Fans of Oldham pre-BPB will be presented with a wealth of nuance and points of comparison, though first-time listeners would likely be alienated by its understated sound and self-referential motifs.

The vast bulk--and on an album as thick with ideas as this, vast is the operative word--of Furfour is a masterclass in modern psychedelia, experimental enough to satiate the genre’s connoisseurs yet fluid and welcoming enough to be accessed by audiences from across the popular music spectrum.

The Shadow I Remember suggests something is incomplete, the band failing to consistently scale the heights capable at their gut-punching best.

A record that is as self-aware of the pressures of romance and stardom as it is a bare, naked representation of the singer’s heart and soul.

Atomic doesn’t quite hit the heights of their greatest soundtrack successes, but as a further document of a restlessly inventive band constantly tweaking their sound, it’s well worth approaching with open ears.

They’re sounds we’ve all heard before but done spectacularly.

The best moments of the album work by adding a more considered approach to material that, in the wrong hands, could sound slapdash. However, the albums least remarkable moments are plodding at best and mawkish at worst.

Even with their most straight-ahead record to date, GBV still show that they’re capable of surprises, and no matter how much more they release in the next [insert arbitrary period of time here], will always be worth following.

Power is a rampaging success at being theatrical, dramatic, grandiose and, simultaneously, tasteful.

While it might sometimes lose that heart, when it rediscovers its path again, it becomes an incredibly immersive and exciting album.

Ultimately In Amber demonstrates an unexpected mastery of dance floor inflected, gothic-folk tinged, post punk, driven by raw feeling and humanity. With topics as grave, the fact these songs only occasionally teeter on the hazardous borderline where meaning meets portentention is a mark of the sheer skill of those involved.

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.

Resonating like a joyful shout in the distance, Four of Arrows draws you towards it, and you’d be a fool not to follow.

Chaos Angel stays inherently pure, expertly produced in a way that Hawke’s airy vocals are free to dance over a gathering of enchanting instrumentation. Still, her poetic writing achievements rest at the foreground of the record, demonstrating a detailed surveillance of her life, in order to acquire some valuable closure in the face of chaos.

Wooden Head is a more than agreeable rethink of late sixties rock.

This is a fan’s album, made for, helped by and a testament to Idlewild’s worshippers’ passion and patience. For some, the changes will be welcomed with flung-open arms like an old friend; for others, it might just be a little too much to handle.

It’s a worldly record in many ways, and though the core tenet is of his personal feelings, it works just as well as you what you’d probably assume the record to be about--abandoned cities.

The melding of beats, instrumentation and vocals congeal to form a silky smooth palate of R&B, old school hip-hop beats, and the tang of straight-up restrained pop rich in life and vulnerability.

This isn’t mere dilettantism, and while it’s likely to net both acts new fans from the other side of the great genre divide, it holds up more than capably on its own terms.

Seems Unfair manages exceed its predecessor in every way whilst never shedding any of the DIY charm that made their debut so endearing to begin with.

There are one or two slightly lacklustre moments, such as "Hold On Me", which doesn’t feel like it belongs, but they are far outnumbered and outshined by the groove of songs like "Old Flame" and the smart, questioning lyrics of "Validation". It’s a record that challenges complacency

Even if it doesn’t feel like a groundbreaking return, many tracks here align with his ingenious artistic consistency.

It's a noisy little beast that will leave you feeling somewhat battered, disorientated, but actually, the stink of the corpse of rock has never sounded so good. Just have some paracetamol to hand.

Collaborating with vocalists such as Hannah Peel, Blaine Harrison of The Mystery Jets, Euros Childs and Jane Weaver, the musical styles glide from genre to genre with impressive ease. The approach would have resulted in a patchy album in most other people’s hands, but The Soft Bounce makes such eclecticism sound like a natural thing.

Listeners may not like the whole album--but they’ll almost definitely love it in parts.

With every listen, each song takes on a new richness, becoming something that will simultaneously become the sound of summer, yet a particular personal soundtrack that you’ll keep on coming back to.

