Wuthering Dream all too frequently gets lost in its own subtleties.

Atomic picks up where the krauty electronic wash that coloured Rave Tapes left off, and sees the band brandishing some of their most compelling work to date.

Yeasayer constantly threaten to come out with a startling album; alas, Amen and Goodbye isn’t it.

IV isn't Black Mountain's most ferocious album, but you might well find it their most profound.

While the project makes more sense if you’ve seen the movie, there’s plenty of warmth and intelligence alongside the tits and willies.

Weighty subject matter, then, but Harris’ John Darnielle-esque delivery rams the message home amidst their strongest set of tunes since 2006’s The Body, The Blood, The Machine, with Kathy Foster’s on-point harmonies (Thinking Of You) and propulsive bass (Always Never Be) adding purpose to their power-punk arsenal.

Homme’s relative subservience is largely to the record’s benefit--he’s clearly happy to ride shotgun for Pop--and the symbiotic alliance renders Post Pop Depression a beguiling listen, fascinatingly experimental, thematically compelling and a deeply intimate portrait of one of the all-time great rock wildmen coming to terms with the idea of retirement.

Stiff is better when it's slower, but it still feels like riding a rollercoaster that's all climb and no twist.

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.

It’s confidently compressed, and where this kind of urban dance music can serve as a vehicle for ego, Rodrigues' deft arrangements and choice guests speak for him--and speak volumes.

You'll be happy to hear that Xtreme Now, the Brooklyn duo Princa Rama’s latest record, is just as joyously naff as any judgey pre-judger could expect.

Songs that are perfectly pitched to suit fans of Pixies, Daniel Johnson and Drive By Truckers; Lisa Walker on the other, working like Margo Timmins to make his harder (She’s Killed Hundreds) and funnier (Hello, I’m a Ghost) material more plaintive (Donny’s Death Scene, Hand of God).

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.

Though she’s on the edge of slipping into Adele-esque poperatics, this is a bold and confident first LP from a producer--and singer--with great potential.

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.

Grapefruit is both excruciating and luxurious in its patchiness.

There's a point during Transuranic Heavy Elements where the bludgeoning beats pause and something (Guitars? You? The earth?) begins to howl, and you think: This is probably not for everyone.

Barbara... is less massive comeback than slight return.

Girl at the End of the World is, on one level, more of the same: bulging arrangements; hefty half-hooks; Tim Booth's screwy commentary connecting somewhere to the left of immediately comprehensible. But it's also intelligent, accomplished and likeable.

Moogmemory is a brave and rewarding left field adventure.

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

More Rain finds Ward playing genre bingo with generally enjoyable results, including a tasteful homage to T. Rex and a well-handled country number about his Christian faith.

A moving synth-pop paean to the pair’s powerful relationship and a fitting finale to their School of Seven Bells project.

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

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

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.

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.

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

An album with a few moments of sweetness, but which ultimately feels like a pleasant collection of background music.

Like most LSD songs we’ve come to love since the band’s rise in popularity around 2011, Side Pony is packed with tunes you’ll want to sing along to before you know any of the words. But there’s also more sonic muscle here.

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.

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.

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.

Uplifting and electric, Love Yes is a blast.

Jesu’s crunching, industrial guitar, subtle drum machines and harmonies compliment Kozelek’s meandering, caustic tales differently to past collaborators such as The Album Leaf and Desertshore, but it works just as well, helped by star turns from the likes of Low and Will Oldham.

At times (Pay Attention To Me, Rot In Hell), their chief inspiration point seems to be Nirvana’s seething grind through Devo’s Turnaround, but their gleeful dedication to deafening scree also calls to mind both No Age and TAD’s 8-Way Santa.

A late night journey of the highest order.

These songs are strong enough to be recorded with minimal accompaniment and that instantly recognisible, hushed voice--but the best moments are when his love of electronica shines through.

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.

Bulat performs with passion and authority. Ten songs and not a hint of filler.

There’s still too much filler here to warrant an unqualified thumbs up.

Animal Collective still lay down a challenge. It's the sound of a band refreshed.

With original Stereolab drummer Joe Dilworth also involved, there’s the feel of an avant-noise supergroup when DeerHunter’s Bradford Cox and Spacemen 3’s Sonic Boom lend some typically out-there contributions. Deeply sublime.

Thought Rock Fish Scale arrives wholesome and homely rather than exciting or challenging, as if missing the lights of the big city.

Perhaps it isn't quite a fully realised picture, but Life of Pause still paints a very pretty sonic landscape.

It’s an album of shattered dreams and primary colours--“Where’s your sense of humour?” decries Blunderland--and more than once it isn’t obvious if the band are laughing with us or (in the nicest possible way) at us.

A poignant but punchy triumph then, perfectly timed for mid-winter maladies.

Over 14 tracks, repetitive funk riffs and chatty, conversationalist lyrics start to wear a little thin, and a lack of diversity makes for such comfortable listening that you risk all-too-comfortably tuning out.

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.

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

Both vivid and dreamlike, each narrative swims in and out of focus without ever being forced; the type of record to return to, again and again.

Ornate, sometimes grand and shot through with their distinct brand of colloquial folk rock, Weem is beguiling from the first listen and only gets better the more you cosy on up with it.

Williams’ songwriting approach, while accomplished and still urgent, occasionally loses some of its ferocity and connection to the theme by playing to his game a bit too much; relying on that trademark electro-rock production instead of mutating contemporary trap and noise feels like a slight misstep.

The results are a timeless, genre-smashing work with a psychedelic soul.

Lead track The Love Within opens the record and remains a bizarre mess; Kele Okereke's distinct vocal parting for a mostly one-note synth line that causes a genuine flinch. All is perhaps not lost: Fortress is a somewhat pretty, minimal electro ballad while Different Drugs speaks for the entire record; flirting with a series of ideas before simply fading out of sight and mind. We expected so much more.

Blackstar is an absorbing (if consciously arty and perhaps a shade self-indulgent) listen.

Suicide Songs sees the trio perfect what they started to build on their debut.

Overt beats don’t appear until the sixth stanza, bass conspicuous by its absence pretty much throughout, yet whilst the themes can occasionally run away with themselves through lack of definite direction or concrete dénouement, 3.5 Degrees remains an accomplished debut.

Apart from a few tonal blips (Taken By The Tide may well be a smuggled-in Band of Horses track, and 1985’s piano ballad proves an idling mid-point), Curve... is a remarkably slick experience.

Rest assured, although still more cerebral pleasure than triumphalist pop breakthrough, this uniquely accessible record is a subtle delight.

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.

Only occasionally does the grandeur threaten to run away from them, as on the over-blustery Pale Kings; otherwise, their form is more or less impeccable, with the swooning vocal melodies of Backchannels and the off-kilter creep of Filaments among its standout elements.

With fearless approach and razor sharp delivery, Adore Life is so bruisingly intimate that it feels like a surgical hand taking grasp of your gut. When Savages speak, you listen.

Just when it all seems familiar, you're struck by a specific detail and realise you’ve started to smile.

Not to Disappear is shattering throughout: a brooding sound board, crackling guitars, unsettling beats and Tonra buried in there somewhere, documenting unspeakable hurt, graphic and unfiltered.

At times this feels like a celebration of what can be achieved with three chords and an earnest tale, intelligently told.

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.