When it aims for the ecstatic it works well, but it doesn’t colour its muted periods with anything like the precision, the uneasy vistas it is aiming for never quite forming.

Quit the Curse is a mature, confident debut.

Cool It Down is topical without getting too deep, and fun without overstaying its welcome, but even for a band as mercurial as YYYs, it feels a little too ephemeral.

The album's arrangements are uniformly beautiful, coddling Staples' vocals at all times, though sometimes to the point of being overly cloying.

One for the wee small hours, Empire Builder is made of stronger stuff than its delicate nature would have you believe.

Arab Strap’s first studio album together since 2005’s The Last Romance is marked by a feeling of not quite-ness; everything’s there but it just doesn’t quite click into its potential at many points. A good half of the record treads in similar ground to opener and comeback single The Turning of Our Bones; drum machines, faintly angular guitar arpeggios and Moffat’s largely spoken dissection of middle age.

On the Land Blues is especially reminiscent of the latter’s Blue Ridge Mountains, but lacks their pathos and grandeur. Otherwise, there’s plenty else for the ears to feast on.

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.

This record isn't exactly a "pleasurable" experience, and its relatively brief half-an-hour run-time may seem like a relief, but it actually somewhat undermines the tension in its brevity.

It’s unlikely to bend too many fresh young minds to their cause, but nearly 40 years since the band first formed, that seems like a secondary concern. Some reservations, but good work all in.

While Biig Piig clearly knows what sticks and what doesn’t in terms of easy listening, the album does demonstrate the artist’s desire to explore new sounds, but 11:11 is careful not to rock the boat, often playing it safe with the majority of its runtime.

Snares seems like a long EP--one that ends before it really gets going.

Much of the album remains true (or close enough) to the original arrangements, and you get a real sense that Oldham's singing these songs simply because he loves them and thinks other people should too. While that doesn't make for essential listening, it undoubtedly makes for an enjoyable and almost comforting experience.

While there’s a strange sense of timelessness surrounding Moosebumps though, it also takes some time to get into its stride.

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.

Even when the songwriting falters, Lissie’s incredible voice elevates Castles.

The album works in short bursts of adrenaline. That can leave midtempo ballads like Shoo feeling aimless.

All told, Rock n Roll Consciousness feels deep and multilayered, the kind of record you want to spend some time with, a piece of art that will continue to change and shift as you engage with it.

It’s a bold, considered whole; it's rich in theatrical texture and ambient psychedelia, but it’s not an easy listen. Often deliberately discordant, it won’t be to everyone’s tastes, certainly not to fans of Palmer’s poppier work.

While some tracks like Panpsych and Eternal Return remain lost at sea – the latter's lurching tempo is a bit of an auditory mess – KGLW's experimentation with brass, strings, and woodwind definitely hits more than it misses. Drawing together calamity and fortune in a novel way, 15 years in, Phantom Island shows a band still having fun making music together.

The Cutter and Rescue both build on their VU-esque original templates, and as always Will Sergeant plays an understated blinder when asked, but it's hard to see many fans going back to these recordings instead of the originals after a curious first listen.

The risk of taking that deliberately vintage tack is contrivance, and though this album tows the line occasionally, it never disappears into itself.

While it's an improvement from their lowest ebbs, it will equally never match their highest peaks.

It's a surprisingly spotty album from an artist who rarely puts a foot wrong.

Mostly, What Now is intent on being bigger and brasher than its predecessor, perhaps to avoid politely slipping into the background quite so easily.

Every element in his songs fight for control of the centre before inevitably decaying together like racing pennies in orbit around the centre of a funnel.

Keep Moving is the closest that Loving in Stereo gets to its own calling card, but too often the album gets mired in mid-tempo fare that allows the adrenaline to wane.

The record is ultimately a conflicted one. It has masses of recalcitrant spirit but little in the way of sonic inventiveness, with songs feeling more and more one-note as the album goes on. In the end, we're left with 11 perfectly listenable songs that are not quite as interesting as the ideas that lie beneath them.

The decision to front-load the album with singles means that you experience a jarring drop in energy and quality three songs in. After that Freakout/Release settles into songs that, while alright, sound a bit like the product of an AI program that has been made to listen to 100 hours of Hot Chip and then generate its own imitation.

His vocal runs and melodies at times provide an almost soul feel--everything is smooth with very few edges, however there’s still enough raw elements to sustain your interest.

It’s soft, woozy, melodically loose. Further investigation reveals that this approach seems to have spread to every aspect of Lorde's songwriting. Where Melodrama was razor-sharp in the universally relatable picture it painted of late adolescence, Solar Power drifts to a place altogether more impressionistic.

These duets are, of course, not standards. The production is exceptionally murky – mostly collaborators move through the dark, uncertain world Stewart manifests with his Scott Walker-like crooning of glossolalia.

