Bandleader Robert Grote yells with a whole lot of heart throughout Popular Manipulations but often struggles to translate that passion into meaningful lyrics.

The tunes are massive and buried in strings, synths and stacked harmonies, but the subtlety of the lyrics is lost in tunes like the Gary Numan-esque In Eternity and Broken Algorithms' Appetite for Destruction obsession. It's left to album closer The Left Behind to offer a signpost to where the Manics could go next.

As The Tourist continues to unravel, so too do the tracks--captivating in parts, but lacking a unifying urgency.

You Had Me makes for a luxurious if over-rich listen.

By its closing tracks though, the relative lack of shade to balance the bubblegum-coloured light can become a bit cloying, the endearing charm of the sugary nature fading slightly. Nevertheless, Laading and Fitzpatrick have still delivered a debut that suggests they’ll be continuing to craft impossibly catchy off-kilter pop for years to come.

Miss Anthropocene is an uneven record, and one that arrives with considerable baggage that threatens to turn it into a punching bag. But Grimes' proven abilities as a producer win out. There are superfluous, overlong passages, especially when the brightness in her music drains away.

The presence of Jeremy Gara on drums peppers the record with a likeable melodrama that’ll seem familiar to fans of Funeral or Neon Bible, although this particular record requires much closer listening to fully appreciate its charms.

At times though, the album’s dreamy nature lacks the variety and depth exuded on Owens’ previous works like Inner Song. Its reverb-soaked aura may be lovely, but it rarely drifts course.

Pensive, resting beats provide a backdrop to the album's many experiments with it really popping in its quieter moments of lyrical reflection and confrontation. Loggerhead requires repeat listening to discover its true depth.

There are plenty of pleasant enough moments on the band's seventh record as there are on all of them, but one wonders if they'll ever recapture that magic that briefly made them feel a bit special.

Snow Angel is a well-calibrated blend of ballads and upbeat pop; self-contained but not unambitious. Not dealing in grand epiphanic or showstopping moments but rather steadier, more subdued honesty, Rapp jettisons the debut pop album rule book.

He shares the ennui, dissociation, irony and unfulfillment of his particular celebrity destiny, coupled with a biting and original take on a more widely shared quotidian anxiety that listeners will note with nods and laughs and hums of recognition. But a hit or two would have been nice.

Overall, TRU is a promising step for Ovlov, albeit one that doesn’t always succeed when it comes to standing out from its peers.

It’s imperfect to be sure but that’s what debuts are all about. This is potential incarnate.

Woozy synth chords imbue the scene with a perverse mundanity that feels all too familar. At its best, New Spirit wallows in this kind of everyday helplessness.

Twerp Verse is a polished, sonically inventive record that’s both playful and punchy, but its purpose feels unclear.

The studio mix is excellent, and sample-heavy interludes provide a welcome break from what at times seems like a label compilation. One unifying thread, however, is the playground-fidelity sampling and the prominent, plucky bass, which gives the album a Parliament-ish, heavy funk overtone.

The constant changes in tone that come with such disparate collaborators mean that the album never settles into a comfortable groove the way 5:55 or IRM did.

There’s very little room for light and shade amongst their wall of cavernous synths, and while this can generate an evocative mood (the bursts of percussion and gloomy electronics of pink lightning does give the impression of thunderstorms) it can sometimes feel like James and Roddick are happy to operate within their comfort zone. Nevertheless, fans of Purity Ring fans will undoubtedly find WOMB to be a welcome return.

Ultimately, it's a collection of well-written and well-presented songs, though at this point the familiarity with the Condon style feels expected, and the few new tweaks aren't quite enough to raise Hadsel above a middling Beirut album.

Superorganism could've been the perfect indie pop record if they'd have cut back a bit on the style and added a bit more of the substance.

The album’s tendency towards soft and sugary can sometimes grate a little, especially when the band sound so vital and exciting when they amp up the dirt and energy (Silence is Golden; I Told You That I Was Afraid). Overall though, this is a solid collection of bittersweet pop gems for anyone with half a heart.

Never alarming, never challenging but always effortlessly attuned to the dusty hum of who they are, Nada Surf are a faded favourite t-shirt; an overnight stay in your childhood bed; a comforting glimpse at your past that throbs with nostalgia while burning brightly with the knowledge of how much you've changed and how far you've come.

