David and Peter Brewis’ last release as Field Music, 2010′s majestic Field Music (Measure), was the brothers’ most accessible, most coherent, and best album so far. For all its sprawl and experimentation – spanning 70-odd minutes and two CDs, featuring ambient Eno-inspired soundscapes and what the band termed “‘found sound’ composition” - Measure showed Field Music, assuredly and confidently,  as themselves. Having spent two albums as Field Music and a solo album each finding their feet, David Brewis commented after Measure‘s release that they now felt it “sufficient just to be us”. For the ever-restless Brewis brothers, the solution to the welcome problem of following greatness has been to reject Measure‘s sensibilities almost wholesale. Out go the sweeping baroque string sections and the art-pop song structures, in come – in the band’s own words – “the surreal abstractions of 20th century film music, from Bernstein to Willy Wonka”. Measure‘s title said a lot about the music, controlled and orderly, a rare double album that flowed beautifully and never threatened to spiral out of control. Plumb‘s title is as cryptic as anything found within.

When I interviewed David Brewis recently, he spoke of how he and his brother feel “personally attached” to the album format. The traditional rockist/indie perspective on such matters is that the sum of the tracks adds up to more than their whole: “an album” is a work of art to be taken hollistically, to be listened to as a piece, not to be ripped and torn apart and sold for 79p per segment. “An album”, as understood by those serious about their music, is a singular artistic statement, of which we have certain expectations, stylistically, structurally, and thematically.

So just prior to the release of Plumb seems like an odd time for the Brewises to declare their love for the album format. It’s not that Plumb is an album open to being chopped and shuffled – far from it, due to the clipped, cropped, shifting nature of most of the tracks – but that, at full flow, it feels more like a dismantling of the album format than a paean to a dying art.

For a band frequently pegged as “prog”, Field Music are strangely averse to holding onto anything for longer than they have to. Prog takes its inspiration from improvisational jazz, building around a steady pattern and developing a single idea for as long as it needs to reach a conclusion, but Plumbfinds Field Music cutting away the building part of that trajectory, leaving us with a series of beginnings and conclusions. Several times on the album (notably on tail-end numbers ‘How Many More Times’ and ‘Ce Soir’) we expect a song to lift off, but instead it folds back, or simply fades out: the ellipses in the middle are left for us to fill in. Field Music’s sound and ever-shifting time signatures bear the hallmarks of prog, but this is prog as run through the filter of the schizophrenic, attention-deficit MTV iPod Spotify shuffle-button generation, where Queen flows into Justin Timberlake flows into Stephen Sondheim without ever blinking or thinking.A traditional “album” looks to ebb and flow, to build and release and climax; Plumb moves in more mysterious ways. Plumb is as schizophrenic as the world that surrounds it. Opener ‘Start the Day Right’ changes time signature twice, and flows into ‘It’s OK to Change’ as if the track hasn’t changed at all. Like of Montreal’s experimental Skeletal Lamping, which saw Kevin Barnes stitch together 30-second “clips” of tracks, questioning our ideas of what a song is, what an album is, without ever compromising on the remit of writing startling pop music, Plumb manages to be constantly gripping and engrossing while never leaving an opening for complacency, either on behalf of the listener or Field Music themselves.

Rather than building and releasing tension across the album, Plumb is unsettling precisely because you’re never sure where it’s going to go next. ‘Choosing Sides’, which opens with forty seconds of synth experimentation before opening onto one of the more direct songs on the record, is followed by ‘A Prelude to Pilgrim Street’, which sounds like the opening track to a concept album we’ll never hear. It’s disconcerting and ominous and, at under two minutes in length, it leaves you with a real sense of unfulfilled anticipation. The album rewards the listener who returns, but there is a sense that the great strength of the album – the rapidity with which it bombards you with catchy riffs and hooks – could so easily be a weakness when a great idea is abandoned too soon. It would be unfair to say that there are tracks here that feel undeveloped. Field Music are, if nothing else, dedicated to the communication of their ideas, but the cropped nature of the songs potentially leaves too much up to the listener.

Similarly, while it seems counter-intuitive to the praise of the cracked nature of the beast, the best tracks here are those that the Brewises allow to grow and develop without dragging in three directions at once. ‘A New Town’ rides along for four minutes on a simple funk bassline, letting its lyrical themes – an adolescent longing for the new and an escape from the routine, a counterpoint to Measure‘s ‘Each Time Is a New Time’ in which the protagonist found simple pleasure in a repeated action – be expressed. Closer ‘(I Keep Thinking About) A New Thing’ is a clear choice for first single, being the song that connects Plumb to Measure most obviously; and ‘From Hide and Seek to Heartache’, the album’s stand-out moment, slowly builds itself from a single repeating piano note, swelling into the closest thing to a ballad on the album. When Field Music demonstrate where they are able to go if they develop their elliptical fragments, they run the risk of leaving more to regret than to savour.

“My generation are opting out of choosing sides”, laments David Brewis on ‘Choosing Sides’. Plumb is an album which demands that you do just that. There are people who won’t like this record, but one now gets the feeling that the Brewis brothers relish such a prospect. Plumb‘s skittish, schizophrenic structure may aim to reflect the lack of attention we pay to anything any more, but through that it ends up demanding even more from the listener. It will divide people. But those who choose the side of Field Music, who explore all that this record has to offer, will ultimately find something worth looking for.

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Carlson has overseen Earth’s development from drone pioneers who pretty much reinvented heavy metal with slower riffs (and invented Sunn O))) in the process), to a kind of super slo-mo dusty Americana: all blues, jazz and elongated country twang. It all began with Hex; Or Printing in the Infernal Method, then continued the progression with the “gospel” record The Bees Made Honey in the Lion’s Skull that thrived on the organ and brass of Steve Moore, before the first part of Angels replaced Moore’s blues with the cello of veteran collaborator Lori Goldston. With Adrienne Davis as always adding sensitive percussion and Karl Blau back on bass for the second time, Angels II shows that Earth are more of a band than ever before. Sure, Carlson’s languid guitar playing still dominates, but the integration with the cello, and the rhythm section, is better than it’s ever been.

Opener ‘Sigil of Brass’ (a sigil is a magical seal, and the mystical theme dominates throughout, revealing Carlson’s interest in the otherworldly, something he’s trying to focus in an epic solo project) might be the brightest and most accessible moment in the Earth canon so far; and while this gentle introduction is extremely pleasant, the real joys can be found in the slowly unwinding epics that follow.  Hex’s desert-noir has had a folk element added to it through Goldston’s cello, (whose influence on Nirvana Unplugged should not be underestimated); while Carlson seems to have developed a lighter touch in his playing, turning a track like ‘His Teeth Did Brightly Shine’ into something akin to the slowcore of the early ’90s. There is, however, still more of a weight behind what Earth does than was found in that genre, with Carlson still bringing the darkness as the track chugs along, sparked by some improv soloing.

The moment that best captures what Goldston has added comes with ‘Multiplicity of Doors’, a stately waltz that combines doomy cello with scratchy guitars, intimately recorded to give it a live feel and never outstaying its welcome in its 12 minutes. ‘The Corascene Dog’ has a jazzy swing to it, with Adrienne Davis’ subtle and instinctive drumming providing ballast that ensures the duet between guitar and cello doesn’t end up meandering. Final track ‘The Rakehell’ is simply a virtuoso performance from Dylan Carlson, his bluesy grooves building and falling, each note being hypnotically teased out for as long as possible before the track finally dumps us in the middle of the desert, abandoned and broken.

