stylings to even crossing over into more celestial territory that finds itself throughout Goes West, Tyler’s dexterity in capturing emotion and conveying a story is rather significant under his instrumental hand – a gift that he’s always yielded, but likely now more than he ever has.

Happy in The Hollow is their most satisfying work to date, doubly notable for its being the first record the band have produced themselves.

Despite the wide range of aesthetics on the record, however, there are no two ways about it; this thing is bloody gorgeous. Two of the most adept singer-songwriters in haunting, poignant melancholy, the beauty to Better Oblivion Community Center lies exactly where you’d expect.

There’s a unique heart hidden deep with every album he creates, and Power Chords is no different. Open yourself up to the world of Krol.

Joy, recorded with Ty Segall and released last year, was a cocksure, psychedelia-tinged swirl of sex and limbs and thumping rhythms. I Have To Feed Larry’s Hawk exhibits little of this exuberance and is in large part a more gentle work of perspective and introspection, aided by a curatorial production that treats each element of the music, electronic or acoustic, like a moving part of a clockwork diorama, Presley’s breathy vocals condensing on the glass of the bell jar as he watches them all tick and turn.

Perhaps the only disappointing thing about Highway Hypnosis is its brevity, with not one song reaching over the three minute mark. You could see this as a failure to let the songs truly fly, but, regardless, it ensures the LP's selection of knock-out tracks gets stuck on repeat--a selection that's arguably her finest to date.

Richly nuanced and always intelligent, fifteen years have passed since the last album, and much like Bazan prior to the record’s conception, its release feels like a homecoming.

Toro Y Moi’s overreliance on autotune can also stand in the way of his lyricism at points which is disappointing. Ultimately though, Chaz Bear’s decision to take himself less seriously is an experiment to be considered broadly successful and sees the release of some of his more inspired and infectious material in years.

His most sincere and optimistic record so far.

Goldie and Davidson’s sound is full and rich, and as Subjective they have managed to create an electronic album drenched in melancholy and distorted nostalgia.

It Won/t Be Like This All the Time (IWBLTATT) is another dauntless step forward, unflinchingly embracing the core aspects of their sound, while boldly incorporating loftier ideas. It is not some grandiose attempt at a knockout punch or some cheap leap at the mainstream; you cannot fake sentiment, or force people to feel something. IWBLTATT is a laser guided arrow to the heart; an enveloping noise that chips away at you over time.

Within its nine tracks, Gunn addresses matters of death, acceptance, and expectations, all of which round his music with serenity and credence, thus positioning him on the forefront not only as a quintessential narrator for our time, but a faithful guide who gently directs us revitalized and untroubled.

Dyer and Sanchez’s synthesis of the familiar with the new, however, revels in a disparate identity that both challenges and lulls. While not to be crudely termed genre-defying, it would be difficult to argue that the idiosyncratic sound of Buke and Gase can be easily defined.

Much like Hunter, Remind Me Tomorrow is brutal, but it’s honest and open and true about how grim life is sometimes. By not pulling her punches, Van Etten has seemingly done the impossible--reinvented herself by doubling down on her own artistic tendencies.

This is a solo debut that’s been made with love, care, and plenty of ability, and although it has a tendency to veer too far into bleaker territory at times, there’s no denying its subtle magnetism. Nili Hadida’s found herself a new groove, and it makes a quiet yet engaging impression.

It’s utterly, completely, resolutely and defiantly them. It’s futuristic but warm, nostalgic but distant, pretentious but human.

Tomb is a record of heartbreak that never wallows, a reflection on loss that does not allow itself to become stuck in the past, and resolutely optimistic at its core. What we find here, on what is arguably the pinnacle of his output to date, is De Augustine achieving the beautiful balance between introspection and grandeur; straddling the place where pain and hope intersect.

The Imperial is far from a standard rulebook-revising nostalgia turn. Both the stark realism of the romance-averse blue-collar settings (here, the narrators are too busy hustling for a living to croon sugar-coated rhymes about romantic ideals) and potent musical left-turns (such as the stripped-bare minimalism of the weary-beyond-words "Roll Back My Life") make The Imperial sound thoroughly authentic, as opposed to a trip through someone else's back pages.

This is difficult, obstinate music that grows in potency with every listen--it should just come with some kind of health warning.

