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.

Human Performance might have sacrificed the band's rickety immediacy, but they compensate with wise, grass-stalk chewing authority and grubby, plentiful hooks.

III is a record for getting lost in your thoughts, rather than losing your mind on the floor.