DZ Deathrays are pretty consistent in that way. Yes, there are fun moments to their latest record, and there certainly are songs you can imagine sounding great while crammed in a small, sweaty basement nightclub, but beyond that, there isn't really a lot else to this, especially, when as mentioned, there's a whole slew of acts like this already.

He maintains his voice, his melodic instinct and knack for presenting raw emotional landscapes without ever slipping into self-pity or losing his sense of humour. However, in throwing himself into the garage rock mould he loses the loose relationship with genre that allowed the twitchy dynamism of his best work.

Ulltimately, Oh Inhuman Spectacle relies on its construction and craft at the expense of killer tunes, but it's never less than likeable.

Bathed in a heavenly glow, it’s easy to let these songs wash over you, but Chua’s soothing vocals invite us to lean in and listen more closely.

Hazier, more hypnotic, and like most sequels--yeah--not as effective, it’s hamstrung by an uncharacteristically grating synth refrain. While not bad, it’s hard to shake the feeling of déjà vu.

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.

The band’s continuing experimentation with studio personnel, producers, influences, and ranges of emotion should be applauded. But a little more grit in the riffs would be nice.

While his words do occasionally come to the fore, such as on the emotional Wren, the questions Shields raises surrounding religion and ceremony, the elemental and the domestic, can feel secondary to the atmosphere. Passover captures the spectre of death, but its existential meditations can be obscured.

001 is at its best when collecting material made just before Strummer's death, including a duet with Johnny Cash on Bob Marley's Redemption Song and the heartbreaking folk rag of Silver & Gold.

None of this group of songs are as good as those from her concise solo album, which only sprawled out with the ambient abstractness of its instrumental companion, something new and unheard for her. Here, listless listening is interrupted by the dangerous, mystical Simulation Swarm, saving the record’s back half. Big Thief are at their most beguiling when giving in to weird experiments.

Dorji remains a superb judge of when to introduce melody into the haze, but for a lot of its runtime you can’t help but wish for more.

While Reflection of Youth doesn’t always capture the more brutal side of growing up sonically, Bruland does give off the sense that she’s come out of the other side, older and wiser.

Despite not offering up anything especially musically complex (not surprising given that it only took four days to put together) it brings a whole lot of attitude along with it.

Grapefruit is both excruciating and luxurious in its patchiness.

At least half of Chaosmosis matches its vitality; the only real stinker is opener Trippin' On Your Love, a happy-clappy rave generation anthem even The Shamen might have passed on. But the highlights here are as good as anything Bobby Gillespie and co-writer Andrew Innes have fashioned since 2000's touchstone XTRMNTR.

Glossy and calculating, Careless People rarely pulls back.

The Life Of Pablo is bursting at the seams with ideas and talking points, from his mental health and destructive ego to the very fact that this album defines how useless the format is. As with every one of his records, you feel like this is only the tip of the iceberg.

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

All That Was East Is West of Me Now, begins as a noisy yet meditative record with crunching guitars and snapping snares, before settling into a more reflective pattern to suit the resigned sighs and stuttering sounds his tunes twist taut upon.

All in all a gracious record, and one that grows on the listener.

These musical twists and turns can occasionally detract from Christinzio’s lyrics, which veer between gallows humour and vulnerability. When the latter half of the album gives his words more room to breathe, their impact becomes even greater.

Overall, Shiny And Oh So Bright, Vol. 1 / LP: No Past. No Future. No Sun. is a pleasantly nostalgic, brief album--half of which is sensational and the other is painstakingly poor.

The sugared melodies of Bitter Pill also go down smoothly, as does the lucently beautiful Intrusive Thoughts, and though a distracting feeling of déjà vu eventually takes root, the well-pruned runtime helps keep Flowers more or less in full bloom.

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.

Occasionally he lands on a flourish that expresses something specific, like the jarring MIDI-ish guitar tone on 24 which, in its anxious jaggedness, is an apt counterpart to the lyrics 'Please don’t let it be a heart attack'. More often though, he’s happy to settle for novelty alone. And while that’s no crime, it’s unlikely to set your world on fire either.

It's the kind of record that needs to be approached in increments, but the rewards reveal themselves when given the patience and time that Callus deserves.

cannibal world’s breakbeats, a not unfamiliar sound for Nothing, brings them into the lineage of the bands – TAGABOW, forever ☆ – doing this well (better, even) now. However, the record cocoons into the kind of soft strummed ballads that a young Neil Halstead would write about pain and heartbreak in a Welsh cottage.

[Redemption Love's] use of repetition is borderline annoying, the instrumental is completely uninteresting, making this track feel like just another piece of filler on an album that otherwise features some truly captivating songwriting. The title track, for example, is the Joan Armatrading we know and love, and then some: contemplative, wise and deliciously groovy.

All three are considerable technicians and practice refreshing restraint; both in their playing (intricate but not showy) and their sound (sharp and dry, with few effects). The result, however, can feel like a bit of an academic exercise at times – music to be admired rather than really inhabited.