Selling is an album that to me felt like branches of electronics, constantly moving and evolving, but also as nine trailing individual works that are steady and individual.

Chasescene will delight existing fans and lure in fresh blood with equal measure.

While Finally Free has a handful of songs that are excellent and some that are simply okay, the vexing dilemma points back to Romano himself. It’s as though he isn’t quite sure the direction to take and that hesitance alone is off putting.

This is a finely crafted, elegiac album.

An album that makes no apologies about its struggles, but it’s one of many moments that confirms Cara’s journey is as authentic as it is unpredictable.

WARM sees this industrious figurehead of intelligent American rock return to a form where he can balance these two extremes effortlessly and make the deeply personal sound thoroughly universal in a manner that is unlikely to leave cold anyone with a heart that is still beating.

The moment you think you've had enough, it's over with, leaving behind a trail of desire to press play, over and over again.

Fourteen years have passed since they arose, and while so much has changed in the world, Art Brut are a welcome constant. Wham! Bang! Pow! Art Brut are back, and better than ever!

While some of the artists brought onto the project feel more tactical than functional, when Ora is placed in the spotlight she tends to deliver.

By interrogating the strategies we employ to keep on living in an impossible world, this astonishing album has become one.

Using music as an outlet for often irresolvable frustrations that we can all share in, Vera Sola establishes herself as a unique talent. On her debut, an album awash with tormenting demons, she emerges unfrightened, defiantly alone, from the shade.

Of course half the fun is in hearing how the band have transformed oh-so-familiar songs into something quite different, and transform them they truly have.

Little Mix’s candidness throughout is admirable, even thrilling in its bravery.

Like many of Dawson’s projects, its effect is gradual but profound: it takes a little time to truly settle into Mogic, but it’s nigh-impossible to leave once you become accustomed to its mores.

A still-formidable effort, but perhaps not the homecoming .Paak would have produced if he'd decided to go his own way.

This retrospective gives the perfect platform for some of Brainfeeder’s forgotten gems to be rediscovered, too. The vivid textures of Teebs, Lapalux’s dystopian soul and Taylor McFerrin’s retro glow are a beautiful reminder of the unsung heroes that have helped keep the label’s sound moving forward. Not ones to dwell on the past, the second half looks to the future, giving fans a brief glimpse of things to come.

The ten songs on this thing really are special, and worthy of the epic introduction tacked on to every article about it.

Everything is presented with a glossy sheen which may prove too much for some, especially fans of arguably their best album, 1998’s underrated and unloved Adore, and as with every other Pumpkins album, it’s hard to see where Corgan and Chamberlin end, and the other players begin. Yet if you weren’t expecting much from this latest attempt at keeping the band alive, you'll be impressed at how revitalised they sound.

It achieves the toughest task for a soundtrack--to maintain interest independent of the images it was built to accompany and accentuate--with impressive ease.

Cocoon Crush is a portrait of an artist in transition. It’s rough around the edges, occasionally stunning, and always surprising.

BTR best functions as a way to experience every mode that Grace has to offer as both songwriter and vocalist. It’s also the closest that Grace has come to letting others in and having a direct dialogue with the outside world.

Elastic Days will for many be a welcome catch up with Mascis, and for those not yet acquainted, it is the perfect place to say hi.

The results are expectedly bonkers, with some of Ling’s tales ushered into songs and others scored by improvisations, the collection bound by a deeply English eccentricity and a shared love of pop music's spikier edges.

Clearer in vision and production than debut Shapeshifter, Crush Crusher is especially potent in the trios that start and end the album.

Thresholder is a triumph of meticulously detailed composition and, at the same time, a masterpiece that seems to evolve, albeit in an unnaturally sepulchral soundworld of fragmentation, from the simplest of sources into a life-affirming wholeness.

It’s an album that sets out to excite and take risks and be messy. Alternately visceral and cerebral, and building with a whole new set of tools, UMO’s second release this year feels like a band bursting from their bubble; saying plenty about both Nielson’s fevered creativity, and the future of his cherished project.

Sincere, moving and musically ambitious.

There is palpable pleasure--for both McCallum and her listeners--as she shrugs off her old identity and, in losing her voice, goes in search of herself.