Angels of Darkness, Demons of Light II is an excellent record from beginning to end; engaging and intimate, yet widescreen and full of ambition in terms of its themes, sound and construction. Some of it was recorded live in the studio as jams developed into songs, and this gives the album a natural and welcoming feel. Earth, by moving further away from their drone and noise beginnings, have become an even more interesting and exciting prospect over 20 years since the project first began – they’re by far the best act on Southern Lord. It seems that Carlson is intent on remaining prolific, and I for one can’t wait for what’s next.

Look, I’m not saying we don’t have stuff in common. We probably both grew up on a steady diet of Pac-NW proto-hipster rock, and I bet we both harbored a fantasy of being in a band throughout those years. But my god, you’re never going to hear a NPR-blogged tune as hollowed-out as ‘Thunderbirds’ again any time soon. Or a take on woozy noise-pop as utterly toothless as ‘I Can Be Dreamy’ again any time soon. Or a broken, Gary Glitter-aping guitar rumble as gawky as ‘CKSFAR’ again any time soon. Sure it’s noisy; if you’re nice you could say things like “rambunctious” – but without a meaningful song structure in sight all those catchy adjectives fall by the wayside. It’s a record that seems to come from a band that hasn’t written any songs yet, just a criss-cross mesh of brown-note tones and (wait for it) a fuzzy vocal channel. It’s not fun, profound, danceable, thinkable, likeable, or even all that hateable – this is empty-release-window music.

In short, records like Dracula are the kind of thing that the unacquainted use to call the indie-rock universe on their shit. If hipster-garbage had a calling card, it’d be Coolrunnings. They are a perfect example of getting caught up in the names, waves, and giddy, gimmicky chaff without first thinking about the music. The game don’t need them, and neither do you – in 2012 it’s impossible to fall for this shit twice.

Rather appropriately released on Valentine’s Day, Tennis – a.k.a. Denver-based husband and wife duo Alaina Moore and Patrick Riley – bring us their second record Young And Old just over a year after the pair released their debut Cape Dory in January 2011. A series of songs written about their shared experience sailing around the Atlantic, Cape Dory was an album wrapped in whimsy and nostalgia, a romantic record of their days before married life. On their 10-track follow up that romanticism remains intact, even down to the album’s title – based upon Romantic poet John Keats’ work of the same name.

Awash with early ’60s syths and woozy odes to modern dream pop, Tennis inevitably draw parallels with the likes of Beach House, Summer Camp and Best Coast. Low key yet upbeat, each hum of Moore’s electric organ is wrapped in nostalgia, while her rhyming lyrics – such as ‘Travelling’’s “This must be rare ‘cos nothing else could compare, not that I’m aware of” – add further depth to the innocent poeticism present throughout the record. With its familiar melodies and vintage Beach Boys tones the album’s formula is simple yet slightly saccharine, particularly during tracks such as ‘Robin’ and ‘Take Me To Heaven’. Likewise each song is concise, all of them resting around the three-minute mark, a pattern that allows each song to slowly take shape before sinking into the next. Yet for all its passion, there’s no element of surprise during Young And Old. That’s not to say, however, that it’s a disappointment.

Album opener ‘It All Feels The Same’ is a perfect way for Tennis to submerge their listeners into the cool ripples of their lo-fi American surf-pop. Beginning with the words “Took a train to, took a train to get to you/Finally got there and I couldn’t find you anywhere”, Tennis carry their theme of travel and journeying through into album number two. While these lyrics are not exactly profound, in their own context they feel appropriate in their simple delivery, particularly when presented against the music’s soft backing tones. After ‘It All Feels The Same”s climatic ending, the record moves deftly into ‘Origins’, the record’s first single. It’s clear to see why it was selected as Young And Old’s introduction: with Moore’s arpeggioed verses and Riley’s reverberating guitar, ‘Origins’ is a euphoric clash of varying tempos and multiple instruments.

Fellow Fat Possum labelmates The Black Keys’ Patrick Carney was chosen as producer, for his own experience with self-producing, and he has successfully captured the home recorded, un-slick techniques that this record demands. This perfect pairing is most evident in tracks such as ‘High Road’ – where Moore mournfully notes: “Paradise is all around, but happiness is never found” – and ‘Dreaming’, a song that is as fanciful and hazy as its title suggests. Carney also crafts the band’s preference for flooding their melodies and vocals to the fore, unlike many of their musical counterparts who tend to wash their vocals with overpowering shoegaze synths and distorting feedback fuzz. Here, the vocals are not as densely layered as they were in previous tracks such as ‘Marathon’, Carney allowing Moore’s delicate, two-line vocal harmonies to shine through alone.

If there’s a negative to note, it’s that occasionally some songs slide a little too easily into one another, rendering it difficult to differentiate between them. As such there are moments where the momentum lags somewhat, particularly during third track ‘My Better Self’ with its slightly monotonous melody. Despite the permeating drumbeats at the song’s start, it plods along at one pace, with a minimal guitar line and barely audible organ melodies. While it’s not a bad song, compared with some of Young And Old’s other offerings – such as the ’80s infused ‘Petition’ with its high, distorted chorus, and the upbeat joviality and doo wop of ‘Travelling’ – it certainly lacks the lifting and lilting movement that the majority of the album exudes.

Of the ever-expanding wave of surf-pop bands to appear over the last few years, simply put: Beach House, with their moodier, more progressive take on the genre, do it best. Yet there’s no denying that Tennis have still come up with a joyful album, one replete with a lusciously summery vibe and a smattering of exceptional songs. With its romanticism intact, Young And Old’s lyrics echo the very promise of its title: it still has its youthful, innocent touch, yet also hints at its dedication to their musical past. During Tennis’ relatively short career the duo have clearly achieved much and crafted some sublime songs, yet you can’t escape the sense that with a little more variety their releases would go even further, both on record and in a live setting.

What’s sonically great here is the dissonant 1950s riffola employed on tracks like the twanging, horror-atmospheric Lynchian bar-room opener ‘Falling Down The Stairs’ and its second half mirror ‘Perfumed’, itself a clanging, sleazy slog boasting the knowing, shivering lines “Take me honey, please take me home/My little sweetheart waits up alone” – it’s a tearing little treasure.

There’s more of this swaggering slow motion rock ‘n’ roll on the shuffle of ‘You Bring the Sadness’, all rumbling guitar and torch-song vocals. Along with a couple of other ominous, chilling terror-sludge moments like the Cocteau dream state of the pacy, flailing ‘Meow’ and the JAMC candy-sweet stomp of ‘Jezebel Jive’, these are the most substantial and enjoyable moments of darkness.

Throughout, new vocalist Rebekka Marstein shifts between anonymous and prominent states, entirely dependent on the whims of production – a more consistent vocal presence would work so much better for them.

