This isn’t a terrible album, but it’s not much more than a re-run of what Pelican have been doing for a decade before.

Cults is a pop band--albeit a very distinctive one--and Static only works when the band delivers on the melodies that made its debut so compelling.

Somehow intimate yet vast, Summer Through My Mind is a record that you may not like or even “get”, but you can lose yourself in the familiar sense of disorientation and confusion of life that is revealed by a divine understanding within the songs themselves.

Much like a Full English and a strong cup of tea, Luke Temple wipes away the hangover from what you might otherwise call pop’s misguided choices (including the bubble perm and Kylie-and-Jason collabs), leaving only the happy memories of dancing to ’80s classics like it’s 1999.

All in all, Glacier appears to constitute a bid to be taken seriously.

Taken as a ‘new’ complete album it could do with stretching out a little and lighting the occasional fire under the occasionally maintained for a touch too long strolling pace, but it works absolutely fine as a way of shining new light on often overlooked but clearly internally beloved outposts of their two decade career of rainy nights and velvet-lined plush bars at last orders.

It’s ambitious, even expansive, in scope, despite the introspection his lyrics communicate, and even if it wasn’t the intention, he provides an incredible snapshot of urban life through the lens of love and brittle electro-soul.

Campfire Songs admirably continues along their new musical direction and beckons you to head to Vermont wearing a wooly jumper, with all ingredients needed for S’mores in tow.

Let’s Be Still is wholesome and sincere, in the way those words were intended, and without any pretense or airs and graces.

In My Name Is My Name, Pusha T has produced one of the most diverse and constantly rewarding hip-hop records of the year; twelve tracks tied together by a man at the top of his form and who, quite soon, may yet reach the highest summits.

It’s hardly a surprise that Big Wheel and Others is at its best when McCombs just keeps it simple with himself and his acoustic guitar, while the moments where he overreaches are the longer pieces without the focus found elsewhere.

The layers of noise, which at first may seem intimidating, are so harmonically rich they immerse the listener as the sounds interact creating new and unexpectedly mellifluous sounds.

Pay no attention to the lyrics (pretend you’re foreign or something), concentrate on the music, and you might just enjoy yourself after all.

While the second release may not live up to the first, it’s hard not to hope for a third.

Beautiful and with a hint of danger, Heritage is approachable and voguish, a slice of neon noir as atmospheric as it is sleek, and a testament to Grellier’s formidable world-scoring talents.

Sure, there are flashes of brilliance where studio trickery elicits intriguing headphone moments but these are by-and-large in the minority.

The stronger songs sound intentionally raw and impulsive; the weaker songs like demos waiting to be fleshed out.

A record to showcase where they are now, and hint toward where they might be headed.

The result of his efforts is a celebration of the strength of his character and like his personal journey, Southeastern is story full of meaning and it commands the listener’s full attention.

There’s no inherently bad songwriting here, but most of it isn’t particularly interesting, either. This ultimately becomes the chief complaint here.

It’s difficult, though, to listen to fifty percent of Sonic Youth making endearingly experimental music and feel obliged to pick faults with it. When Last Night on Earth gets it right, the results are magical--the searing ‘The Rising Tide’ is the highlight of any post-Youth output to date.

It’s a record that showcases professionalism and musicianship, a sonic rhizome of musical references and genealogies.

Returning to the attic in which they wrote and recorded Broom, the three-piece have suitably streamlined their sound to accommodate the lesser manpower and what’s more, it works.

All told, The Island Years contains an embarrassment of riches and must rank as amongst the most exhaustive and impressive undertakings of its kind; it’s the kind of towering tribute Martyn’s talents richly deserve. However, it’s hard to figure out who it’s intended for exactly.

Interiors is often captivating, always interesting and certainly another confident and assured step forward for Mesirow and Glasser.

This follow-up is powered by the same blend of the majestically mournful and the teeth-grindingly abrasive, only with less dense textures (a good thing), and a more pronounced interest in propulsive beats and rhythms (an even better thing).

It’s haughtier, humbler, more powerful, more delicate; it’s like Anna Calvi was dipping a toe in the sea, and now that she knows that the world rather quite approves of her, she’s ripped the ripcord and is delivering the beast within.

Siberia reaffirms just how brilliant this lot can be.

Field recordings, earthly elements, human murmurs and heavy breathing mix seamlessly with synthesizers, drums and keyboards to produce a meditative enlightenment, with Jaar and Harrington creating an album based on opposites, successfully uniting the natural with the unnatural.

