Real Estate show that this is a band you can rely on in uncertain times; that’s as good a reason as any to stick around a while yet.

While this may not be the most cohesive record that Spoon have ever produced, it is one brimming with ideas (one might say overflowing), and serves as testament that more than 20 years into their career this is still a band with plenty to say.

Curiously what you have here is an album composed by someone with an obvious love of the big band sound, blatantly wearing its influences on its sleeve but heartfelt as all hell.

There’s a certain depth and outright honesty in Ray’s lyrics that sets him apart from many of his peers and shows that he’s not afraid to bare his soul in his music. That openness makes for incredibly powerful listening.

Although the spiritual undertone (providence meaning ‘divine guidance’) feels somewhat overdone, Fake has created a truly impressive release--managing to weave together diverse and eclectic sounds into a cohesive whole.

Despite the obvious Tame Impala similarities, sir Was manages to carve out his own brand of psychedelic pop on Digging A Tunnel, leaning more towards funk, soul and hip-hop than classic psych-rock. Plus, you’ve got to hand it to him for trying to make bagpipes happen.

Heavy Meta is most likeable when he directs those high standards inwards. ... More often though, Gallo is on the offensive, and his technically commensurate and frequently enjoyable garage rock gets entangled in a scornfulness that becomes a little uncomfortable.

Aimless and fussy, Heartworms sounds like the kind of album a person with slightly too much money, their own studio and a massive ego would make. Crushingly disappointing, this is, alas, no return to form.

The question of identity is touched upon throughout the songs here (national, political, gender), but in terms of musical identity, Hurray for the Riff Raff know exactly who they are.

Semper Femina continues her decade-long hot streak with another collection of finely wrought vignettes on love, loss, and the empowerment that can be found in both.

On Solide Mirage however, they’ve emerged in full bloom on the other side, making for a confident and consistent record that should be a great entry point for newcomers.

Patchy and unfiltered, but charming as all hell, it’s a candid reflection of its creator.

Keys and pianos prove especially important as seen on John Lennon-esque finale The Barely Blur making WHY?'s latest a dreamier affair, easy and pleasurable enough to get lost in.

Eno Williams and crew up the ante on all fronts for Uyai; the percussion races forward while the arrangements are busier and more ambitious, each tune twisting and turning through rhythm changes and back-to-back riffs like a living thing.

It’s sentimental, it’s oddball and it’s beautiful. In other words, it’s Grandaddy at their finest.

World Eater is ferocious and intense, but it's also thrilling and bristling with life--and it’s these contrasts that make it such a blast to listen to.

The results are certainly a departure for an artist who seems to relish the chance to collaborate and while each of these ten songs is a Roberts original, the lush song craft recalls the golden age of electric folksters like Fairport Convention and Trees, ensuring Roberts' ongoing connection with the past.

Sleaford Mods are already one of the oddest British bands in this fraught political era. With English Tapas, they continue to push the case that they’re also the most necessary.

The results are certainly a departure for an artist who seems to relish the chance to collaborate and while each of these ten songs is a Roberts original, the lush song craft recalls the golden age of electric folksters like Fairport Convention and Trees, ensuring Roberts' ongoing connection with the past.

As a whole this is a moving and interesting new project, proving that the end of a relationship can lead to something new and exciting.

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

Unlikely as it is to bust them out of the indie ghettoes, Coldharbourstores’ unexpected return is a very lovely thing indeed.

Between its moderate tempos and spartan production, In Between seems designed to turn as few heads as possible and at first even comes across a tad glum. ... With a little patience though, its sunnier side shines through. All the hallmarks of The Feelies' sound are present, but in a pleasantly subdued state.

A memorable addition to Chasny’s admirable body of work.

It’s the Le Butcherettes vocalist’s sheer power that makes Crystal Fairy feel less like a Melvins offshoot and more like its own entity.

In what should have been a return to form for Lupe Fiasco, Drogas Light falls short, instead feeling too rushed and confused to make for any kind of anticipation for the rest of the trilogy that is still to come.

It’s invigorating and profound, mapping a sonic current which traverses moments of gently unfolding beauty (The Quietest Shore) and even brassy grandiosity (particularly on the widescreen projections of Exquisite Human Microphone).

Memories Are Now is a gorgeously delivered elegy to heartbreak and loss; powerful, perfectly executed songs to bring comfort and strength to the weary, broken and scorned.

The result is less a stylistic refresh than a confident reaffirmation of their combined output up until now.

Luckily, the finished product is articulate and bubbling with energy and positivity--much like Lekman himself.

