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.

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.

Soulful, impeccable production shines on every heartbreak and highlight.

In some ways, My Woman is the love song reimagined: a fearless and accomplished work whose deep-seated humanism is a stirring reminder that falling in love is for idiots, and that we should put our faith in any artist who might just convince us otherwise.

How to Be a Human Being is arguably yet more effervescent than its predecessor.

A soulful and bewitching brew, and a superlative demonstration of how to prod at your aesthetic without selling your soul.

A lingering suspicion remains that there’s little that’s new or groundbreaking to the bouncy vigour encountered on tracks such as Severed Estates or A Change in Course; even the blissed-out motorcade of highlight Fugue States fails to have all its sirens sounding.

Hannigan's oeuvre requires patience and focus, and while much of this new collection is dependent on tone and texture to connect, eventually deeper qualties shine through.

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.

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

Messy, discordant, and beholden to the serrated edge, there’s nonetheless a seam of verisimilitude in the execution.

An enigmatic listen, crying out for your own reading.

The results flit capriciously and deliciously through tones and genres, with highlights including the mechanical electro of Let’s Relate, the stuttering du jour production of A Sport and A Pastime, and the glam rock/spaghetti western/prog hybrid (aye, another one…) that is Chaos Arpeggiating.

Exhausting, ridiculous and full of life, De La Soul still do it like no-one else.

This time around, it's the longer tracks that hit the hardest.

We understand if the phrase 'breaking the album format' makes you eye-roll, but this collection of un-songs, half-rhythms and sound snapshots really questions the point in breaking a record into individual tracks.

It all speaks of erudition, repetition used and abused in a dizzy concatenation. 25 25 is music as heartbeat (and screw the arrhythmia). Essential.

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

By deliriously atmospheric closer Lisboa, it's clear that the Chicagoan trio have little new to offer the genre, but they sure know how to make a dead concept feel alive.

Where previous releases under the moniker have explored the grittier, DIY side of house, here Moss leans towards the lush, psychedelic end of the spectrum, and delivers a kaleidoscopic sonic journey that commands you to keep going back.

Animai's guest vocals feel fresh on Curtain Call but wear a little thin four features in. Mostly, though, Flowdan flexes every inch of hard-won experience for a listen that's brutally, shamelessly exciting.

Certainly a contender for the most electronic of their canon, Boy King is perhaps also their most compact and claustrophobic release since 2011’s Smother.

If the 50something version of Dinosaur Jr is happy to keep refining a formula that was pretty damn fine in the first place, we’d be fools not to indulge 'em.

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.

Warmly mature yet never dull, this is a rare treat.

Hard-partying techno heads will love the anxiety-inducing tone of Operator; others may see this as a missed opportunity, after a regenerative five-year hiatus, for MSTRKRFT to explore creative nuance over noise.

The result is a suite of modern classical pieces that freewheel on orbits both real and imagined; a caul of percolating strings, woodwind and guitar, circumnavigating in loose patterns.

The rhythm section never tries too hard, Philip Frobos’ vocals recline across the ten tracks with languid urgency, but it’s former Deerstalker guitarist Frankie Boyles who steals the show.

The tunes are pretty great too, but you'll be under no illusion that they're anything other than a rock band, and an explosive one at that.

These songs are raw and beautiful. Glaspy's voice is roughened, tremulous and hypnotic. Her guitar playing is characterful and advanced. Be sure to leave a space on those end-of-year lists.

Fiery hip-hop instrumentals, creamy rhythm and blues balladry and classic lounge vibes are explored with equal excitement--and pulled off with equal panache.

Nothing’s Real, the finished product in question, is imbued with the type of honesty that lends credence to the former [effacing, tongue-in-cheek hubris].

At 20 tracks long, however, it takes some serious listening to get through the whole thing, and a sense of sag in the latter third threatens to overpower on the first few spins. Essentially, this flower could've used a little more judicious pruning.