On their underrated Stumpwork though, they found surprising ways to provide setting, but their and Cate Le Bon’s production choices here are mostly safe. The album’s second side starts meaner, muddying the palette nicely, while the shuffling, pretty I Need You’s electronic elements are a breath of fresh air.

Felt feels slightly repetitive and overlong, but is an interesting and worthwhile effort from a band whose sound continues to mature and improve.

This festival-friendly record attempts to turn Tom Misch (whether intended or not) from a producer and guitar-player into a pop star. It hasn’t quite paid off.

The problem is that, elsewhere, the album rarely transcends its position as a soundtrack and, after watching the vivid--at times stunning--film it accompanies, listening to Mister Mellow solo feels decidedly less colourful.

Ultimately, while there are a few moments that are undeniably hypnotic, the album as a whole feels just slightly less full in scope and vision than her previous bodies of work.

Everything from funk-inflected bass to smoky brass and even New Jack Swing is represented here. Despite this, sometimes the clash of sounds can feel slightly diluted by some slightly hazy production, including on The Warning, where Robyn’s emotionally-wrought vocals and the melancholy orchestration are dulled by the washed-out beats. Yet, even in these moments, there’s an air of self-assuredness.

Some of it works tremendously well. The slightly gormless swagger that propels Blue Kite meshes brilliantly with the opulent pomp of its surrounding strings, whilst Ballad of Billy has a really enjoyable surly barroom energy to it. But by the same token, the record’s move towards the anthemic is done without much subtlety, their sense of invention deserting them in the rush to get the lighters in the air.

The album is chock full of thundering tunes and monster riffage. It might be that is all you need. Unfortunately, though, Carter has a tendency to call on his inner Billy Idol when he should be channelling Ian MacKaye (see Wild Flowers).

Aside from the heavenly chorus that opens the title track, this feels very much like business as usual – which is no bad thing. Nada Surf are a fine guitar pop band. There’s not much sense on Never Not Together of them looking to change things up.

It ["Black Orpheus"] is powerful, but in truth, it's the one track that doesn't feel unfinished, as Barnes' voice finally rises above the overwhelming mix that he's buried under throughout the album.

The album’s second half slows down and lacks some of the oomph of the first, and the tone does shift around a bit too much, but that’s part of its joy.

If Apocalipstick saw Creevy swept up in mainstream music headlines, Stuffed & Ready (much like a well-seasoned Thanksgiving dinner) is self-satisfying, turning inwards on her own state rather than the United kind.

While Altogether is a pleasantly enough constructed record, it suffers a similar problem to Nothing's Dancing On the Blacktop from last year – it's just not particularly enthralling for older fans.

Although listening to Olympic Girls is an immersive experience that takes the listener away from their reality, it's bittersweet--and not the kind of contemplative place that you would want to linger in for too long.

Statik is muted to the point of silence. It’s hard to truly warm to a record that, while often morosely pretty, feels like it struggles to say much beyond a defeated sigh.

On Future Politics we find Austra revolving on the spot, caught in a flattering beam of light but still hovering on the brink of taking those first, brave steps towards a radical utopia.

Instant Halo is a reminder that the band's deepest roots are not in the snappy guitars of post-punk, nor the industrial-electro beats that inspired the likes of Trent Reznor, but a dub foundation that ensures the The Pop Group remain as danceable as they are confrontational.

There's a great album in Fontaines D.C., and Skinty Fia takes them one step closer.

Seven years on from their first record, Shopping are still giving audacious levels of energy. It would be interesting to see the band develop their electronic experiments even further in their next album; though All or Nothing builds on its predecessor, it only gives us a taste of what the trio can do when left alone with a synth.

While it might not be pushing too far beyond its own boundaries, No Rules Sandy makes for an enjoyable and affecting listen, whatever the weather.

Compassion’s best moments share this kineticism: the chirpy cowbell entry in Sudden Ambition; Tokyo’s driving bass. When the pace slows however, the group’s very affected 80s-evoking style becomes a bit overbearing, so committed to its trendy celestial shtick that it runs the risk of rebounding past retro-chic back into tacky territory again.

At the centre of everything is Booker’s raspy vocal delivery, and therein lies the record’s central contradiction--the lush arrangements are lovely, but they too often threaten to suffocate that remarkably raw voice. There’s a balance to be struck, and Booker’s not quite there yet--maybe next time.

It’s a record that sees Doyle take chances, not all of which pay off by any means, but it is one that never truly coalesces into a great album in the way his last two records have. That said, he remains a figure who is always interesting and developing.