Sure, Graham’s voice is powerful; not Levi Stubbs powerful, perhaps, but muscular and versatile nonetheless. It’s a shame, though, that even its most melismatic hints of adventure feel carefully rehearsed; slickly produced beyond any sense of risk or catharsis.

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.

Happily, this follow-up finds them operating at a similarly scintillating capacity, grinding down on the ugliness buried in the mundanity of modern life and crushing it into the wreckage of metal and post-punk.

Sick Scenes sees LC! offering up a liberating set of songs about odious city hipsters, youthful nostalgia and future anxiety, wrapped up in the seven-piece’s usual glorious flurry of chipper riffs and witty lyricisms.

What is surprising is how this darker direction unearths a hitherto unearthed pop sensibility in Moon Duo with songs like White Rose and Will of the Devil recalling the gothic melodies of Siouxsie and the Banshees or The Cure at their gloomy best while Creepin’ skips along like something off The Strokes’ first album.

Process is an exercise in catharsis, a deep breath in that lays Sampha’s soul bare through gorgeous vignettes of his life. He worries, he regrets, he aches. He’s human.

By the time you hit Coldblooded The Return, you can't help but feel you've been on a journey in the company of someone a little more well-travelled. You've had a time. And the best thing about it is that you can take that journey again any damn time you feel like it.

Allison’s debut Tourist in This Town shows she certainly has the potential to go it alone too, provided it’s on her own terms.

Dependent on its rich texture and brought to life by the depth of the duo’s musicianship, this is an intriguing and deeply satisfying debut.

Not only are Ty Segall fans likely to be pressing this on people for the next few months, it also might be just about the best album he’s put his own name to.

In short, they make experimental rock sound so easy when the reality is anything but.

On Hey Mr Ferryman, Eitzel no longer exudes such a colossal sense of searing introspection; perhaps he has finally reconciled with himself and, in Butler, has found the perfect foil to achieve this harmony.

Menace Beach gain a lot from the distinctive nasal vocal style of former Komakino frontman Ryan Needham, and when he becomes largely absent the record suffers as a result. ... But when they strike gold, they hit it hard.

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).

Migration is the acid test for electronic music in 2017, and sets a standard that will be undeniably difficult to beat, let alone match.

The xx are moving forward, but they don’t know quite where they’re headed.

While bracing throwbacks, they serve to obscure his new insights. Baldi’s certainly matured; all he needs now is for his music to catch up.

It’s Johnson’s voice that takes centre stage, however (clear, plaintive and inviting, as though the ghost of Grant McLennan had dropped by to give some pointers), and as he explores the concept of closure through relationship breakdowns--painting the very notion as mythical, unattainable--you ponder why the time is apparently right for Piano Magic to call it quits.

The resulting album feels like an exercise in understatement, and contextually it’s difficult to know whether it’s a case of self-restraint or a situation in which the shackles are being enforced.

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.

Ok, some of their sillier excesses may jar ever so slightly (unicorns, faeries, witches, wizards and frogs with demon eyes can all be found here, so some strapping yourself in may be required) and fans may well feel the absence of a true pop banger à la Race For The Prize or She Don’t Use Jelly. In every other aspect, however, this is The Flaming Lips on top of their game: refracting the weirdness of the world through a youthful sense of awe and wonder.

There's a real vulnerability to Taylor's voice, too, reminding us of his mastery of light and shade. Rennen is more thought-provoking than its predecessor, but it's still unmistakably SOHN.

Tenderly, expertly picked guitar supports the voice: Byrne doesn't so much sing as exhale and her unforced delivery serves to mesmerise.

The duo’s knack for high five-worthy boasts and massive one-liners remains undiluted. However, RTJ3 truly excels in some of its darkest moments.

Oxygene 3 is a minimalist--and exquisitely melancholy--wonder.

Virginia Wing’s gift is the ability to get these elements [musique concrète to squelchy deconstructed techno, refracted pop hooks and seismic drone] to sit so comfortably alongside each other, within one immersive sonic world.

Letherette manage the notoriously tricky second album by delivering a reworked and revitalised version of the style with which they have made their name.

Unable to elicit more than a shrug for most of its runtime, the record is just one more passable pop album in a year that really didn’t need another.

Either way, it’s a slightly boozy, bluesy, badly tuned, occasionally winsome collection of songs that treads a neat path between pseud’s corner and authentic alley.

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

While nothing on Woman is quite as bombastic as when † was first unleashed on an unsuspecting public, there's plenty of intriguing stuff to chew on here with deep cuts such as Chorus and Heavy Metal, resulting in a terrific return from the French duo.

