Waverly is just that: a study of tension, mysticism and some natural elements thrown in for good measure.

One of Cerulean Salt’s great triumphs is that we believe in these people, the album’s intimacy heightens its sense of realism, its characters feel living.

It’s impossible to listen to Sticky Wickets without amusement, but on occasion the procession of guests and parade of pastiches threaten to encroach into “novelty” territory.

Constantly waiting for that ever-impending explosion of mind-expanding neo-psychedelic glory, Comfort dissipates feeling hackneyed and burdened by lacklustre platitudes despite the rare flicker of hesitant brilliance.

The band’s audible aspiration towards greatness on this album is the most welcome aspect about it. You can hear the effort that was put into making it as galactic and sprawling as it is.

It’s a solid start from this supergroup, but the tug of old strings still dominates proceedings a little too much to mark this out as anything wholly unique in itself. But for some, that’ll be just fine.

His self-titled effort amounts to little more than the sound of him treading water; it’s every bit as fun and energetic as GB City, and the chaotic live shows aren’t likely to see a change of pace any time soon, but there’s practically nothing in the way of progression here, either.

While there are certainly times on Without Your Love where Greenspan’s over-application of eerie temperaments and lofty layers of sampling can start to drag--the found sound, musique concrète of ‘Misunderstood’ or ‘Crossed Wires’’ uninteresting non-sequitur coming immediately to mind--these rarely detract from what is, at its core, a fascinating, contemplative and forward-thinking collection.

Like any farce, the Kenny Dennis LP is something of an acquired taste, and if the recent existential contemplating all engaged with rap music have done upon being presented with, by the likes of Das Racist, Kitty Pryde, and Riff Raff, a mirror within which to see themselves is any indication, Serengeti’s masterful card will polarize as much as amuse.

Lightning Dust’s giving close attention to details of composition, resisting the temptation to stretch material or ideas too thinly, has brought about an album of ambition and maturity, of subtle shades of darkness and light, of promise fulfilled.

They’ve given the folk-drenched musical world of the last few years a well timed kick in the balls.

There are plenty of small discoveries to be found within each of With Love‘s intricate sound trips, but there is enough mystery and intrigue injected into each textured layer to keep you wanting to find new ways to get lost.

Their tracks are short and sharp bursts for the most part, rarely cracking three minutes and crammed with ideas (sometimes to the point of disorientation) but it does mean nothing stagnates and keeping up with the stylistic shifts is an exhilarating task.

The first five tracks are thrillingly and relentlessly inventive, but then comes a handful of weaker numbers which don’t deviate all that much from the Kanye blueprint (at least as much as you could trace such a thing through 808s and Twisted Fantasy).

Strange Pleasures can indeed take you anywhere if you let it, with a journey of discovery awaiting you anytime you cue it up.

In fact, far from feeling like a tired riff on an established formula, Turbines might just be the most definitive Tunng record yet.

On Gold Panda‘s sophomore full length, moments of predictability are rare.

This certainly won’t be the most original album you’ll hear this year, but it will be one of the most charming, and the rate at which Jones is managing to churn out quality pop songs bodes well for the future, and means you can forgive him Sob Story‘s occasional misstep.

The album is full of high-energy, highly-infectious dance numbers--in a way that demands frequently radio play, big-budget festival spots, distasteful Kesha collaborations, and another five year break between this and album #3.

Our Nature is a seriously accomplished pop record, and a perfect progression.

For all its faults, the heart and maturity at the centre of Soft Will feels more vital and important than their showy genre tourism ever did.

In Personal Record, Eleanor Friedberger has delivered on every promise she’s ever made with her music, and come up with an ever-unfolding, fully-realised gem.

Kveikur is a record you play for the sheer catharsis of it--a work of art to plug into when grey buildings and greyer skies tower too densely around you, and you wish for nothing more than to close your eyes and feel the terrible greatness of nature swallow you up.

The difference on Trouble Will Find Me is that everything feels clarified through a decade of wisdom, with volatility frequently superseded by sensibility.

It’s designed for the outdoors, for huge crowds and for losing your mind to. There are few artists that have perfected the kind of engrossing and engaging dance delights that Jono and Gabriel are demonstrating here.

While it isn’t pretty, cute, comfortable or enlightening music, Field of Reeds is important, resonant, serious and very very clever.

There is something intangibly magnetic about In Love, and it feels like a wonderful, igniting record--when so many other “indie” records fail to stir any emotion other than indifference.

The tunes are there, they’re tsunami big and surfer cool--the lyrics are there, bold, bleak and biting--but there’s been an oversight when it comes to stamping on the pedals, letting rip and allowing Surfer Blood to tear this material a new hole.