There’s a richness to IV which was not present on their last record, and it revolutionises their appeal.

Brief as it may be, Frozen Letter covers a lot of ground for Spider Bags--it has them gleefully offering us tasty kibbles of what they’ve always excelled at while also boldly paving themselves a new path forward.

They’re the whirling dervish we’ve enjoyed for decades, having brewed another storm when music needs a serious injection of fun again.

Complete with contributions from a star-studded cohort of guests including Stormzy, Aitch and Popcaan, the LP serves as Loski’s most accessible project to date, but he takes care to spotlight his less well-known Harlem Spartans colleagues Blanco and MizOrMac.

With Saltwater but as a difficult second album goes, this is a total breeze rather than a mainsail-battering ocean storm.

It’s music that shakes you to your core, and even if you’re left frosty-hearted afterwards, you’ll be under the spell.

It’s clear that Morning/Evening has been inspired by, and tailored for, its respective times of day and this works well. But it feels like the majority of Hebden’s attention has gone into the first side resulting in an enjoyable, if front-loaded album.

The eleven songs here are tidy and self-contained but not sealed. The possibilities for Black Marble continue to open.

Going it alone might not have been the most obvious next step for Pierce, however he has managed to maintain a catchy and consistent sound that justifies that decision.

Every bit as dense and nuanced as their more traditional work, Celestite might end up finding itself falling between two stools, but no-one could accuse Wolves in the Throne Room of going at this half-heartedly.

Silver / Lead is a record with density but one that is also light on its feet.

Its resistance to structure creates in the listener a heightened awareness of each individual sound, and the resulting friction or harmony when pressed against another.

This debut record still sounds like a band caught between two stools, not sure if they’re still full-on punks anymore or softer, introspective shoegazers.

Clocking in at sixty-two-minutes, Intruder finds Gary Numan undeterred in continuing to push at the buttons of a world increasingly devoted to its own demise.

The product of constant playing and musical experimentation between tour duties, Armageddon In A Summer Dress marks the point where the nominally folkie Ward goes electric. The effect is frequently electrifying.

This is a record that shrugs off some of the grandiosity of America and instead offers more detail and smaller, more nuanced yet easily interpreted emotions within a relatively familiar context.

Whilst they recognise that change in any capacity comes with risks, they are taking matters into their own hands, and coming out the other side better for it.

Dirt Femme is sexy, smart, and most importantly; fun. It’s a step up for Tove Lo without losing any of her signature charm, and it might just be her best album yet.

SUGAREGG is not without its moments of doubt and misfires. Regardless, it’s a product of its context, an artefact indicative of a change in intent and perspective by its creator. It’s a product full of joy, not maddening, but genuinely uplifting and encouraging. It’s also the best thing Bognanno has written.

Most albums would capsize under weight of a colossus like “Defeat”, a seamless combination of disembodied, sweet yet wounded underwater harmonies, drone-fueled introspection and outbreaks of mellow yet exuberant rhythmic mantras (which echo the Grateful Dead at their most joyously lively) that doesn’t waste a second despite its marathon 22-minute duration. However, the rest of Isn’t It Now? lives up to the outsized expectations created by its centrepiece.

Sometimes the electricity is there, and when it is it connects deeply, but when it doesn't it's hard to see past the banality of its structure.

If Half-Light feels a touch scattershot, it’s likely because it’s the result of years of his creative energy being pent-up on the road with the band when he’d have much rather been at home in the studio, and it doesn’t dilute the emotional resonance of his best lyrics here, which are a world away from the coy collegiate that Koenig presents as.

It’s thirty five years of dance music history wrapped up in a glorious fifty minutes and with Whang at the helm, it’s encased with an icy sheen, impossible to resist.

International is a sign of gradual progression for Lust For Youth; there’s occasional backward looks by Norrvide, but slowly and surely this music is stepping out of the shadows and into the light.