A difficult but thrilling listen.

While Romare is a master when it comes to constructing unique and unusual sounds in his music (the opening of his old single Roots for example), sometimes this can be more abrasive than enjoyable--New Love, we're looking at you. Overall though, this is a warm piece of percussive and melodic greatness.

The obliqueness is only a challenge if you allow it to be; the depth of Hersh’s music has always revealed itself over time rather than through simple earworms (although they're present on the mighty Killing Two Birds).

At nine tracks and 27 minutes long, Highway Songs isn't the longest of albums, an element that's perhaps suggestive of the brief period documented by these songs. The best is saved for last, though, as Pajo's true shot at self-redemption makes for a stunning close.

Monument Builders is an augmented reality to spend time with, explore and get lost in.

It’s a well-rounded selection of tracks on an album that can sit comfortably next to your best Fabric and Watergate compilations.

Nuanced, thoughtful discussions broadcast with power and volume: please give Sad13 all your yesses. But only if you want to.

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.

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.

Citizen of Glass delivers an ambitious and accomplished collection of pretty, ornate artefacts.

Overall, and despite a brief lull, Babes Never Die is enjoyable from beginning to end. Peppered with catchy choruses and heroic riffs, and with sing-along moments galore, it's much fuller, better rounded and more complete than 2014's Honeyblood.

A dozen records deep in their career, we find Lambchop at their most adventurous, and it sounds wonderful.

This is less innovation, more a soothing collection of unpretentious porch songs, delivered in superb fashion.

Whilst the duo blend their styles deftly, there are moments where their individual personalities dominate.

The production of this record is flawless, but when so many talented writers are trying their hands at precisely this kind of pop music, substance is paramount, with style a distant second. Sadly, the opposite is true here.

Their control is immaculate, their romanticism timeless.

Angry, acquiescent and apathetic all at once, Running Out Of Love is an ideal album for our anxious times.

As a mood piece, It's Immaterial works. As a showcase of the talents of Stewart's broad field of collaborators, less so--there's a homogeny to the album's sound that is by turns impressive and suffocating.

The trio certainly thrash away confidently (and with no let-up), but it’s the tangents that offer the biggest thrills.

Elegant and focused, the album was written, recorded and produced in the same bedroom as his first LP--with the same supersonic attention to detail. It's only his ambitions that have changed.

Let Them Eat Chaos dazzles with its linguistically-created, vivid imagery, and ability to evoke overwhelming atmosphere through its sound.

Give Utopia Defeated time, and the alien logic that binds this outstanding record begins to unfurl and initial skepticism turns to sheer awe.

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.

A Corpse Wired For Sound meanders a little too much at times, with every track stretching beyond the four minute mark, but overall it feels a successful rebirth which won't fail to engage live audiences.

Phantogram's fix and mend methods, and above average song craft, are admirable and compelling. An unexpected treat.

Distinctive and likely divisive, some spots showcase the most original beat-work you'll hear this year.

We’ve seen more than enough spark between the two on previous efforts to know that there’s a future for them; it’s just a shame they chose to rail against their best instincts this time round.

Suffocating, stressful, and challenging, Splendor & Misery is uncompromising in its desolation, and it’s all the better for it.

Even at the midpoint meltdown of Pain’s insistent fuzz-mangling, it's all sumptuously glazed with a thick veneer of moreish melody and buzzing hooks.

The album freewheels through soundscapes borrowed from pop, trap, balearic house and old-fashioned balladry with irrepressible joy.

Heads Up will still please some fans, and the band will be able to work some of these tracks into respectable live numbers; they’ll even win new listeners. The problem for devotees of the band’s earlier work, and for anyone who’s seen them live, is that they’ll cherish the memory of what Warpaint could (and probably still can) do.

This is an album that’s been made with care and intelligence. The results are compelling.

There’s not enough adventure to make this truly feel like Pixies; it lacks the sense that the wheels might come off any minute. Lenchantin, for her part, holds her own, especially on All I Think About Now, but her new colleagues need to rediscover the urgency and ambition that defined their best work if they’re ever going to match it.

Hval’s most personal record, Blood Bitch is an understated but intriguing album by a perpetually fascinating artist.

Skeleton Tree might be, to flip the phrase, a mile deep and an inch wide. The lyrics are often beautiful, and when he can be concrete, Cave conjures unforgettable, living images.

There is probably a message buried somewhere within Femejism, but unfortunately it just comes across as lacklustre and contrived.

It doesn’t present cookie-cutter visions of fear and insecurity to observe from afar; it crawls under your skin and drags them out to you--whether you want it to or not.