When they revert to more trad, obvious shoegazing styles as on the Cranes-alike ‘Pretty Nights’, a terrible, indecipherable and tuneless effort, and the comedically ’90s ‘Slumber Street’ which suggests a band with their eyes firmly on their trainers, a copy of ‘Loveless’ stapled under their arm, they can disappoint big-time.

Forgettable filler like ‘The Thief’ indulges in a bit of sci-fi sound silliness that’s only rescued by a whipcrack drum pattern; but then there’s the late-game album highlight of ‘Devil’s Sigh’ to be considered. Melting through their various admirable traits and employing each to its greatest effect it’s a memorable, feedback-formed, sexy, repeating delight.

It’s an album that follows neatly in the footsteps of the dark wave of Norway’s finest ‘gazers and also pushes the genre on a little – a good dose more affecting, stylish and filmic than one would expect, if not the total seachange for which one might have hoped.

So while they do lean towards Elliott Smith or (more easily achieved) Iron & Wine territory –  lands clearly demarcated with flags of whispered vocal, fences of honeyed instrumentation and, er, skies of sadness – this EP appears to be at least a minor departure for songwriter Mark Andrew Hamilton.

Basing the EP around the tapes his parents would play relentlessly on road trips when he was a boy in the ’70s, these are markedly smoother, more radio-friendly tracks than he’s delivered before. The fact that the title track itself sounds just like an easy listening FM radio hit of the aforementioned decade doesn’t harm matters thematically.

Compact, chiming tunes like ‘Winnebago’ closing with the cry of a self aware nostalgist “Your sigh just made me weep/Can’t put my bygones where bygones oughtta be” and the naïve, overly simplistic ode to lovers past ‘By Lamplight’ add to the impression that this is a record of pure intent – but that the intention may be straight-out sentimentalism.

‘Are You There, God? It’s Me, Mark’ has the best title of the year so far and is a dramatic piece of chamber pop most reminiscent of their “old” sound. This is countered by the excellent ‘One to Many’ – boasting the clearest, most intimate vocal performance of the set and swiftly dismissing the past in favour of an unpleasant present and an uncertain future with the damning “Here there’s no do-overs, no retakes my dear/And we’ll talk about next to nothing now”. It’s like a record arguing with itself about what it wants to be, and thus instantly memorable.

‘Are You There, God? It’s Me, Mark’ aside, the instrumentation and arrangements of the rest of the tunes here seem much more geared to potential populism, less to being self-consciously rural or pointedly indie.

Though the closing reinterpretation of the opening track accommodates an unsubtle middle eight with more grace than the original it still feels like a bit of a let down – following ‘One to Many’ we’re ready for another killer blow, but get a little pat on the back instead.

Woodpigeon, then, have wrung plenty out of just five songs here – evocative, effective and sometimes wonderful, most importantly a step, however small, out from under the shadow of their influences.

Pop music’s quite the thing isn’t it? Aside from wonderful artists making wonderful music for as long as we can remember, it also weaves tales that demand attention, stories of overnight success, or years of hard graft finally paying off; buskers get signed by label execs who just happen to have been walking by, or a waitress absent-mindedly singing to get through her shift whose life is changed overnight just because the big man from A&R was sitting there having his third espresso of the day. To this we can add the story of 17 year old Swede Amanda Mair, who at the age of 15 signed to acclaimed and revered Swedish record label Labrador (home of Club 8, Acid House Kings and the Mary Onettes). After being encouraged to record a few covers at the local studio by her mother, studio owner Tom Steffenson – who also happened to be the touring drummer in Club 8 – liked what he heard and alerted bandmate, friend and Labrador boss Johan Angergård to Mair’s precocious talent. With her voice unquestionable, Angergård roped in Mary Onettes leader Philip Ekström to write and produce songs that would best show off Mair’s talents. And as the Labrador site suggests, the sound they ended up with was “a young, Swedish Dusty Springfield produced by Kate Bush”.

The end result isn’t really the Swedish version of Dusty in Memphis (Amanda in Stockholm, anyone?) and it’d be silly to compare Amanda Mair to that legend at this stage in her career; in any case her vocals bear more comparison to Kate Bush, an artist Mair admitted she hadn’t heard of (more of which later) when recording debut album Amanda Mair. It’s a pure pop record, bearing all the hallmarks of a Labrador release: pristine production, big hooks, melodies galore and above all, plenty of quality.

‘Said and Done’ opens proceedings with some Eastern strings and develops into a mid-tempo song about having no regrets, with Mair backed by clever percussion and stabs of piano. ‘Doubt’ begins with Spectoresque drums and bright keys, and Mair singing: “I run from the people I love, I will always stay true to my heart”. The track develops into a fizzing ’80s pop song, and a chorus filled with, ahem, doubt: “I wanna become what people become, but I know I’ll stay here/I wanna become what I’ll never become, but I know I’ll stay here/It’s how you’ll be one step ahead of me, I let you be one step ahead of me”. This is the sound of a song written by someone with experience, sung by someone who’s yet to go through all the ups and downs of love but who can translate the song and relate it to her own nascent experiences. To do that takes a talent, and Mair has it: she’s got intuition to go with her great voice. ‘House’ is a moving song about an apartment shared with a former lover that no longer holds its appeal, and it’s here we can hear that Kate Bush voice in all its glory. The backing track is suitably epic and defined, but doesn’t overpower Mair’s voice by layering on the paino-and-strings motif too thickly.

The click and swing of ‘Sense’ is probably the highlight of the album, its ’60s girl group vibe a real delight, the lyrics telling a story of Mair trying to forget a lover, but seeing his picture wherever she goes. The video for the song plays on Bob Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’, and there’s a very funny moment when the placards that Mair holds reveal her musical preferences: (“who is Kate Bush”, then “I prefer Spice Girls”).

A quieter, more tender moment appears in the ballad ‘Skinnarviksberget’ (a hill above Stockholm, and a fine place to hang out in the summer months), the song showing off Mair’s voice and piano playing. It’s also something she can directly relate to, being a track about the innocence of youth.

The second half of the record is something of a minor disappointment in that it doesn’t continue the strong start, but ‘Before’ and ‘It’s Gonna Be Long’ are both further examples of Angergård and Ekström’s innate ability to channel their pop sensibilities into something complex yet catchy, ensuring that Amanda Mair deserves her place in the ever-impressive Labrador roster.

For Amanda Mair to release an album of such quality, at such a tender age, points to an enormous talent waiting to blossom even further. Sure, the songs are written for her at this stage, but she continues to receive musical education – both formal and informal – and there would be no surprise in discovering she’s got an equally impressive ability for writing songs as well as singing them. Forget any comparisons; let’s just enjoy Amanda Mair and its pop charms on its own fine merits.

Karen Dalton belongs to this select gathering of almost supernaturally gifted singers, her mournful voice and unhurried phrasing injecting a compelling dose of road-weary, ghostly grief to even the few jaunty tunes that ever got to share space with the low-down laments and traditional ballads that dominated her song kit.

Dalton’s early life was conducive to a life-long bout of the Blues. After a difficult childhood, and having given birth twice at a very young age, Dalton left her native Oklahoma for New York, where her powerful performances in folk clubs gained her friends and fans of the stature of Bob Dylan, Tim Hardin and Fred Neil. But her boozing turned out to be just as prodigious as her immense vocal prowess. Dalton died homeless, broken and penniless in New York in 1993, aged 56, her small discography long forgotten.