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

While Mr So and So shows the gig perv no mercy, elsewhere Hanna’s bonehead-nailing, predudice-lancing manifesto reverberates, as ever, with humanity and truth.

For an indie record, Open Book does what it does well, and with charm, but there’s an unshakeable sense of wasted potential here.

Lyrics are as simple and as witty as ever, focusing around sexual desire, jealousy and life in the pre-hipster East End in 2008.

There's a definite sense of deja vu, and maybe there's less of the bite that made the Durham band's debut Courting Strong feel so vital... but when the band kick into heavier tracks like Goldman's Detective Agency, it's free-wheeling, cathartic goodness.

At times perhaps overly conceptual--Honeymooning Alone needlessly hammers the point home--The Bride also lacks more standout cuts to truly make it soar. There’s nevertheless plenty to appreciate here; just don’t expect much in the way of wedding playlist material.

The songs are solid enough, particularly Candlelight (a dead ringer for The Sonics) and Follow Me Home, which has the swagger and punch of Van Morrison's Them. If that whole milieu is to your taste, definitely worth seeking out.

Like a horror flick that looks good but never really scares, The Capsule remains a concept crying out for a narrative.

What makes No Grace feel most like a breezy treat is its fatalistic slant, as Phillip Taylor’s lyrics weigh up life’s daily struggles before concluding that they’re just not worth the worry.

They’re weird. Wired. Wonderful. They sound like no one but themselves, and they’re still getting better.

The methods have changed but Shadow's unorthodox sense of rhythm remains reassuringly familiar.

Say Yes is an assertive, cathartic shout of independence. An understandably grittier attitude drives even the most understated of tracks, but blows full force on Avalanche.

Weaves can flick between breezy, cute pop hits to tight-fisted punk snarlers in the blink of an eyeball, and the record's best tracks are a combination of both.

Featuring crunchy guitars, squeals of feedback and masterful melodicism, comparisons to Pinkerton are inevitable, but there's more nuance and maturity at work here.

There’s real heart buried underneath SUMAC’s furious, deafening bleakness; it can just feel like a serious excavation job to locate it.

Like the image its title evokes then, Light Upon The Lake is a transient pleasure--but a vivid one while it lasts.

Breakin' Point feels like a pop record designed by a committee.

It’s just a shame their debut feels muddied, rather than fuelled, by glimpses of their potential.

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.

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.

Short and snappy it may be--its 12 tracks are done and dusted within half an hour--yet the band still manage to cultivate dramatic intent amidst the jangly guitars and posturing hooks.

A two-way artistic exchange in which everyone wins, musicians and listeners alike.

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.

Minor Victories is frequently beautiful, and it’s the subtle application of the abrasive (on tracks such as Out To Sea) where this project really comes into its own; a few listens in, and captivation becomes its own reward.

Blissful, elegant records like this do not come about by chance.

While this isn’t a bad album, it does feel like a safe one (which is perhaps even worse).

So pretty, so welcoming, so ridiculously clever.

From massive, bashy beginnings, Congrats opens out into an album of very real, ripped-rule-book excitement; it’s exhausting and exhilarating and wonderful.

Means is shadowed and dizzying, sour and fleeting. The album captures the essence of an indie sound that's almost universally considered to be jaded, and proves that the genre may be weatherworn, but its framework is ripe for a renovation.

Produced by Bernard Butler, its ten tracks hum with greedy ambition.

Skip A Sinking Stone isn’t an immediate record, and neither is there anything particularly novel in its utilisation of imagery, but that’s picking holes for the sake of it; tracks such as Getting Gone and the titular Skipping Stones balance naturally, the harmonies gentle, the acoustic guitar, piano and strings positioned with grace.

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

As a whole the experience lacks the nuance and multiple textures required to make such guitar-centric endeavours a real delight.

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

It’s the soundtrack to our most outlandish dreams, perhaps the exit music to the unmade film of our most romantic lives. If you're still to discover Radiohead, listen to this, for it's the perfect way in.

