Everything’s shrouded in enough metaphor to ensure that we never really see much of Rose the person, and instead spend the album’s forty-ish minutes with Rose the carefully-crafted, self-styled pop star. On this evidence, though, that’s just fine--she’s never sounded this thoughtful or measured.

That isn't to say there aren't enjoyable moments on III that transcend genre--the final build in Days Turn Into Years is particularly good--but ultimately, this is largely standard fare.

This is the work of an artist who's been honing his craft for some time now, and is perfectly primed for his moment in the spotlight.

Lotta Sea Lice is a joyful, ambling product of two connected creative minds.

[The] spirit of reflection bleeds into Every Country’s Sun, their latest effort, which draws and borrows themes and styles from across their career to build a whole as monumental as anything they’ve achieved so far.

On I quit, HAIM are unbound. It is brilliant, then wandering, then brilliant again; an imperfect, burning, compelling work.

There’s not much depth to the lyrics. But when it sounds this good, who cares?

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.

By key change three, your tolerance for theatricality may be tested, but Friko’s affinity for arresting melodies makes every twist and turn genuinely exciting and, with its wild, youthful spirit, their second record is the perfect soundtrack for the open road.

The Caretaker is not for the fainthearted, nor is it designed to be background music: it demands to keep your full and undivided attention.

Opener Belly of the Whale envelops us into a trance, setting the tone for an album gripping at dark corners.

Tiny Changes is the sincere and inventive celebration deserved by The Midnight Organ Fight, a record many of us hold closer than any other.

Despite its brevity Anoyo contains some of the most straightforwardly beautiful music Hecker has made in some time, and makes for a strong companion and continuation to the themes and sonic developments made on Konoyo.

Late Developers is not simply a collection of offcuts but a catchier and more diverse collection than its companion piece. It finds the group pulling at the threads around the edges of their sound and, in a couple of cases, striding out into new territory.

The juncture of influences and styles found across Sampa the Great's new album, As Above, So Below, is tripping and magic and Sampa’s immense ability to play hard and soft is the driving core of the album.

The wit and wisdom of Moffat is about as sharp as ever here and ‘Hubby’ is clearly at the top of his game.

Earl Grey delivers eleven thoughtful, quirky tracks which deserve to be listened to again and again.

Stylistically, Wanderer doesn’t break much new ground for Marshall. What is powerful about this album is her ability to imbue each word with every ounce of what she has lived--as a woman, a mother, an artis

Too many of the tracks dissolve into an atmosphere-for-the-sake-of-it sludge, yanking you into consciousness only every once in a while.

First Taste is the first record of new material in his name this year, and while it doesn’t fully offer the uncharted sounds suggested by its title, it tastes delicious nonetheless.

So pretty, so welcoming, so ridiculously clever.

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.

Throughout, Grow Up is a bracing and vital antidote to genre norms, and shares a worldview that nourishes both heart and head. A huge undertaking, a staggering achievement. You need this.

The combination with Yorkston’s folky paeans was haunting and here, barely a year later, they’ve done it again.

While The Guillotine's second half doesn't quite hit the peaks of its first, it still remains an enthralling and embittering listen.

Twerp Verse is a polished, sonically inventive record that’s both playful and punchy, but its purpose feels unclear.

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

You Tell Me is probably at its peak when it leans further towards these pacey, pop-infused moments. However, the handful of tracks that stray into ballad territory are still often striking--not simply due to the musical intricacies that lie within them but because Hayes' vocals evoke strength and tenderness in equal measure, giving them some real emotional weight.

It’s a record about moving forward, appreciating "tiny triumphs" and staying open. It may also be Finn's most timely release to date.

This time it’s only a partial reinvention, but by the time the huge guitars and stereo panning of One More Hour fade away, there’s no doubt that Kevin Parker is a man with his own unique sense of time.

This is probably one for Veirs purists, but such is the standard of her songwriting that even among these sketches, there’s some real gems to be found.

The cut-deep lyrics throughout the record paired with well-crafted sounds are sad, yet comforting. Cassyette has created an album that lyrically feels like a shoulder to cry on while sonically is an empowering outburst of rock.