A casual dance music fan may find the lack of variety in terms of tempo somewhat cumbersome, but if you look at this through the prism of Honey Dijon as a DJ it makes total sense.

Even when tracks are slowed down, momentum is kept up through classic, subtle funk elements and hints of gospel-music playing behind.

At times it makes the album feel like a compilation of great lost No Wave acts, but when it all clicks together like on the blistering, agit-hardcore blast "They Know", Deaf Wish are a mighty force.

The Don of Diamond Dreams has plenty of mass appeal regardless of its unconventional style, but still Butler entices us just enough by adding bits of flair to its top tracks.

While there’s no memorable poppy chorus here, or lush, full-band arrangements, or zany quirkiness, Hyperspace is nevertheless totally Beck: an experiment in broadening his own horizons, trying something new, which yet again just so happens to sound quite refreshing. It’s a worthy addition to this musical chameleon’s catalogue.

LP.8 is certainly roomier than Owens’ previous work. More directed at dedicated dance-heads, more suited to the durgy decrepitude of basement dancefloors, and more abstract in its approach. But LP.8 provides further evidence that Kelly Lee Owens operates in a field entirely of her own.

Her trademark confidence is now tinged with a newfound self-awareness, as if evolving through her experience of the joys and pitfalls of celebrity. ... Surprisingly, the standout track from the record, “Crying in the Car”, is a diorama of nostalgia, melancholy and faith, counterbalancing Megan’s overall ethos of optimistic self-empowerment. ... For listeners, it makes a strong case for the rapper’s longevity within the increasingly fickle world of music.

Overall this record feels like a pocket in time and the breeze of nostalgia is welcome in parts but is wholly unsatisfying.

Pearl Mystic is a promising debut from Hookworms, but whether it’s universally appealing is impugnable--there’s a suspicion that accessibility is not exactly on the top of Hookworms’ priorities; instead making interesting, immersive music to get lost in clearly is.

By turns infuriating and intoxicating, but swaying strongly in favour of the latter, Little Sand Box ultimately suggests that maybe those promoters were in the wrong after all back in 1991.

On Wild Crush, Archie Bronson Outfit deliver a record which feels as organic and honest as all of their previous releases, but it has a little something extra about it.

Although not a million miles away from what we’ve heard of Johns before, with Adams’ help this release has captured a moment in time between the two artists that speaks volumes.

Throughout, the refreshed use of light and dark is notable and works. There is contrast and there is colour.

Golden Eagle is a wonderful collection of songs and tales that ultimately find a sense of redemption. Over its ten songs Macve displays an innate talent for exquisite songwriting and storytelling in a voice that is just jaw-dropping.

It’s soppy in the right amount, but it captures the humour and truth in trying to make it through that quarter-life crisis. While it might never really reach the dizzying heights of Alvvays, it still shows the band head and shoulders above the rest.

A masterclass in how to show exploration while never straying from the beaten path, Miranda is a mind most should look to. Rich in melody and promise, she leaves no stone unturned on her journey to the centre of the musical earth.

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.

As the band continue to explore the elements of shoegaze, jazz-melodies and saccharine pop at the edges of their well-worn indie-rock, Happyness find themselves back in top form and ready to reach out once more into a chaotic unknown.

Songwriting of this quality, with powers of suggestion and intimations of doubt, deserves an audience well beyond the historically-inclined.

Lacking in the upbeat indie of his debut Dear, or the powerful emotional outbursts clustered in Birthdays, Monument is a heavy, but truly worthwhile, listen.

Viewed on its own, the often captivating Black Stallion is an effective electronic record.

What it undoubtedly is however is a tentative sidestep, keeping one foot firmly in New York post-punk while allowing the other to wander towards sunnier, more refined pastures. An alternative route that, while not always trodden in style, Palberta have nevertheless proven they’re more than adept at taking.

The result here is a compelling record that is as confident in its shiny, polished singles as in its crepuscular oddities.