Bitter Rivals' more diffuse nature seems to have prevented them from impressing their personality on their music in quite the same manner; it’s difficult to rate it as highly as a result, but this remains a solid effort.

Dynamics is, first and foremost, a dance album, and as such, it passes its most critical test with flying colors; at no point during its duration is one unburdened of the desire to dance.

On this album, the influences are acknowledged and respected while still managing to sound original.

What is truly special here is that Willner has made an album that will acclimatise itself to your surroundings.

Blitzen Trapper are unabashed traditionalists, and they’re not shy about letting you know it.

Preferring to be a bit more refined, The Silver Gymnasium mixes maturity and depth with rare awkward moments which are more typical of a band that is musically in their late adolescence.

Her sonic advancement doesn’t smack you in the chops are much as it did on Interstellar, but there’s notable alterations and plenty of reasons to love it regardless.

Old provides expository context and an origin story of sorts for that voice.

whilst there’s nothing that can quite hold a candle to ‘Things you can do’ on ’3030′, Event II is a consistent, original record.

At its best, it’s vintage Quasi.... But at its worst, you find yourself checking the tracklist to see just how much more of the record is left.

They’ve evolved in shocking ways, but still remain loyal to their m.o., and thickly smother everything in a shoegaze glaze; culminating in a record that’s smoother, smilier and more adventurous than their eponymous debut.

Country Mile is a fine album, testament to the smartly ornate take on English folk old and new as one and the same, but given Flynn’s own catalogue and his undoubted abilities it hasn’t progressed as far as it could have done.

Revel in the moods and noises, go with the ebb and flow of mood, pace and dynamic, conjure up your own tales to tell around its sounds: this is music with elastic boundaries, that will accommodate the interpretations that you choose to place on it, and bear them with a surprising lightness of touch.

It’s an ambitious enterprise--and one that Stewart tackles in a number of remarkable ways.

There really is a veritable deluge of ephemera attached to the deluxe editions of this release, so there is certainly plenty for fans and collectors to hunker down over. Be warned though, there is plenty of dross to wade through until you’re able to reveal anything of true value.

The record is everything you’d expect from a PINS debut, with a little bit extra tacked on. Mostly, it’s a belligerent beast, boasting bravado and a torrent of guitar swarms.

Overall, Days Are Gone showcases the band’s individual strengths that have been pulled together to create a collective group with intensity and depth of potential.

They’ve made a cracking collection of songs on Dalmak that are immersive and highly visual--even without lyrics, the four-piece are adept at weaving tabula rasa backings on which vivid imaginations are free to roam and gallop like free-range chickens.

Less sprawling than its immediate predecessor, at its best it highlights the band’s creativity and tautness, echoing some of the vigour of Born on Flag Day.

Nothing Was the Same is different because Drake has stopped worrying so much about who he’s become and figured out who he is.

There’s a couple of minor stumbles, and it has a knack for dithering, but when it comes together, it really, really comes together.

Lanterns on the Lake have drawn on harsh experience to produce a beautiful record that’s anything but superficial.

Whether Potty Mouth are achieving anything new is besides the point--the important thing is that they feel fresh and relevant, whereas the punk of today has seemingly had its time, growing increasingly redundant and stale

There is nothing better than hearing an artist reaching the apex of his power. Trentemøller arrives at that point with this album taking its rightful place amongst the best electronic albums released this year with comparative e

Several of the tracks are too short, as if in an eagerness for the songs to sit within a four minute pop structure, instead of discarding some of their ideas, they cram them all in and cut down the song length.

While it’s good to have Sebadoh back thrashing around in the unfurnished basement of the music industry once again, you just wonder how much better the results would have been if they had a complete album’s worth of material that proved worthy of their return.

Musically, Dream River sticks calmly to understated Americana, generally managing to pull off Lambchop’s neat one-inch punch trick--seemingly effortless and gentle, only to echo with far more drama and beautifully powerful resonance.

This is a near-faultless EP, and one that’s so incredibly moreish.

It’s about words and emotions rather than big pop moments; this is a slow-burner, which though possesses grandiose moments of musical glory, revels in the detail.

On the whole, this is a wonderful album, and a suitable follow-up to Bliss Release.

There’s nothing particularly new here, nothing cutting edge, but there is beautiful, considered, genuine songwriting, and to greet such art with any kind of disdain would be nothing short of a travesty.

On Mediation of Ecstatic Energy he is able to give that virtuosity a form that makes for a coherent, beautiful album.

A soundtrack for life’s glorious heights and crumbling nadirs.

Once more, Nightmares On Wax provide the backing music to the party; once more, your enjoyment is only limited by your own imagination.