In a world that tends to read an extra layer of depth into each muttering of doomed figures, such a sad, wasteful fate was definitely no hindrance in the foundation of the posthumous cult of Karen Dalton. But you really don’t need to be well-versed in the tragic back story to be sucked in by Dalton’s music. All the proof needed to justify the generous praise from the high-profile likes of Dylan and Nick Cave is clearly audible in just about every recording Dalton ever made.

Of which there aren’t too many. A chronic studio-phobe, Dalton made just two albums proper (1969′s It’s So Hard to Tell Who’s Going to Love You Best and 1971′s In My Own Time), and even then she had to be cajoled into a formal recording situation – not that you’d guess from the uniformly excellent results. Too uncomfortable on stage to commit to serial gigging, the vast majority of Dalton’s singing was done in informal sessions with friends, far away from the clutches of the music business. Recorded by Carl Baron, who lugged his recording gear to the remote Colorado cabin where Dalton had retreated to escape the hustle of New York, these 13 tracks allow us the guilty thrill of eavesdropping on Dalton at ease and in action, picking and harmonising far from prying eyes in her favoured private musical sphere.

Handsomely packaged, 1966 captures Dalton and then-husband Richard Tucker running through their setlist for a forthcoming gig. As stellar as the duo performances are, it’s probably not the best place for newcomers to start. As you’d expect from an amateur recording, the sound quality is fairly primitive, and the relaxed setting – you can practically smell the smoke from the cabin’s wood-burning oven – means some tracks evaporate before they make it to any kind of a satisfactory conclusion.

But at its best, 1966 is an intimate, raw gem, with both the fresh (at the time) material from Neil and Hardin, and Dalton’s trademark traditional ballads throbbing with a rare and convincing degree of hurt and longing. A near-spectral interpretation of ‘Cotton Eyed Joe’ is especially hypnotic, and a wounded take on Dalton’s signature tune ‘Katie Cruel’ packs a compelling howl of regret. Both are prime examples of Dalton’s key talent: tapping into the rich seam of sorrow at the core of America’s folk song tradition to produce music that’s not so much ageless as totally freed of such earthly concepts as time and decay.

Australian singer-songwriter Gotye is a throwback who makes the kind of sophisticated pop music that was taken for granted in the 1980s. On his new album, Making Mirrors, he evokes the adult pop of Sting and Peter Gabriel, while still managing to sound fresh. From the first moments of the title track opener, which finds Gotye’s voice floating uneasily between the wax and wane of a synthesizer moan, you know you’re listening to a different type of pop record. That quiet, spare sound gives way to a blast of fuzzy guitars on ‘Easy Way Out,’ an energetic kiss-off that demonstrates Gotye’s considerable range.

Yet neither song prepares you for the genius of ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’, four minutes of perfection as now proven by its near global domination of the pop charts. ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’ is a breakup anthem more concerned with the aftermath of the breakup than where the relationship went wrong. It builds off of a bassline sample from the late, Brazilian composer Luiz Bonfá’s ‘Seville’ with a syncopated, darkly-mischievous xylophone solo. Gotye comes in, singing in a quiet, determined voice, and sets the picture: “Now and then I think of when we were together/Like when you said you felt so happy you could die”. A spooky off-kilter guitar that sounds a little like a theremin echoes the melody as Gotye goes on before ending with “You said that we would still be friends/I’ll admit that I was glad that it was over”. The chorus comes swooping in; Gotye’s voice is bright, hard and cold as he sings,“Now you’re just somebody that I used to know”. It’s a truly anthemic, cathartic moment. If that were all, it would be enough to make ‘Somebody I Used to Know’ a great song, but the guest performance from New Zealander Kimbra makes it the best jilted-lover duet since The Human League’s ‘Don’t You Want Me.’ Kimbra comes in quietly, almost shyly, and lets her voice build in volume in intensity along with her recriminations. Her verse kicks the song to another level of intensity and Gotye, his voice now multi-tracked, takes us out on the chorus.

Almost by virtue of ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’ alone, Making Mirrorsis undoubtedly a front-loaded album, but it stays fresh throughout by being remarkably stylistically diverse. ‘Eyes Wide Open’ gets a new wave vibe from its galloping, double-time bassline and a New Romantic vibe from Gotye’s crooning. On the dubby ‘State of the Art’ Gotye uses auto-tune to pitch his voice down to interesting effect. ‘In Your Light’ is a shimmering piece of uplifting pop that would sound comfortable on a Bruce Hornsby album. At times, like on the bright, brassy, Stevie Wonder-aping ‘I Feel Better,’ the stylistic detours feel distracting, but overall it’s an album that succeeds because it never repeats itself.

Gotye is making the kind of highly tuneful, mature, rock-based pop music that just doesn’t exist anymore. Even if there’s nothing groundbreaking on Making Mirrors outside of ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’, the album’s well-crafted songs and diversity of sound demonstrate his uncommon ambition and craftsmanship. And ‘Somebody’ is more than an instant classic; it’s also a reminder of the kind of fresh melodic songwriting that we’ve been missing for the past fifteen years.

During this time, Ciani created the sound of hausfrau fembots malfunctioning for the Bryan Forbes film, The Stepford Wives; made space disco history when she collaborated with Meco on the number one album, Star Wars and Other Galactic Funk; and hit the “jackpot of advertising music” with a bit of frequency-modulated white noise that just so happened to sound like the fizz and pop of a bottle of Coke (of which only the last is here represented). Meanwhile, she found time to study at Stanford Artificial Intelligence lab with computer music pioneer Max Matthews, become the first female composer of a major Hollywood film, with the Lilly Tomlin vehicle The Incredible Shrinking Woman, and become the first female voice of a computer game when she added her vocoderised vocals to her music for pinball sim, Xenon – all while spending most of her days lugging her Buchla box from one meeting with a bewildered advertising executive to another in order to find work for her own commercial music company, Ciani/Musica.

Former tutor Donald Buchla’s “box”, one of the very first modular synthesizers, huffs and puffs on the album’s title track, the soundtrack to an abstract film of flowing mercury patterns, before pealing off in drifting, irresolute arpeggios. Elsewhere, on ‘Paris 1971′, she leaves the device to its own devices, with an Eno-esque piece of “generative music”, whereby the composer has set a kind of algorithm from which the box evolves a luxuriating bed of lulling – if somewhat disquieting – sonorities. ‘Sound of a Dream Kissing’ bloops and gurgles like an underwater theme park ride, while ‘Princess with Orange Feet’ speaks the spectral analogue language of Ghost Box affiliates like the Advisory Circle, and especially Belbury Poly. Elsewhere vocoders sing optimistic hymns to supermarket aisles and Casiotone beats patter and pulse to the rhythm of dreams.