Hop Up lives up to its buoyant name, carefree, poignant and a tonic of testing times.

It’s an album that doesn’t demand attention but rewards those willing to sit with it, probably best described as an understated success. It would seem the more things change, the more they stay the same.

As it stands, the more things change the more that stay the same. But, when you have a formula as egregiously glorious and cacophonous as PUP is no bad thing.

I Got Too Sad For My Friends doesn’t deliver much versatility. Each track rolls into the next, and while that is alike to the depression Denton dissects in the record, it doesn’t make for varied listening.

An endearing, lo-fi filtered record not limited in what it has to say.

Dream Wife is a fierce finger to the patriarchy for a fresh and socially aware generation.

Nothing continues his life’s work to twist and distort. To invert boundaries and genres and do more. Yes at times it seems like there’s a little something missing. Yes at times it could use something more. But there is and it could. It’s called Nothing. Sometimes that’s the point.

While not a step forward, What Went Down is a consolidation and refinement of Foals’ artistic strengths and explorations over their previous trio of albums.

There’s too much telling and not enough showing across More Light‘s 70 minutes.

A surprising and moving step forwards in the restless career of a master melodian.

In embracing a formlessness, he may have found a new, truer form for his work. In making this album, he has in fact created a world; perhaps not one you would want to inhabit, but one inspiring awe and dread in equal measure.

If there’s a critique, it’d be on density, the album feels super compressed with a hectoring pressure that barely lets up despite some smart sequencing choices chopping up the pacing as well as it can to ride the turbulence. More moments of atmospheric space could have given the emotional catharsis room to breathe.

Erupting out of the soil quicker than daffodils in spring, Sigrid’s growth is nothing short of remarkable on How To Let Go.

Marlon Williams is a perfectly pleasant listen, but we’ll have to check back to see what Williams can do when his personal experience catches up to his subject matter.

The echoes of his home band are clear, but there’s also an underlying feeling of something greater at play - the proof that he can cut it as a name as much as he can a band, and Serpentine Prison is Matt Berninger’s artistic truth and joy.

We’ve only got eight tracks here, about twenty or so minutes of music, but not a second of it is wasted, and just about every moment is brilliant.

It’s those little moments that best prove that Slow Pulp themselves have found that same type of sweetness, and with it they’ve delivered their best project thus far.

A collection that isn’t going to win over the world but might just help you make more sense out of it.

With riffs weighted so they're heavy enough to bludgeon, and vocals that feel like they're being torn straight from the larynx, the album is a tour de force of high octane refrains and filth-driven focus.

Freakout/Release features many moments of quintessential Hot Chip fun, but explores other exciting avenues as well. What’s clearly still at the centre though is the heart and love for creativity that this band still have, and it’s a testament to their talent that through all the music they create between them they can still turn out interesting hits in new ways.

Even if seems a touch outdated at points, though, there’s not likely to be another punk album this year that unleashes its ire with such precision--and it’s proof again, too, that Oberst remains a master of switching through the gears.

Rave Tapes doesn’t quite reach the euphoric heights of Hardcore Will Never Die, but it is an elaborate and intelligent album from a group that isn’t interested in grabbing their listeners by the scruff of their collective neck anymore; instead, today’s Mogwai are purveyors of nuance and subtlety, and fine ones at that.

There’s a notable evolution here, and we see the lone Jackson strive for something you can sink your teeth into over the course of a few days, weeks, month, rather than something you can insufflate at a club in the space of a few minutes.

While it might not appeal to name-checked acts Phil Collins (dead, apparently) or Sting (“Lose the fucking yoga”) those who seek solitude in the British weather, putting the world to rights in the local and who see the beauty in Motorway services and high-vis jackets will be thrilled with a collection that’s Blighty-themed, from a duo whose output is still beautiful.

A futuristic perspective on post-punk and rock and roll. Clever enough to implant electronic hooks into your brain, subconsciously. Dumb enough to smash a guitar into the drum kit, just for kicks. These guys have got it all.