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.

Great moments in great songs ('I love you, there, I said it') still seem to be deep enough waters for EELS to swim.

Nothing is broken with their sound, but the album feels like an extension of their previous work rather than a progression of it.

A Better Life is total fire from the get-go, offering great melody and pop lifts that you’ll be singing for days. Buck-wild and vicious songwriting, not for the light-hearted.

Act One: Music For Inanimate Objects is certainly a good album, but sometimes it feels like the only thing linking all the songs together is their slower tempo.

A grab-bag of experiments, as the now-trio try on a variety of stylistic hats while they figure out what the future of WWPJ sounds like.

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.

Despite a relatively concise tracklist of ten songs, at points the 45-minute runtime seems to drag on, giving the album a sense of heaviness. Not dissimilar ambient sounds wash into one another – overall perhaps a more pared-down curation could better highlight the album’s strengths.

Goodnight, God Bless, I Love U, Delete. is overlong and perhaps too diffuse for its own good, but to hear Moreno wholeheartedly indulge his melodic instincts makes the whole exercise a worthwhile one.

Nothing here feels inauthentic.

There is an attractive simplicity to this record, perhaps the band’s most straightforward since their debut. These are catchy feelings-forward songs with football chant-worthy choruses. It is, quite simply, an album full of singles.

Downey has captured something that you’d perhaps have to call 'Caledoniana' – Scottish country with a pure heart.

There isn’t much depth to the lyrics. This album is about feel. ... For once this is a Ladytron album to listen to in the sunshine.

There's a lot happening in just six songs, with too many jarring ideas to fit on a cohesive album, but as a grab-bag of ideas it's an interesting and enjoyable listen.

Resigning itself to well-trodden paths, Venus seems curiously content charting no new territory.

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.

More often than not, United Crushers settles into a groove and gets comfy.

Hiperasia might be a less accessible album, but it’s Díaz-Reixa at his most experimental and inventive.

While the interjection of these songs provide sobering reminders of what lies beyond the pleasantries, the party continues over the course of the record's 11 tracks, and an air of euphoria is present throughout.

This album is dad rock for my generation in the best way. Having come of age alongside The Black Keys' early hits, I'm finding resonances in their work again.

Ultimately, >>> is yet another excellent record from Barrow and co, one which will surely delight for quite some time post-release.

Unfortunately, for all but the hardcore, Free seems to baffle as much as it bewitches.

The record oscillates between earthly comforts (In the Hallway / Keeper of the Garden) and galactical ponderings (Map to the Stars), but Mannequin--a charming, disquieting simile for a claustrophobic relationship--best shows off Mondanile's ambition to step out on his own terms.

Rebecca Lucy Taylor's third album as Self Esteem sharpens what’s always been at the core of her musical identity: the tension between frank vulnerability and pop maximalism.

The most successful of these joint efforts is Outgrown which was co-written by Bonobo; elsewhere, partnerships with the likes of Lil Silva and Tracey Thorn cast a pop overtone--a characteristic of FitzGerald's past productions, but here it feels overly saccharine. Ultimately, All That Must Be’s best moments are also its least contrived.

Good Nature plods along at a pleasant pace, but there's nothing here you won't have heard elsewhere before.

Always Ascending thrives when the band indulge their sense of fun--it's not the best work Franz Ferdinand have ever produced, but it's proof that they should embrace their intelligence and their quirks more and not try to be a standard indie band. They’re too good for that.

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.

A few later tracks don’t quite land the punches that others do. Still, the band's maturity is audible for all ears, as Pale Waves continue to carve their own path and embrace their best fiery and forthright version of themselves.

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.

With Stunning Luxury, Snapped Ankles have achieved that rarest feat, a stridently political album that loses neither its sense of humour nor its capacity for bangers.

Repeat visits are sure to unearth more of the band’s thought process, but there's a lingering sense that less could've been so much more.

For the most part we're in familiar territory: the sounds are familiar, the production is crisp and the songs are full of the colour of widescreen Americana.

The album doesn’t make for a grand departure from Let’s Eat Grandma’s sound, though fans of the band will have no problem hearing about what Hollingworth got up to on her holiday.