The album’s press release would have us believe that Ciani is an American Delia Derbyshire, but it would probably be more accurate to call her a post-Fordist Raymond Scott, taking the latter’s dayglo jingles and Heath Robinson electronic idents for utilities companies and World’s Fairs into a world of hyper-complex AI technology and knowledge economy clients like ITT and Discover Magazine. If her 8bit arpeggios and LFO swooshes issue a Proustian rush to the recovered gamer, it may come as no surprise that one of her most faithful customers was the Atari Corporation. Much like Scott’s Manhattan Research Inc. before her, Ciani’s work offers a fascinating glimpse into an oft-neglected corner of electronic music history, one that is irresistibly appealing in a world of Moog fetishism and retromania. For most crate diggers, to find just one of these cuts on a second hand library music record would be like manna from heaven. Fans of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, Ghost Box, Boards of Canada, Stereolab, Broadcast, and so on will respond to this release like mice to a cheese shop. It offers a utopian glimpse of yesterday’s visions of the future, a time when the cutting edge of experimental electronic music still had a relationship to the everyday that was both estranging, de-territorialising, and curiously warm; in comparison to which our present can’t help but seem somewhat tawdry. Hence, an invitation to dream: of a world of benevolent technology; of a beautiful pastoral vista, perfectly simulated in hologram.

Americana is a genre of contradictions.  At its simplest it refers to bands who look back stylistically to American roots music; although fans of Okkervil River are more likely to listen to The Roots than anything resembling the Soggy-Bottom Boys. Despite lyrical references to the Old West, wide open prairies, and endless highways, Americana tends to be music made and enjoyed by urbanites, and not even necessarily American urbanites.  London is full of excellent Americana acts, many of whom regularly tour in Germany and other rather non-American places.

The cover of James Levy and the Blood Red Rose‘s debut album, brimming with retro clothes, awkward poses, and loopy cursive fonts, screams AMERICANA!  Yet Levy has not hitchhiked to the studio straight from Louisiana: he’s a New York resident who has supported the Maccabees and is buddies with the bassist from Coldplay.

In keeping with Americana’s ambiguous definitions, Levy walks a fine line between authentic and stupid. This is clear from the opening bars of Pray to be Free‘s first track, as Levy’s incredible baritone emerges assuredly and  sings “Well I feel darkness and I feel rain/I want to kiss you, I must refrain”. It’s a lyrically questionable start to the album, but thankfully one from which Levy and his fellow singer Allison Pierce quickly recover.  The resulting album, particularly gems such as ‘Hung to Dry’ and ‘Pray to be Free’, strikes an effortless balance between pop melodies, country swagger, boy-girl twee, lush string arrangements, and a pair of the most striking and flawless voices you’re likely to hear harmonising all year.

Allison Pierce is such a constant and welcome fixture throughout the album that it seems almost an injustice that she doesn’t get equal billing in the band name.  Levy’s baritone is a deep, melancholic dirge, and Pierce’s syrupy-sweet tones provide a welcome foil to the solemnity, giving Levy a little slap of pep whenever he becomes too introspective.

There are few surprises in the course of the album’s 35 minute run-time.  A lovely exception is the brass and atmospheric layered vocals of ‘Keep My Baby’ which sounds almost like a countrified version of Blonde Redhead or School of Seven Bells. The novelty wears off slightly in the second half, the pace dropping substantially with Pierce taking a back seat; and the bland keyboards and slow, repetitive chorus of ‘Positively East Broadway’ bring the momentum of the album to something of a halt.  But even when the pair aren’t slapping thighs and dancing jigs there is manifest charm in humble little tracks like ‘Bums in Love’ (“I wish I was… a bum in love”).

So whether or not Americana is an authentic tribute to the heart of traditional American music, or just another way to write some sweet songs with strings, James Levy and his Rose pull it off a treat.

In retrospect it was perhaps inevitable that Thomas Truax would one day start his own song-a-month project. As just another singer-songwriter in the crowded ’90s New York scene, the former Celebrity Deathmatch animator needed to separate himself from the pack: several self-invented instruments later, he has become a seasoned and innovative outsider musician always on the lookout for new sources of exposure. Sadly, Monthly Journal proves to be an experiment too far for Truax – by largely neglecting his true talents in favour of a restrictive formula which exposes gaping cracks in his skills, the project has resulted in a depressingly drab LP which does its creator a disservice.

Presented together as an album, it’s clear that the songs of Monthly Journal “expose” Truax in more ways than he might have liked. The freak-folk inventor could never have guessed that the year he planned to chronicle through song would turn into one of loss; March saw the loss of his father, June the loss of a long-term relationship and October the loss of his right to live in the UK. Understandably, the lyrics don’t fully engage with these traumatic events, and instead the emphasis is on the briefest name-checking of passing events – the royal wedding, the London riots, the weather. It is understandable, but it adds to the overwhelming sense that Monthly Journal is slight and disposable.

Truax is further exposed by his decision to lean much less heavily on his wonderful homemade noisemakers. While gramophone-turned-instrument the Hornicator and an array of mechanical drum machines do make occasional appearances – as on the moderately successful ‘August Moon’ – the focus on more traditional instrumentation throws Truax’s singing and songwriting into stark relief. The combination of this and the tight time restrictions of finishing a song each month is nothing short of devastating to the quality of the tunes. Generally plodding and leaden, the bulk of the songs tread one weary melodic path from start to end, denying Truax the spontaneity that make his shows so enjoyable. It is a bleak prospect.

There are a few gems to be pulled from the rubble. The surreal spoken monologue and skittering drums of ‘January Egg Race Dream’ have something of the old Truax about them for example, while the long instrumental section of ‘November in Berlin’ ekes something good out of the new instrumental approach. Ultimately however, Monthly Journal is a graphic example of how badly a song-a-month project can go, as well as a reminder that Thomas Truax is at his best in New York mode: when he takes the time to focus on those things that make him unique.

That Paralytic Stalks begins with a cavernous homage to reverb which bears exactly no resemblance to the rest of the album is, in a very Of Montreal sort of way, the best way to prepare you for this schizophrenic album. Yet the effect is ironically satisfying for the most part; each idea is discarded almost before it has taken shape, making way for just another of Kevin Barnes’ wonderful delusions. As such, it’s impossible not to hang on their every note: even the softly meandering weak-point ‘Malefic Dowery’ has a certain tension because they really are likely to do anything, and more often than not, it’s brilliant.

Against this genuinely creative background, it really is surprising that Paralytic Stalks is hinged around passages of straightforward pop music, and yet still seems cohesive. In fact, it’s completely remarkable that a band that is as wilfully obtuse as Of Montreal can write songs as instantly appealing as ‘Spiteful Intervention’ and ‘Dour Intervention’, without sacrificing their insane songwriting methods. Elsewhere, extended pieces of anywhere between 5 and 13 minutes jump between soul-searching interludes and Barnes’ pop genius.  Take the middle quarter of ‘We Will Commit Wolf Murder’ - the stuttering, blurred introduction stumbles into the clarity of Barnes’ stream-of-thought,  and somehow a very insistent hook appears. And then the song descends into apocalyptic Crystal Castles-like vice. There’s absolutely no logic to it, and it shouldn’t work, but it’s just what Mr Barnes does.

Even if Paralytic Stalks wasn’t so musically brilliant, it would still be worth listening to simply because of Barnes’ lyrics and personality, of which this entire album is so obviously the result. So often, his biting, self-deprecating lyrics take precedence over the music, and they’re so fiercely honest and piercing that they really resonate, even if you don’t hate yourself like his lyrics claim he does. Lines like “I should be happy/But what I feel is corrupted and broken and impotent and insane” and “I envy you because you believe in things/Like I never could” illustrate how autobiographical the record is; it’s Barnes’ head cut open for the world to share in, with magnificent honesty and emotional involvement. Faced with such surprising candour, it’s tough not to become emotionally involved yourself.

