Gossamer has enough going on musically to shift the focus away from the occasionally mawkish lyrics.

One of Strut's best compilations to date.

As ever with compilations of almost-lost treasures such as this, it is the certain out of time quality that is its greatest attribute.

Lyrically The House That Jack Built is a masterpiece.

Channel Orange is a staggering step upwards from Nostalgia.

R.A.P. Music is an album that takes the energy of hip hop's rebellious instincts as its heart and reminds us of their importance.

On Confess his tired, joyless music and moribund, hackneyed and hankey lyricism suggests a man whose concept of romanticism would go nicely with a Nairn cracker and dab of quince jelly.

If Mostly No lacks genuine innovation, the album more than compensates with a radiating glow of veneration.

As an album that can trace its lineage to tripped out rock & roll of The Cramps' classic Psychedelic Jungle, this is a record that will delight the type of antisocial delinquent given to dabbing, dropping and freaking out.

It's a strange album on the whole, though there's no doubting Corgan has his mojo back, and if you can stomach a 45-year-old man still whining on about isolation and stuff then this may well be up your proverbial alley.

Part of the album's cunning is owed to the time allotted for disparate strands to develop and take form.

This is an album that seems to spring from an indoor world of cerebral textures and bedroom experiments, a headphone odyssey for an era in which the rock gig has become a corporate-sponsored burlesque.

Barrow doesn't go through the motions – and >> is definitely not the sound of a band in decline.

Blues Control are no longer noisy or childishly rudimentary, at least by most avant-yardsticks. Cho, on piano and keyboards, improvises with a new deftness; Waterhouse claws back a degree of rockism with thudding boogie drums and a guitar choked with the dust of its own basement.

Perhaps there's a danger here and there of Singh and Ayres getting their heads down and too deep in the blissed-out funk ... but really they just want to see what sticks. That's all they've ever tried, and most of it does.

This is not a live album, but an alive album, one of the most visceral, beautiful records you'll hear this year.

Each song has a very different message, although it is the highlife feeling that stays with the listener.

Make no mistake, this record sounds amazing... But in choosing to stick to classic song structures rather than utilise their incredible sound technology to explore the experimental avant-garde, or to make killer dance tracks, A Place To Bury Strangers run the risk of all their songs sounding pretty much the same.

The sense of meticulous balance that dominates 'The Dream' permeates MSOTT.

[On The Cherry Thing] the point in the middle where the two parties meet turns out to be a particularly sweet spot where jazz, punk, soul and even a hint of pop blend together beautifully in a dream come true.

As the title of the soporific, sunbleached skank that is 'LO HI' suggests, 'Lucifer' is more a subdued warm bath of than a plunge into the psyche.

It's clear that this band has focused too much on referencing and too little on songwriting.

Personal, moving, poetic, humorous, and engaging.

Where Bridges felt like extensions of his legendary freeform live set, Reeling Skullways is far tighter in focus and execution.

For all the talk of madness, it would seem more than ever that Sebastien Tellier knows exactly what he's doing.

A pleasant, professional offering that rarely goes anywhere you wouldn't expect it to.

If the first [issue] had sonic charms which seem extemporary, this one is somewhere between the sublunary murk of the earlier bootlegs, the original band-approved TeePee records version of 2003 and a brighter, modern-sounding studio demo, but it's not glaringly distinct.

Three good tracks [songs, "Motion Sickness," "Ends of the Earth," and "Flutes,"] do not an album make - and, unfortunately, this is the sum of the worthwhile moments on In Our Heads. Elsewhere the album is pure drudgery, remarkable only in its dullness.