A record that never quite seems to find its feet, despite having a plethora of creative and interesting ideas.

Look At Us Now Dad is at its best when it treads further into experimental territory. ... Unfortunately, it can be frustrating that this isn’t emphasised more fully or frequently but still gives a glimpse into where Banoffee could ultimately head.

Even if it doesn’t always hit the mark, Evergreen is an album that should see Gunnulfsen continue to climb festival line-ups and charts alike.

As a standalone record, End of the Day does not always justify its existence. Some tracks are simply too empty, leaving a noticeable divide between audience and artist. It takes a concerted effort to listen to the album as a single track, and it perhaps would be best enjoyed alongside the film it was first written to accompany.

The spoken-word closer Under the Ice--an eerie tale of wintery metamorphosis, albatrosses and nudity--is a step dangerously close to the edge, but the orchestral backing is cinematic enough to round out this record of overblown emotion and chilling natural phenomena.

While brevity has consistently been a feature of Moolchan’s work, here the relatively short song lengths mean that some tracks can feel somewhat intangible, ending before they seem to be getting into their stride.

Some tracks, like Pretty Good WiFi, fail to hit the spot leaving the singer somewhat exposed at times. Still, with his parent band said to be writing album number four, it won’t hurt to add another string to the bow.

For any listener beholden to folk-aligned contemplation behind the rest of the similarly-monikered canon, Summer of ’13 is an anomalous curio, bringing to mind an ‘80s hit not mentioned here: Eddy Grant’s I Don’t Wanna Dance.

There is nothing necessarily new offered here in the way of direction or sound, however Zeppelin Over China adds a suitable chapter to the story of Robert Pollard, who recently celebrated releasing a mind-blowing 100 albums over the course of his career in various projects.

While it may not be the collection of hits we were hoping for, The Sun Will Come Up, The Seasons Will Change is a little like a compilation of musical diary entries sprinkled with newly learnt wisdom: it’s fun, it’s new, and it’s Nesbitt's coming-of-age moment.

Baloji often presents a grand, cinematic vision here that can be thrilling in short bursts. Taken as a whole though, the sheer scale of 137 Avenue Kaniama can be a bit exhausting.

It’s strange then that in its opening stages it feels so lifeless. .... Then there’s the one-two of immaculate singles Girlie-Pop! and S.M.O., and it’s like the record has put its finger in a plug socket.

The overall charm is undeniable, even if it does feel very familiar.

Familiarity – and earnestness – is, however, what Japandroids do expertly at their most locked in. It’s also been the heaviest load for their music to bear, the easiest way to knock them down.

Badu collects good work, but the second half of the collection trails off; the whole doesn’t stand up to sustained listening without herbal aids (which, to her credit, Badu recommends).

Deap Lips works best when Wayne Coyne and Steven Drozd are in the background, as messy closer There Is Know Right There Is Know Wrong proves, but the fact that they know when to keep themselves there suggests they’ve learned lessons from With a Little Help from My Fwends. An intriguing diversion.

Liars' tenth album is a spotty affair with showy highs (Sekwar, The Start), pulpy mediocrity (From What the Never Was, My Pulse to Ponder) and enigmatic experiments (Acid Crop, Leisure War).

It’s all here, and though it may not reach the dizzying, if somewhat bloated, heights of 2017’s Humanz, it still slaps.

Nadler's work is ultimately less storied than Del Rey's and too under-dramatised to really connect, to really hurt.

Damned Devotion is not an album you can play once and get a grip on. She remains sultry, she remains a late night proposition; this is music geared for the come down, but for all that there is reinvigoration here.

Experimentations galore, Sundara Karma’s second album is one that works well, as tracks blend into each other despite jarring soundscapes. But there is no track that appears a clear standout, and therein lies the failing within an otherwise bold record, as no one track roots you in your place wanting more.

It was just a few years ago where her calling card was that distinctive wailing falsetto, one that could crash into a ragged growl in a moment's notice. It's noticeably absent on a record being held from anonymity by a single safeguard.

Unfortunately, it seems like the record's runtime was set before material was allotted to the space, unleashing a high-octane sugar rush in a space fit to dilute it into the unbearableness of being palatable. There are worse things.

Her voice is at times limited, with melodies in the second half of the record becoming indistinct. But when it works, Lotic is at the height of her powers.

