Wild Light as a whole represents the band’s most ambitious work to date; it’s a meticulously crafted and admirably complex record from a band that are constantly thrilling in their unpredictability.

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.