And yet, for all their integrity, experimental brilliance and accessibility, Paralytic Stalks was never going to be a perfect record exactly because of those erratic quirks that make the album so good. The longer tracks towards the end of the album contain at least 10 great ideas, but occasionally each one is discarded so quickly that you’re left not even knowing what it is that you want more of, and the whole thing comes off sounding not as great as it could have been. Maybe our idea of what is “good” is just far too rigid to accommodate Barnes’ schizophrenic creativity, but we’re fairly sure that the actually frightening 8 minutes of ‘Exorcismic Breeding Knife’, which amounts to not much more than a malevolent hum, is a step too far.

But in a funny sort of way, imperfection is exactly what you want from an Of Montreal record. If every note was perfectly placed, every move logically planned, it would have none of the charisma that makes the record so good. If everything was so neat, then Barnes’ chest-baring honesty just wouldn’t feel real at all. So, as imperfect a musical masterpiece as it is, Paralytic Stalks is totally deserving of your commitment and concentration. Both despite and because of its complexity, it’s completely fascinating: not only for its eccentric musical brilliance, but as an insight into one of modern music’s most singular minds.

It’s become normal for reviewers to spend at least half of their article commenting on Houghton’s latest foray into the world of fashion. Goodness knows why. Unfortunately that focus on her apparel often overshadows any real reference to her music. The clothes Beth wears have about as much to do with her song writing as the direction the wind is blowing on any given day; they could affect her live performance but should never distract from what a home-grown, outstanding talent she is. Hopefully the incredible majesty of her first widely publicised release will put an end to that insulting preoccupation.

…Because Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose ushers in 2012 with one gigantic slice of choral mayhem. The galloping jaunt of opener ‘Sweet Tooth Bird’ make for an unconventional introduction to an album that constantly tests structural boundaries. The whimsical cluck of debut single ‘Golden’ has been completely eradicated, in place of the band’s refusal to take a breath and simmer down, best demonstrated on ‘Liliputt’. The songs also defy genre: as soon as you think you’ve caught hold of ‘Atlas’, a deceptive song that starts out all indie disco but quickly sinks into madness, it melts into a withdrawn and downtrodden lullaby.

The persistent influx of clatter in the foreground of Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose also does wonders for the album. On the rare occasion Beth’s fevered delirium approaches a normal temperature there’s still some honky-tonk in the background to confirm that the listener remains safely on planet coo-coo land. This is undoubtably an album to get lost in, and perhaps to lose your mind to.

If one theme can be drawn from the glorious rambling of Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose, it’s Houghton’s penchant for triumphant choruses. The album’s splendour really kicks in with second track ‘Humble Digs’, where the effect of Beth’s velveteen operatic vocal resembles an alcohol-fuelled rumpus at an Elizabethan banquet. Added to an already shambolic record, it’s the kind of tactic that could blow an album over the line from inspired to indigestible, but there’s something about Beth’s unique approach that resolves the problem and consumes the listener.

Even in their sweet and charming moments, Beth Jeans Houghton and The Hooves of Destiny’s independence of spirit prevents them from entering saccharine territory. Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose will get your nerves jangling without bringing a tear to your eye or pigeonholing Beth as “another girl with her guitar”. And most importantly, it gives critics a lot more to talk about than Beth’s clothes, or the colour of her hair.

My money’s on the latter.  Onwards To The Wall is produced, engineered, mixed and mastered by the band themselves, which suggests that this is a group who have spent a lot of time making their music sound precisely this unattractive. Here expanding their line up to include ex D4 bassist Dion Lunadon, chief songwriter Oliver Ackerman’s motivation for the project at this moment in time seems to be to investigate what a logical end to all rock and roll could be, exploring textures and melodies (to use the term loosely) that are as uncomfortable as they are uncompromising.  But despite this being their most brutal collection of songs to date, one can’t help but harbour a sense of having heard a lot of it before.

Take ‘I Lost You’ for an example.  Reverb rules supreme for a lot of the EP and no more so than here, where every detail is blurred so as to disorientate the listener as much as possible.  Of course, this rewards repeat listens: until, that is, you’ve got the song in focus enough to recognise that rather than a year zero, what you have on your hands is essentially a Jesus and Mary Chain number.  Once that realisation has been made, the ease with which such comparisons can be drawn does spoil the initial fun of Onwards To The Wall somewhat.

‘So Far Away’ continues their signature trick of letting the bass take up the role of looking after the riffs that other bands would normally assign to the rhythm guitar, whilst echo-caked six-strings make noises like shattering glass ever so slightly more to the forefront, and vocals hang like a fog.  Elsewhere, things regrettably start to tail off even more once we reach the unashamed Joy Divisionism of ‘Onwards To The Wall’, a track so derivative that it’s difficult to take particularly seriously (despite the fact that we doubt there’s even a hint of a smile on anyone in the band’s faces).  Similarly, whilst virile enough, the penultimate ‘Nothing Will Surprise Me’ with its primitive chord structure and distorted goth-pastiche vocals comes across like Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster without the sense of humour.  And one has to wonder, what really is the point in that?

They’ve got an aesthetic down alright, and when played appropriately loud Onwards To The Wall is impossible to ignore.  What is problematic for A Place To Bury Strangers, though, is that most modern musical playback equipment comes with the ability to turn the volume down a notch or two.  Once this is done, it becomes pretty ignorable.  There’s a sadness to this though, as A Place To Bury Strangers clearly never sat down to make a sound that could ever be thought of as background music – one imagines the very mention of it would be taken as an insult.  Yet whilst the ambition and purpose to the record is all too apparent, the tunes could do with being a little clearer.

Illinois musician Mike Kinsella has worked under several guises in his career. From the tragically short-lived brilliance of his band American Football, who graced us with but one record in 1999, to work with a host of Chicago indie acts over the past ten years, his is a quietly prolific career. With Owen, his solo moniker, Kinsella has found not only a staunch fanbase, but also a sparsely populated musical niche which he has cultivated over the course of five albums.

Ghost Town, the newest of this quintet, continues to plough a similar furrow, yielding healthy if unspectacular results. Characterised by melodic acoustic guitar riffs and Kinsella’s plaintive vocals, Owen’s output can contain moments of brilliance, but can also be offset by mawkishness or overly contrived lyricism.

Take opener ‘Too Many Moons’ as a sample: its closing bars of moaning strings, a delicate drum pattern, simple piano and a wonderful acoustic riff are superb, mellow and soothing and ideal for a winter pick-me-up; yet it also inexplicably contains some lyrics in French and a few melodic lulls.

Kinsella’s voice, for all its distinctiveness, can lack for range at times. His conversational style lends itself brilliantly to certain tracks, but at other times lacks the required punch.

That said, his ear for a lilting guitar riff is undeniably deft. ‘No Language’ and ‘Everyone’s Asleep In The House But Me’ contain effortlessly-played melodies which glide and sway as softly and subtly as the ghosts of the album’s title. When Owen’s music leans on the nimble grace of Kinsella’s fingertips, it floats out of the speaker and seems to permeate the surrounding location. It would be tough to find anyone not wooed by the charm of its smooth edges.