Miss Anthropocene is an uneven record, and one that arrives with considerable baggage that threatens to turn it into a punching bag. But Grimes' proven abilities as a producer win out. There are superfluous, overlong passages, especially when the brightness in her music drains away.

A record that never quite seems to find its feet, despite having a plethora of creative and interesting ideas.

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.

More importantly, though, it’s a different one; another good record in an outstanding discography and hard proof that a goodbye from Teenage Fanclub at this stage would be woefully premature.

There are hints of the band's more dynamic past on Eucalyptus, Tropic Morning News and Grease In Your Hair. But on the whole, First Two Pages of Frankenstein is an excellent exploration into recovery from depression, passion and addiction and is one of the finest records The National have released in quite some time.

Too often the album feels like a case of enacting genres rather than letting their influence seep in. It leaves the record feeling like a grab bag of ideas, some of which have been polished to brilliance, others of which haven’t been fully realised. There’s clearly a great album in there, just one that never quite gets the momentum to show itself.

The record is at its best when it retains the sense of adventure that has defined their earlier work.

Sprawling, magnificent, dangerous and fantastical; this beast is--however extraordinary--an apt representation of the 11-song extravaganza it adorns here.

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

d. If you’ve followed either Moore or Falkner, it’s certainly a curio. Everyone else--life is way too short.

While certainly not a work for casual listening, NO TITLE AS OF 13 FEBRUARY 2024, 28,340 DEAD is, in all of its warped, noisy instrumentation, the embodiment of music as art. Removed from corporate influence, conventional song segmentation, and algorithmically tuned track lengths, Godspeed You! Black Emperor are free to convey a message uncompromised.

An album that functions seamlessly as a listen-in-one-sitting affair, with enough memorable stand-alone moments to keep the club contingent happy, Bicep's debut is a clear front-runner for best house record of the year.

Overall, Black Hole Superette contains a number of fun and novel songs delivered with a remarkably detailed writing style. What really lets the project down is a lack of variety across an overly long tracklist.

Compassion may not feel complete yet, but it’s an exciting portent of what may yet come.

Jepsen’s knack for lyrics that hit on the mostly-fun but often-fraught world of romantic relationships is also still in full effect.

By all accounts this fusion of genres should feel awkward and unworkable, but Ziúr fuses these elements together with the precision of a mad scientist unaware of the monster they’ve just created.

Spiral is a more settled affair. Jaar and Harrington lean into rhythm and repetition more here, not willing to pull out the same number of jump scares just for the sake of it, a masterclass in the art of precision and withholding.

White Lies have succeeded in creating an album with much more scope that is a testament to the enduring nature of their sound. Five denotes a chapter in the band’s career but it does by no means symbolise the end of White Lies.

It’s a record that sees Doyle take chances, not all of which pay off by any means, but it is one that never truly coalesces into a great album in the way his last two records have. That said, he remains a figure who is always interesting and developing.

While previous Oh Sees tunes have tended toward explorations of mood, spread out over a krautrock-scented riff or two, here individual songs find themselves bursting at the seams with ideas.

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.

A cathartic release following years of volatility and instability. It feels like the most important record of his career, as he works through his internal and external conflicts to, ultimately, find peace.

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

Teenage Fanclub sound refreshed, renewed and remarkably like themselves as Endless Arcade reveals an old group with some new tricks sounding in rude health.

Generally speaking, while it's a solid return for the group, it's likely to leave some wanting more, aching for some real catharsis or a change of gear here and there.

At the very least, Cry Sugar acts as a reminder of Birchard’s originality but, at the most, it’s a broad and diverse exploration of the many faces of electronic music past and present.

While her captivating vocals remain, Donnelly’s lack of bark and bite from the debut means this record, as the name suggests, mostly washes over you.

While the songs feel of a piece with one another, there is subtly rich variety here, from the retro pop of Love Feel and Chain of Tears to stargazing reflection on Essence of Life and the dusky groove of Giddy Up and the title track.

Dripping in catharsis that seems to pour straight from Danilova’s soul, Okovi is rarely an easy listen, even when it’s at its most accessible. But it’s also profound, and Zola Jesus’ most emotionally stirring record to date.

On Supermodels, Claud combines humour with pure heart throughout, cultivating the ultimate soundtrack for summer and beyond.