It’s worth a spin for sure, and there’s some spangly gems on offer, but if you were looking for a reinvention of the wheel, Blouse are going to make you wait a bit longer.

Spreading Rumours has enough charm to keep you busy, but not enough (bar ‘Ways To Go’) to keep you mesmerised in the long-term.

It’s a glorious return from one of 2010s most talked about bands that deserve to be talked about all over again.

In all though, Kiss Land succeeds on not only being an album in the assumed sense of the word, with big singles, tasty hooks and singalong phrases, but as a concept record too, one that takes you hostage.

As much as this is a horrific and challenging listen at times, Coming Apart is also an utterly captivating and thrilling record and...whisper it...could end up being the best music she’s ever put her name to.

Imitations is another strong entry to the diverse repertoire of a singer who seems to be gaining an increasing grasp of his vast expressive potential with age.

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.

Smilewound’s gleeful, weird-pop eclecticism builds up the goodwill to cover any lull.

Three out of the four songs are at least enjoyable.

Rewind the Film seems immediately poised for lost-classic status-- for all its clumsiness and flaws, it’s the kind of album that wants you to let it sink in, or even gather dust, until you remember it’s there.

While there’s a bit of a formula to be spotted, it’s one that works for them--given that it’s new to us, it’s easy to appreciate and doesn’t wear too thin over Weird Sister's duration.

Dense, uneasy psychedelia dominates, and although this isn’t a product of wilfully inaccessible experimentation, neither does it contain much in the way of instant melodies and conventional song structures.

It glistens like a pop album should, shimmering like a blue lagoon under midday sun..

Made In California does a great job of confirming just how much more there was to The Beach Boys than sunshine and girls.

It’s a charming record, but one likely to be appreciated to its fullest only in the dingiest times of the year, those days when you find yourself in need of a reminder of sunnier months just to keep going.

All in all, it is one of the most exceptionally realised albums to enter the world since her last release, and confirms that both as an artist and a role-model Monáe really ought to be celebrated as Electric Lady number one.

Equally far from disappointment or ascendency, it tacks about its ashen existence, perfectly fine and perfectly listenable and perfectly suffering for it.

While it might not be the masterpiece some people are looking for from this band, it is nevertheless a more than worthy addition to their canon.

This album opens up the treasure chest and allows you to marvel. His disposable notions turn out to be consistently worthy of such regard.

Back to Forever is a fully-realised pop album and grandiose to a fault. It’s got a fair share of cheesy moments, but they’re endearing.

It’s an overwhelmingly dark album.

Law and Order attempts to restore some sort of musical faith, but comes across as sounding like a narscisstic debut that only Jonathan Rado really understands.

The songs themselves don’t shine through the production.

Factory Floor’s music is distilled down into three elements. Rhythm. Synths. Vocals. That they make something so evocatively alienated, so compulsively unknowable and so bleakly irresistible from simply this is a sharp, uncompromising, emphatic victory.

The economic arrangements make sure that every note counts.

Sadly, these tracks don’t have any of the spontaneity and unexpected surprises that the warmer months bring with them, and instead these songs are plagued with familiar strains and arrangements that we’ve heard done far better in the past combined with overly simplistic, lovelorn lyrics that fail to make you think of anything other than bad middle-school poetry.

Nothing to rival ‘Time For Heroes’, then, but this as accessible, and as listenable, as anyone may have hoped for.

Its stylistic diversity can be off-putting at first. But the more you listen, the more it all comes together.

This is pop, pure and simple, and taken as such, is a rollicking pleasure.

Idle No More is inspiring on many levels, but mostly because it beckons us to dance passionately and live fully in the wake of ever present darkness.

It’s a tremendous listen and a wonderful demonstration of her talents nonetheless.

A daring, self-assured statement by a band who have finally figured out just what a special thing they have created with Volcano Choir, but still aren’t aware of where it’s going to take them next.

Buckner’s record is a vague reflection of something remarkably powerful, a beautiful mirror image of dreams, of dusty reminiscences and pleas that come too late.

Most of the album functions as a dance album, and a pretty good one at that. It’s the sections of the record where the focus is shifted, and Melidis tips his hat to the rock and pop music of the 60s or 70s or another by-gone era, that let the album down.

Sure, it’s chorus-driven and a touch too slick, lacking the density and the ambition and the sheer bloody nihilism of NIN’s 90’s heyday, but Reznor’s not that guy anymore--that guy died with the heroin overdose. But there are more than enough moments here to suggest a maker not--whatever the protestations of one of its tracks--yet at peace.