Ghost Town also showcases a different production style to that found on other Owen recordings. Whereas I Do Perceive or the superb At Home With Owen carried with them a literally homespun charm – Kinsella turned his old bedroom in his mother’s house into a recording studio – his fifth LP is slightly more polished, albeit far from studio-ised. Again working with Brian Deck (who also helped record At Home…), the lush string arrangements sound natural rather than awkward, striking that difficult balance between emotional and saccharine. Seeing as how Ghost Town’s lyrical content focuses itself on fatherhood – the passing of Kinsella’s father as well as the birth of his own daughter – it would be easy to over-sentimentalise, but Owen’s fifth album mercifully never does so.

Yet, as has been the case with other Owen records, there’s a frustrating inconsistency to the material, which means that for every hummable, soft melody there’s a moment of jarring incompatibility. When it’s right, Ghost Town offers acoustic bliss with a feather-light touch; it’s when the album gets away from these simple roots that its quality begins to waver.

Certainly worth listening to, if not worth falling in love with.

There’s nothing cursory about the spiralling “Girl/I really didn’t wanna” of ‘These Days’: it’s precision-cut, tailor-made and fraught with atmosphere in a manner that many producers employing similar, more obligatory samples, fall short of. Greene’s collaboration with much-lauded Glaswegian wunderkind Koreless on ‘Arrow’ takes the EP further from the strung-out, codeine- and helium-dosed R’n'B vocals and onto more unusual ground for Greene. It’s about as far removed from the traditional dancefloor circuit as we’ve seen him, but the 9 minute, filter-washed exercise in immersion is so carefully polished that it makes for easy, if not exhilarating listening – a perhaps suitably unusual end to a particularly oddly balanced release.Concealer‘s consistency – or apparent lack thereof – is one of its most fascinating qualities.

Segueing neatly through loping, breathy R’n'B, misty atmospherics and into Greene’s recognisable house tropes, it’s all interesting fare and Greene’s new movements are pulled off – employed – with aplomb. This, however, is the strangest facet of Concealer: with the exception of pacing house number ‘Clark”s aqueous synths, much of it feels like tentative steps, new ideas, transitional. It’s not a fault of Greene’s production – in fact, his particular brand of sample-shot electronics has never sounded so fascinating, so full of depth. It does, however, feel as if Greene has been caught in development, as if somewhere between the dancefloor shimmer of his first tentative steps and some distant future release we’ve found him, part-submerged in blissed-out, reverberating synths, eyes still part-fixed on the clubs. More than anything, this makes Greene an essential producer to keep eyes on, and Concealer a vital release for fans of electronic music’s more pensive, developmental moments.

Formed of members from Young Dreams, Low Frequency in Stereo and Casiokids, Norway’s supergroup-of-sorts the Megaphonic Thrift are said to “hate being labelled”. True to form, their follow-up to 2010′s well-received debut Decay Decoy is not only self-titled, but relegates the band name to a tiny line across the top of the cover. The message is clear – it’s what is on the inside that counts.

What’s inside is a set of songs which walks the line between the high-octane energy for which the Thrift’s gigs are famed and the more accessible knack for melody which underpins much of their music. Instead of attempting to replicate their live impact or to break any dramatically new ground, the band have created an album of dependable thrills – sometimes chaotic, at other times hypnotic but always determinedly Megaphonic.

Despite their disparate origins, the Thrift sound more comfortable together than ever. Their tightness helps them navigate the waterfall of riffs and guitar squalls that is opener ‘Tune Your Mind’, the opening salvo of the album’s rockier side which – in true noise pop style – drapes immediate melodies in layer after layer of amplified buzz. Where these songs really impress, though, is when they throw a trick or two into the formula. A case in point is album highlight ‘Fire Walk With Everyone’, its teasing riff a place-holder for a chorus which is delayed time and again to tantalising effect. Richard Myklebust’s deceptively relaxed vocal, backed up with feminine tones from Linn Frøkedal, is absolutely integral to the money shot moments not only here but in ‘Kill, Breathe and Frown’ as well.

Very often the lasting appeal of an album can be judged by its slower songs, and when the Thrift alter modes on numbers like ‘I Wanted You To Know’ they do themselves credit by making up in depth what they sacrifice in power. Exploiting to full effect the subtle ambiguity of the song’s title phrase, Myklebust and Frøkedal put in another star vocal turn while Fredrik Vogsborg and Njål Clementsen round out the unfolding, hypnotic sound. Elsewhere, ‘Over the Mountain, Down in a Teaspoon’ is, despite its unlikely title, a impressively grand two and a half minutes which in another world might have served as a fine closer to the record.

Since their formation the Megaphonic Thrift have attracted more attention with their incendiary performances than with their recorded output. Even though this self-titled return to the studio is hardly likely to be 2012′s high watermark for innovative rock, it is nevertheless a cohesive and engaging effort which expands and varies the band’s sound. Far from a stylistic throwback or fly-by-night side project, the Thrift prove themselves to be the real deal – and whatever the merits of noise pop, there’s a reason to be cheerful.

It was the lo-fi, scuzzy, drop-out sound that first endeared us to Cloud Nothings, and it’s that sound that they progress with on Attack on Memory. Opener ‘No Future/No Past’ suggests a darker, spikier mood, delving into the realms of Nirvana and ’90s grunge. It’s not a particularly arresting introduction to the album: if Cloud Nothings are already in this much pain this early on in the album, goodness knows how it’s going to end.

Luckily, things turn a corner and rise from the murky depths. ‘Wasted Days’ is a nine minute, riff-slinging, cymbal-toting anthem, from the vocals early on to the descent into full-on, QOTSA-esque rock out, and the repeated mantra “I thought!/I would!/Be more!/Than this!”.

It’s straight out of the plaid-clad, overcast sound of grunge, and into tight t-shirt sunnier days as the album progresses, with rolling drums, indie-pop guitar, and Dylan’s recognisable nasal drawl. ‘Separation’ is a upbeat, head-spinning guitar assault – thrashing chords, whirling riffs and an unrelening energy, and ‘Our Plans’ and ‘Cut You’ follow in a similar vein.

‘No Sentiment’ neatly summarises the theme of this album, and could’ve been the title track. Dylan emotes “No nostalgia/No sentiment”, and the album does indeed feel like it’s distancing itself from his previous work under the Cloud Nothings moniker, now a full-blown band rather than just Dylan and his bedroom. The glorious pairing with Steve Albini in the producer’s chair has no doubt helped shape Attack on Memory to be the album that it is – drawing out that deeper, rockier sound, a move away from their more pop-based earlier work.

Attack on Memory certainly has the air of authenticity when it comes to the era that its music predominantly alludes to. At its heaviest it’s At The Drive In, and its softest, Jimmy Eat World, albeit in their louder moments.  This is guitar music from a time the term evoked gravitas, not a well-worn roll of the eyes.

Attack on Memory feels like a third album should – a progression, a move into new territory, and an expansion, literally filling the space that previous albums suggested. And all condensed into a no-frill thirty minutes. Gutsy, aggressive, and ultimately confident, if Dylan Baldi has come this far by the age of 20, then who knows what else is to come.