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.

Blunt colloquialisms can detract from philosophical musings, and sunny chords sometimes overshadow introspective lyrics.

Working with a number of producers, he's created another collection of songs that speak directly to an intense and emotional connection with someone, and all the good, bad and sexy that come along with that.

Blossom's debut record isn't short on marketable material, but its impact could certainly have been enhanced by a more ruthless pruning.

This is a band on a journey. Modern English Decoration nods to its predecessor, certainly, but you can hear the way in which the original duo has consolidated their appeal as a five-piece. These guys have got promise written all over them.

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.

After an hour it can be a lot to take in. But for all the soft pads and skittering percussion, the cinematic flourishes that are begging to soundtrack a near-future dystopia (he's already done Black Mirror), there are still enough unique and surprising touches to justify the long runtime.

Mystical and psychedelic, with a real knack for texture and detail in the midst of a big, blown-out prog adventure, this is an album best served whole.

Beautiful People Will Ruin Your Life is the sound of a band maturing and evolving, having come a long way from their first meeting in Liverpool. Now that they're 15 years and four albums in they know what works, and still have an ear for a catchy melody.

Unfortunately, Olly Alexander’s first solo outing as Years & Years doesn’t quite hit the mark, but even though they may be few and far between, there are still some glimmers of potential on Night Call.

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.

There will be much to admire for Fontaines fans, but anyone with a penchant for the poppier end of The Cure’s catalogue will also find plenty to love.

Exploring retro music as inspiration can sometimes anchor acts to a sound, but in addition to the overarching transformation into this suave stranger, this artist’s ability to reinvent the album’s genre – hip-hop, R’n’B, synthpop – with each track makes Christine and the Queens' debut as Redcar transformative and enticing.

Grapefruit is both excruciating and luxurious in its patchiness.

The Andalucian trio's fourth album was recorded live to eight track tape and you can tell: the arrangements are raw, the production barely there, the sound an abrasive, all-consuming clatter. It's an elementary mix but there's a blackened spirituality within its shadows.

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.

The palette can feel restrictive, and the lyrical matter predictable. It’s a stepping stone, a moment of reconciliation and recollection from a talent who is just about to surge ahead.

Their problem is there are other bands doing this kind of thing better (Black Angels, we’re looking at you).

They are perfect encapsulations of the snarky, fuck-you attitude that has been suppressed in the last couple of Wavves releases, but they don't have the scrappy, lo-fi charm that endeared fans to the band seven or eight years ago.

An admirable album concept, sure, but it is this preoccupation with the connections between different genres which robs Electric Lines of a galvanising, driving force.

It never feels like an escapist project. It becomes an expression of the bleed between the unconscious and the world around us, through often beautiful, always unsettling music.

It’s a coming-of-age bruiser of a record that transcends their brutal blend of J-pop and metalcore to more daring soundscapes.

When it works, it’s thrilling, especially on the moody Moi and the mercurial, atmospheric Sons and Daughters. Elsewhere, Palms of Hands and Dusty are perhaps a little grindcore-by-numbers. Still, Neil and Vennart have presented their vision in uncompromising fashion, and those who yearn for Blackened Sky-era Biffy will unquestionably find something to love.

Across the 20 songs there's a wobbly unevenness, fairly split between unlistenable horribleness like Secretary (imagine Gedge wailing “I only get through to your secretary” over and over, and be grateful we’ve saved you from hearing it) and taut US hardcore influenced indie rock like Fordland and Broken Bow.

This is actually a great record, because Black Lips are the sort of band that can pull off preening and rambunctious in the same album (sometimes even in the same song).

It's a low-key record for a certain type of listener--this isn't a band clamouring for arena-rock status, just one that is happy making good music and having fun doing it.

As ever with Nightmares on Wax, Evelyn melds past and present with enviable fluidity, finding a universality that’s inclusive rather than generic.

Stepping away from the core sound of their debut was a bold move from Girl Ray; they don’t always quite pull the change off but, when they do, Girl can be a charismatic record.