Overall, Santhosam has the fresh vibrancy of a mixtape, but with the smooth cohesiveness of an album – it’s the self-assured debut of an artist who has fully arrived and is ready to carve out a distinctive space of her own.

The result is a melodic and chilled-out collection that ripples with sonic goodness.

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).

Despite its title, New Ways doesn’t break boundaries or really see Vollebekk break out of his typecast. But it is nonetheless a nice, warm album.

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

It’s at times a frustrating listen – just as a flow appears, dark, ominous vignettes (Joyrider, Predator) shatter the illusion. Eventually, reward arrives. Carrying you through the epic collage of Round the World is McMahon’s anchor of a voice, proving there’s beauty to be found in the disquiet.

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.

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.

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.

Bazan’s wit and compassion shine throughout a dark voyage such as this; as one witness to a brutal suicide turns to black humour, while another, in contrast, valiantly tries to retain their emotional openness in a job that often requires distance.

With more thematic clarity and less of a throw in everything and the kitchen sink attitude, The Age of Anxiety could have been a phenomenal debut for Pixx. Despite the high quality of many of the tracks, however, there’s just a bit too much going on for it to all make sense.

The record successfully transfers all the eagerness of their energetic live shows to portray punk with unusual tenderness.

[Shows] a more intimate side to Barnett than we’ve previously encountered. ... Things start to feel monotonous and samey by If I Don’t Hear From You Tonight and Splendour and there’s none of the brazen intensity or deadpan delivery that graces Tell Me How You Really Feel to behold here, which is a shame.

This release marks a new sense of sincerity and authenticity for the band and the thematic issues which the lyrics raise are vocalised in a wonderfully relatable manner, free of any flounce or artifice. However, without humour the album feels a bit flat and even overly morose.

For the most part, the songs here are less immediately grabbing than those on his EPs, with greater emphasis on atmosphere than thumping beats, but they share the same glitchy DNA.

The band rarely deviate from their thematic nexus, which helps to tie the album together as it sprawls over nineteen tracks. As they move closer to the middle ground, Saint Etienne are far from re-inventing the wheel, but in writing delectable pop hooks about a place as decidely uncool as the home counties, that was never really the point.

The Loneliest Time is still a solid leftfield pop album, showcasing Jepsen’s ability to draw across eras and genres to push the boundaries of what pop can be: ultimately, this is what makes her such a compelling artist.

Kinetic and unpredictable, whatever has instigated such an about turn, this idea-packed collection provides an evolution from the ambient, new age music Smith has become known for.

These two tracks [This Time and Loving] crest an emotional peak that isn’t quite matched elsewhere.

The album is an expertly crafted assault on the fallacy that ignorance is bliss, an eye-opening invitation to see our society for what it really is. Bliss is overrated anyway.

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

Every Loser is lyrically and technically multidimensional.

The band’s latest effort doesn’t fully shrug off the creeping sense of familiarity, but for the first time marks a real step forward. Glowing In the Dark’s most successful moments are those that stray the farthest from the band’s blueprint of sun-washed guitars and cascading vocal harmonies.

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

The Glasgow-based quartet back it up with brilliantly catchy and inventive songs that will ensure a smile and a toe-tap while making their audience think.

At the centre of everything is Booker’s raspy vocal delivery, and therein lies the record’s central contradiction--the lush arrangements are lovely, but they too often threaten to suffocate that remarkably raw voice. There’s a balance to be struck, and Booker’s not quite there yet--maybe next time.

There isn't enough time across the space of one album for the contemplation that this music requires, but the spacious arrangements do their best with a wide variety of electronic affectations.

In the main, Blu Wav is Grandaddy’s most grounded album yet, a triumph of reinvention.

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.

It takes repeated plays to reveal the subtle depths, the pump organ, accordion, electric bass, melodica, mellotron.

Wide-eyed in sound and vision, three is the magic number for Sacred Paws. They haven’t just jumped into life... they’ve leaped.

While a few of the songs feel somewhat repetitive, they are more than compensated for with the experimentation and risk-taking on tracks like Angel Like You and Could Be Machine.

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 results are magnificent.

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.

On A Kiss For The Whole World, you can genuinely feel the life pouring out of the record. It’s eccentric, erratic and just the sui generis of what Enter Shikari stand for.