Be warned: a full appreciation of this album requires numerous listens - it offers little at first glance, but the moment you surrender yourself to this fate, all becomes clear.

What Farao does so well on Pure-O is to create something nuanced and interesting. With an extra bit of reverb here, a pitch shift there, she ensures that the stands out from other synthpop, which can feel clinical: too clean and polished.

On first listen, the absence of a nihilistic mantra to grasp onto may disappoint fans, but the deceptively simple pleasures of Honey open up with each listen. Robyn is trusting her instincts; finding care and wonder in the spaces she once went for punishment.

It’s a work that’s in a constant state of flux, the flow giving and yielding just like our emotions. A sense of healing and growth radiates from it, with the sparkling pop feel of “Yellow of the Sun” bringing the album round to a complete and circular ending.

Where Care lived up to its title with its balm-like electronics, The Anteroom is often a challenging listen. Its constantly adapting sonic landscapes are fitting for an urgent political and ecological moment: its song-like identifying features perpetually breaking down like a dying star, or planet, or human.

Last Building Burning is, truly, as inspiring, energizing and life-affirming as punk is likely to get in 2018.

Over the course of the record, MØ finds her own identity again. And although Forever Neverland features Diplo, Charli XCX and Empress Of (two of which for whom she’s returning the favour), they never overshadow her; a refreshing angle considering she’s been the featured one for the past few years.

It’s a record with a few winners, a few losers and some fillers. However, it is by no means a poor record. There’s plenty here that most modern electro artists would die to produce, but it’s a shame that there’s just so much here that falls far short of the work Dear has done in the past.

It’s precise where MASSEDUCTION was deliciously sloppy. But in real terms, they’re both as near to perfect as a pop record is going to get these days--incredibly perceptive, personal and inviting with clever lyrics sitting on beautifully inventive melodies. Both albums are great. Both albums deserve all the awards.

Vile had the opportunity, with the success of his previous solo album, to make something completely polished and aim for the stars to just see where he landed. Rather than dialling back the finesse, he could have aimed for his Rumours, his Full Moon Fever. Instead, his eyes seemly firmly fixed on the road, then at the beach and then at the gutter. And it’s a thrill to join him everywhere he goes.

The outright corniness of some of the tracks--the steel drums of “Night Chef”, the softened yacht-rock of “Conceptual Mediterranean (Part 1)”--test the listener’s patience. Ultimately the purposeful superficiality of Out of Touch renders it inessential.

Where the original lacked depth, these versions source it through the lens of a quasi 21-track double album with revived bass and energy that is the stuff of their live shows.

Brandon Coleman's debut album is a funk-fuelled cacophony that some will adore, but its over-commitment to a narrow sound means that, unless you fall in love, you may find limited replay-ability in this album.

It’s a deeply engaging, consistently great release from a uniquely interesting artist. It’s just a damn shame that he’ll never get the chance to do it again.

I Loved You At Your Darkest dips in and out of musical splendour, changing course and reference, and while not necessarily black metal in a full labeling sense, nor rock-heavy alone, it’s a rather accessible hybrid.

The specificity of the lyrics and the boldness of the electronic orchestration should theoretically preclude this--but Grant lets the emotions that drive them show through enough that you can’t help but connect.

Where Domestica broke your heart, Vitriola only manages to get you half riled at the world around you. Kasher and co. continue to produce records that hit the nail on the head in terms of topic. This time, however, the hammer blows aren’t what they’ve been before.

Maybe it’s a little lighter, a little more carefree, a little sparer than her last few--or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t sound so hurt--but this feels like a step into something fresh. If not a creative rebirth, then a creative renewal.

As the tracks ebb and flow, the record provides the perfect accompaniment to the current heatwave we're all struggling to survive. Santigold has dropped this full-length artefact at exactly the right time, and she deserves all the recognition she gets.

Fucked Up’s personal narrative draws an uncanny parallel with that of Dose Your Dreams. In creating a tale of dreaming big and clinging on to hope they are living out their own script, refusing to be bound or compromise in the creation of their art. The importance of dreams cannot be understated.

C’est La Vie once again finds Houck creating sumptuous soundscapes of scorched Americana that range from slow burning laments to tipsy waltzes, but this time around with a renewed flow and finesse.