This is an album swimming with inventiveness, quality and variety: it’s good to have her back.

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.

Serengeti in particular is darkly captivating when portraying the self-obsessed Davy. ... Wolf’s typically lush backdrop meanwhile takes in sun-blurred psychedelicism and Pinback indie groove, all cut to a deft hip-hop pulse that’s both brightly hopeful and mournfully direct.

Both blissful and bloody-minded, Ullages is raincoat-clad gift from goth heaven.

Will is a deeply dramatic showcase throughout--Barwick's vision might have its foundation in traditional forms but the way in which she deconstructs and rebuilds is a distinctly renegade act.

It’s not teeming with future classics, but it’s their most solid and replayable record since Brain Thrust Mastery.

Paradise is a better pop record but less immediately fun than previous offerings.

All in, it’s a diverse, bravura undertaking that sees Hubby not only moving on, but upwards as well.

While a little too knowing for some, Nerissimo stands as a fascinating example of two artists in full control, unashamed to lean towards the cerebral without turning the casual listener off.

Craft’s nutcracker vocals and lyrical self-exposure never quite as endearing as they threaten to be.

Plenty of highlights for fans of minimalism can be found here--choose, for instance, from the frosty, shimmering synth and compelling tempo of Scido, or the deliciously dark, skittish Sleep Chamber. There's a slight hiccup with Balance, which has a throwaway feel, and Some Cats is an unremarkable album midpoint, but Kowton's maturity rears its reliable head again amongst Loops 1's spare arrangement, and Shots Fired is a trancey album closer.

Nosebleed Weekend goes for the gut and mostly hits it dead-on. Occasionally their ideas get the better of them.

Age of Indignation is a convincing and credible advance, and September Girls return with their songcraft finely honed.

This is something at once new and familiar, and it demands your attention immediately.

As ever, the potent gallows humour of The Peace And Truce... derives not from flaneur-ish observation, but from direct experience.

PJ Harvey's least beautiful record by some distance, The Hope Street Demolition Project's intentions are admirable and inarguable. But weighed against the expectations raised by the overwhelming invention of her stout back catalogue, it falls uncomfortably short.

His [guitarist Stephen Carpenter's] fleeting interplay with Jerry Cantrell's sprawling guest solo reaches past minor curiosity to become an essential encounter on a record with countless unfurling highlights.

The unashamedly 80s aesthetic--which hallmarked the first Lost Themes--is pleasingly and emphatically recurrent on the second.

Gnod continue to take no prisoners; play loud.

For all her DIY charms, Next Thing continues to give credence to the view that the home studio environment might not quite meet the requirements of a songwriter blessed with such precocious talent.

A beautiful record; you just wish the vocabulary existed to do it justice.

Edwards, Carla Azar and Eugene Goreshter have taken their sweet time, and Pussy's Dead is satisfyingly, luxuriously self-indulgent as a result.

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.

Their obvious love of the Ramones’ weirder cuts is still alive and thrashing, and, admittedly, a lot of Adventure walks extremely familiar soil.

Is merits (pep, sass, tunes) come to the boil in the ludicrously catchy I Hate The Weekend, but Lost Time is such an enjoyable half-hour you’ll barely worry about favourites.

Crab Day, like its predecessor (the staggering Mug Museum), is underpinned by a bold stoicism far removed from calculable, sweetened melodics. Yet, when it really sparks, as on the mesmerising coda of eight-minute closer What's Not Mine or We Might Revolve (a spare, insistent pummel that recalls the fidgety formalism of early Throwing Muses), it yields an emotional resonance that is difficult to deny and impossible to resist.

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

Dare we say that Willner’s beats, moods and tempos are more consistent this time out, lending The Follower a much easier inroad on first listen.

It takes a few listens to even begin to peel back its multi-layered complexity. It’s a triumph, though: a dense, paranoid and phenomenally pretty exploration of post-millennial wonder that’ll keep you coming back, even as it fills the pit of your stomach with dread.

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