Ultimately, Flux is an elegant yet frustrating album: meticulously shaped, impeccably polished yet feeling distinctly like the product of conceptual indifference at best.

While Aftering doesn’t have the consistency of Changer, it is urgent and incisive when it wants to be and serves as further proof of Thomas’ talents.

Syrian Plains will get heads banging, while John is more likely to lead the dancing--and is the most joyful track on this generally bleak, occasionally repetitive album.

While tracks like Woman are meant to be sombre (and ANOHNI is the perfect artist to deliver this), several of the featured artists have attempted to transpose Cherry’s tongue-in-cheek asides into sincere parts of the melody and in doing so have undercut the fun of the songs.

The record is at its best when it retains the sense of adventure that has defined their earlier work.

Unpeeled’s problem is that it is too long at 21 tracks, and the band’s new sound only really works on some of their material. Their older work simply doesn’t benefit in the same way.

Staying on theme for 40 uninterrupted minutes leaves you craving some lyrics, even a scrap, that make contact with the wider world.

While it may be far slimmer than Ratchet musically, Revelations fills that gap with earnest, heartfelt emotion.

Altogether, it has the faintly dispiriting sheen of something commissioned by its own success. Ware is deft enough that the album still plays best when it coalesces her 2010s crooner poise with the 2020s reassertion of her pop bona fides.

There are occasional missteps (the sweeping strings and Fleetwood Mac-leaning vibe of Nicky Buckingham are overshadowed by interfering effects, while the slow tempo of Heaven Knows What jars with the buoyancy of the rest of the album), but as a whole Work is a heady exploration of dance-pop’s spectrum.

Ruminations isn’t going to blow anyone away--it’s in the title--but it is a quiet addition to his substantial body of work and this thoughtful set of acoustic songs will certainly keep us warm as winter sets in.

Vive la Void can be intriguing and enveloping if given the time and space to truly immerse yourself in it, but otherwise might leave only a fleeting impression.

Guitar is undoubtedly a pleasant listen and a fine addition to the DeMarco canon, if unlikely to go down as a classic.

Bayonne twists and folds thousands of layers and loops, utilising the echoes of old pianos and draining sinks to add some earth to his technical wizardry.

With a tracklist as tight as Tape Recorder, moments of indulgence are hard to stomach. When a song comes together, though, Lionlimb give their inspirations a run for their money.

Some tracks do repeat the same tricks or perhaps linger a little too long, yet Myself in the Way, while not one to excite fans of the old Turnover, builds upon the simplicity of Altogether to produce an alt-disco record full of intrigue.

While this is an exciting new style for the band, the album could have benefited from more of the stripped-back moments that we hear in the likes of America. In the opening and closing songs of the album, we’re reminded why Courting are such a captivating band but New Last Name, while fun and energetic, sadly fails to match the impact and charm of their debut.

At times, however, Violence is uninspiring; it lacks consistency on the whole, but their ferocious new direction results in Editors sounding the best they have in years. And when they get it right, such as on lead single Magazine, they're up there with the best.

Cigarettes After Sex ends up overstaying its welcome. Most of the tracks retain the same languid pace, drifting through slowly like smoke lingering in the air.

The problem is that beyond the singles which dominate True Entertainment’s Side A, the band seem at a bit of a loss as to what to do with their newfound dancefloor credentials. The second half of the record rests on an at-times plodding and repetitive rhythm section, without enough excitement in the melody to buoy it up.

Its fuzzy, dream-like patterns and navel-gazing can be hard to interpret, but there is a certain honesty and integrity that underpins the album.

Too often the album feels like a case of enacting genres rather than letting their influence seep in. It leaves the record feeling like a grab bag of ideas, some of which have been polished to brilliance, others of which haven’t been fully realised. There’s clearly a great album in there, just one that never quite gets the momentum to show itself.

Despite tracks expressing feelings of complicated relationship, the Royel Otis signature feel-good indie sound remains beautifully uncomplicated.

Barrett has moved away from the big city, but small-town living has inspired his most accessible work to date.

It’s uneven, certainly, but worth panning for the gold.

While half of the tracks here would make for decent singles, the hodgepodge of styles ultimately results in an unbalanced and disjointed album.

The record feels like someone truly in control of their craft, to the extent that it begins to suffer from this a touch, all of its edges honed too perfectly, too considered to leave any sense of spontaneity, even if it is often beautifully done.

Witty, odd and carefully drawn, Woolhouse nails whimsy without once hitting twee.