The record ultimately feels like something of a minor work in James’s already imposing output, but remains a pointer to both her and Eastman’s sparkling talents.

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.

This release isn't going to be for everyone (trading a harder sound for radio-rock seems to divide fans more often than not), especially with a band of 40-somethings attempting to make widely accessible rock tunes.

Her career to date might have been bolstered by a stellar string of friends but there’s one thing that the multi-instrumentalist is more than capable of handling herself – the artful knack for sincere songwriting.

While Kalevi can often transport the listener though, there are also a few moments where the illusion is shattered.

Messes is the kind of album you feel rather than interpret, where what’s being said is less important than how it’s delivered. And when it comes to vocals, Chura’s delivery is certainly distinctive.

From voices in prayer to the jaunty organ and guitar pedal abuse of Congratulations, this is a record that rarely falls short of a creative arrangement but ultimately the gospel of Morby is one for the devotees not the unbelievers.

Anagrams is not nearly as watery as, say, Vetiver, but it's some distance from the righteous majesty of The Shins.

Songs in the Key of Animals begins sounding like the Bojack Horseman concept album nobody asked for.

Although Flat White Moon is a serene glance into the past it unfortunately lacks the innovation that makes what inspired it so great, and would be much improved if we could hear Field Music’s individual voice alongside their musical heroes.

ODAOTWMA will do little to challenge the Sheffield band's twee reputation, but the record crosses genres with far greater experimentation than they're known for.

This lo-fi, devil-may-care air translates well to record, with A Season in Hull capturing and accentuating the band’s characteristic camaraderie and casual, Jonathan Richman-esque charm.... Admittedly, the stripped-down setup has drawbacks too, leaving the material with nowhere to hide and exposing an uncharacteristic patchiness.

There are times when this commitment to innovation and experiment costs Los Angeles its ability to hold the listener’s attention. .... Even so, Los Angeles proves that each artist on the record is a visionary in their own right, as they push the boundaries of the past whilst looking to the future.

Most of Popular Music built around thrilling tracks like the classic punk-tinted Membership Man, in which Green mocks a ‘right wing cruiser’, and the frantic masochism of Electricity. Late-album track Beautifully Skint unwisely slows the pace down, proving that LIFE are best when they stay angry.

Tegan and Sara colour inside the lines a little too much (Stop Desire and B/W/U are shiny, forgettable filler, and Hang On To The Night is a damp squib closer) for their latest to really zing.

The album sways more into the meandering rather than the conclusive – perhaps an observation on the unpredictability of life itself, but nevertheless leaving things feeling somewhat stunted.

The lengthy tracks here lose their momentum and oeuvre, dragging wearily toward the end. But when it's good, it’s great – similarly lengthy tracks in the first half, Wandering Through and Our Song feel varied and forceful enough to keep us on our toes.

The biggest problem with this album is its bloated mid-section, which drags down the commendable peaks of its opening and closing segments.

Bunky Becky Birthday Boy is a return to the immediacy that made Sleigh Bells’ name – but you wonder whether they had to sacrifice quite so much of the nuance of their last couple of albums in the process.

There is little to separate the tracks from each other, resulting in a batch of unmemorable songs. Lionheart promised much, but fails to capture the imagination in the way McEntire’s previous work has.

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.

The album’s nitid production weighs down heavily, so much so it induces a fair few flinching moments.

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.

JT’s smug family life is the single thread uniting this 16-track jumble of songs that swing between batshit and bland, and romance comes in two forms: soppy odes, or sloppy humblebrags about shagging.

Lyrically and production-wise, Falling, bar a couple of moments, fails to catch the imagination in a crowded field.

The band’s third full-length outing Darkness Rains marches onward down their trodden path and it’s a shame that the stance they take at this crossroads of rock isn’t bold enough to establish a demonic bazaar or make significant strides in any given direction.

Goldblum doesn’t bring nearly enough of his own unique persona to the performance; his band is competent without making any particularly interesting choices, and the only memorable moment comes from Sarah Silverman’s affable guest appearance.

It tries to cover too much ground on its pilgrimage to novelty and ends up lost on its way. Journeys have a spirit and a narrative, and this has nothing of the sort.

Last Building Burning is background music that has a soap-slick grip on our attention.

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

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.

What is said is interesting, and delivered with a fiery ferocity worthy of the howling big cat on the cover, but too often the dissonant noise serves to exemplify the disconnect between the engaging ideas and the impotence of their presentation.

There won’t be many other mainstream pop albums this year that ricochet quite as boldly between styles or pool inspiration from as wide a range of sources. ... But we can’t go any further before we make one thing clear: Sacred Hearts Club contains some of the worst music we’ve heard all year.

There are times when the keyboards and lyrics gel (like they do on Moments and Whatnot, easily the best thing here) but for the most part, it feels like a pedestrian Morrissey album (without, of course, the taint of dubious politics).

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