As some similar-sounding songs morph into the other, we can sometimes feel the narrow scope of 9 Sad Symphonies, but Nash charms with the winning, irreverent bluntness first employed in her vaunted debut, showing received pronunciation the proverbial finger.

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.

Lust for Youth may not have made any personal great leap forward with this album, but it remains a set of glorious synth-pop gems, with an aching heart at their centre that most can only dream of.

Beautiful Thing, though, is more of a straightforward float through space, with a starry, galactic feel to the album.

This is a sharp and quite possibly an important album, as memorable and considered as it is acerbic. Bravo.

Justice may have struggled to reach the dizzying heights of their 2007 debut Cross, but Hyperdrama is a convincing, exciting venture in its own right.

It's actually not a terrible record, really, but it's frustratingly complacent after two outstanding albums.

It’s perhaps convenient journalistic twaddle to suggest Great Ytene's loss of their initial recordings for this LP means that Locus feels desperate to get out of the traps, but there’s no denying the irresistible energy on show here.

When Campbell does make bold sonic choices, such as on the spacey centrepiece Dopamine, you yearn for more of that, and less of the interchangeably delicate instrumentals on many of the other songs. Still, Campbell’s voice remains a welcome balm in terms of both sound and messaging.

Eschewing electronic production flourishes in favour of some analogue authenticity, Any Day eventually settles into its groove. The melodies are intricate and layered, but the impressive musicality is outweighed by a lack of urgency.

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.

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.

The madcap experience of Warmduscher is still probably best on the stage, but this album goes some way to proving that given a little time to let their ideas gestate, they can actually produce something that sounds good on the stereo, as well as the back room of a pub.

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.

Perhaps a wee bit too derivative for some--Tres Warren’s scuzzy washed-up vocals evoke Anton Newcombe. Still, there’s enough here to trigger intrigue should you make the effort.

Her talents won’t be a surprise to anyone familiar with her band, but laid bare like this, her imagination is startling and singular.

The lyrical paranoia dovetails beautifully with the raw, bone-scraping arrangements to powerful effect, challenging listeners in both intensity and message. It feels like the record HEALTH were supposed to make.

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

There’s a buoyant urgency to proceedings, the kind of detail in the lyrics that let you know here is a person telling you stories of the world as they see them in a way that is fiercely meant.

The band took all the wrong lessons from the success of their last album, and doubled down on the syrup. Turns out too much sugar really can make you sick.

Dry and lacklustre instrumentation does nothing to compensate for an unshakable one-dimensionality.

Blast Off Through The Wicker doesn’t always reach stratospheric heights, but some of its psychedelic freak-outs suggest that Art Feynman is still on an intriguing musical course.

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

A record made up of excellent songs, with a few great ones chucked in to raise the bar.

Still On My Mind is Dido’s most engaging album to date. It’s her first time trying a style of music that connects multiple genres as well as retaining her original sound and she’s delivered a masterful creation in one take.

Unlike He’s Got the Whole...--and indeed much of the Joan of Arc discography--it’s a stylistically cohesive effort too, primarily consisting of Ausikaitis delivering lilting, honeyed to the point of saccharine vocals over undulating, ambient backdrops.

While The Age of the Understatement's exuberant candescence came from just a few very obvious influences tossed together (and was then pigeonholed as a Scott Walker tribute by the music media), this record ranges wider and finds new pockets of surprise while paradoxically seeming less out-of-the-blue.

Overall, the band have carefully crafted another winning record with just a few tweaks to their regular formula. Maybe not one to win over new fans, but a solid addition to a sparkling oeuvre.

In•ter a•li•a instead sounds vapid and empty, like it's blowing hot air around the room; the band sound like a parody of themselves.

What Hold on to Your Heart really is though, is a lesson in the art of the chorus. Rarely have so many fist-pumping, singalong hooks been squeezed into 40 minutes of music.

Sonic debauchery laced with moments of introspection, The Dare’s debut is worth the hype.

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

On the whole it finds the sweet spot between chaos and structure, silliness and depth, and it’s a banger.

Ride’s legacy is set in stone, but, in the end, most of This Is Not a Safe Place is not as wildly contentious in its desire to be different. After a strong start, more of that risk would have been welcome.

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.

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.