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.