Of the many styles and genres that have been thoroughly rinsed by now, ’80s-referencing “alternative”-grounded synthpop must be among the lead contenders. The last two or three years have brought us so much airy landfill – Passion Pit to the left of us, the Temper Trap to the right, Miike Snow in the rear view mirror – that you really have to be doing something special to gain a fair hearing.

Into the arena march Boston’s Hooray For Earth, to all intents and purposes the band identity of Noel Heroux. While his recent CV – working on this album with noise-pop duo Zambri and touring with The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart and Cymbals Eat Guitars – doesn’t suggest someone satisfied with staying within stylistic lines, True Loves betrays a primary coloured fluorescent ambition in size of sound that stretches far beyond the club night support circuit and towards those same forebears’ radio-worthiness (as anyone who’s seen the title track’s extraordinary high concept video will attest), while at the same time working in effects round the edges that subtly manouevure it away from anything so crass.

That surface ambition may not be the initial impression gained from opener ‘Realize It’s Not The Sun’, coming across as Twin Shadow on a bigger budget – minimally arranged machine beats and looped, sequenced patterns creating a haunted atmosphere for Heroux’s mildly falsetto, not entirely cocksure vocal inflections. Similarly when the Brandon Flowers express delivery arena synths do arrive they often come with a caveat beyond easy access. ‘Last Minute’ may get submerged halfway through by a tidal wave which threatens to turn it into a minor league Killers, but there’s also grounding not just from the vocal tone but also the Motown drumbeat which is matched by a big pulsing bassline and topped by a pretty harpsichord-like keyboard motif that both feature before the arrival of those synths. Similarly the title track again has those soaring effects in full, but interrupts them with skittish beats, huge sub-bass, NASA bleeps and hints of something weightier and graver, making the whole thing sound on edge in its own way. By the time we get to the big reaching-for-the-sky hooks of ‘Sails’ and ‘Same’ though, it’s full steam towards replacing ‘Sweet Disposition’ as the TV trailer incidental music of choice.

It’s as the album enters its second half that it becomes clearer that rather (yet) than being MGMT-style eclecticists Heroux and co haven’t quite worked out the central anchor around which their sound percolates. ‘Hotel’ tries a little bit of everything – from surging choruses to pensive build-and-release via deep layers of instrumentation and 8-bit effects – without ever working out where its central hook should be. ‘No Love’ proves Heroux has heard the second Yeasayer album. ‘Black Trees’, the nearly tribal percussion-driven six minute long closer, proves he’s heard the first Yeasayer album. In between ‘Bring Us Closer Together’ sounds exactly like someone who managed to get on Top Of The Pops in 1983 with a poor xerox of early Depeche Mode hits and has dined off the revivalist festival circuit to this day.

There’s certainly an interesting, searching mind somwhere at the heart of True Loves - the production layered with tricks and warm, dense synth washes – but whether by trend or overexuberance it too often falls too cheaply into the rote pattern of the same route one hooks as assorted fellow travellers. When it tries to break out towards the end it doesn’t have the strength of individual character to keep itself sounding like a cohesive album rather than a collection of influence-shifting work-in-progress experiments. That said, there’s more than a suggestion here that given thinking time and a scene implosion something that transcends all that could emerge in future.

The first time I listened to In the Yard, the new drums-and-voice record from Neal Morgan, I hated it with every ounce of my being. If I’d had to write a review right there and then it would’ve been not too dissimilar to the dismantling of Oneida’s Absolute II by one of The Line of Best Fit’s writers last year (a record I love by a band I love, by the way). Morgan’s second solo album sounded like a cacophonous collection of drum breaks and sampled voices with no discernible melodies, structure or intrigue, and I was a bit angry. It wasn’t even admirable on a purely artistic level. However, I gave In the Yard a few more listens and while it’s still extremely far from an enjoyable record a few interesting and engaging moments do reveal themselves, edging you slightly closer towards understanding and connecting with what Morgan was attempting to create.  The press release states that the record contains, and I quote “tightly arranged polyrhythmic cyclical marches”, and considers swimming on tour, reaching out to loved ones and paying homage to the painter Philip Guston (the album cover is one of his paintings). Sure it does.

Neal Morgan is perhaps best known for being Bill Callahan’s drummer and the man responsible for the drums and arrangements on Joanna Newsom’s epic Have One on Me album. He also undertook the unenviable task (with Ryan Francesconi) of abridging those songs to be played live, and having seen Newsom and the Ys Street Band he did so with great success.  However, Morgan’s own work – despite having a voice quite similar to Callahan’s – forges an idiosyncratic path very much set apart from those doyennes of folk, thanks to his unusual approach to making music.

What’s most surprising is that, for the most part, the drums prove ultimately to be something of a distraction.  Opening track ‘On Tour’ consists of irregular drum patterns and some frankly appalling spoken word free verse: “North Carolina. I eavesdrop on teens. Splashing and loving each other, in their young bodies. One of the younger ones, a girl, climbs the bank, takes the rope and swings out over the water”. Now, imagine that with a boom box at your ear on full volume, playing the sound of a child hitting a drum: you’re lucky this review is being written at all after that start. ‘Fathers Day’ is better given there’s an actual rhythm to the percussion and Morgan sings rather than intoning the lyrics; this track was the one chosen to promote the record, and as such is the best example of its combination of drum and voice. As it builds, looped oohs-and-aahs are added, along with a busy tambourine and cowbell, creating layers of sound that actually work really well together. ‘Thinking Big’ has a marvellous groove and clap track, giving it an Andrew Bird swing, but these two tracks are the exceptions to the rule.

Compare ‘Fathers Day’ to, for example, title track ‘In the Yard’ and the difference is clear. Sure, it sounds as if Morgan is recreating a memory of childhood, a moment that was evocative of more innocent times, but the lyrics read as bad poetry, taking attention away from the angelic looped harmonies, and the drums clatter and thud like there’s someone trapped in a loft. ‘May 21, 2009’ is similar, everything combining to noisy frustration, and ‘I Dreamed’ and ‘The Evidence’ are unlistenable.

Moments that do work are the all-too-brief thunderous hip-hop breaks of ‘I Stand On A Roof’ and the innocence of ‘On A Cut Hill’ which strips away any percussion and comes across like a male version of Julianna Barwick’s sacred secular music. It’s a truly lovely moment, standing out against most of the rest of the album.

While there’s little doubt that Neal Morgan is a talented composer and arranger and an outstanding drummer, I really question the need for a record like In the Yard. I’m sure he doesn’t care about record sales, and nor should hem quite frankly, but with such ability at his disposal and a fine voice it’d be a shame for him to continue to make what could be seen as unapproachable music. There’s rarely an opportunity to connect with In the Yard, and whilst you can admire the construction of the album, it’s not one I’m likely to return to in the near future.

Now Mark Peters from Engineers has returned the favour, joining Schnauss on an album that ditches conventional song structures to concentrate on mood and atmosphere. A lot of the characteristic touches are here –  the multi-layering of electronic sounds and computerised rhythms with synth textures to “colour” the overall sound – but they are supported with Peters’ lingering crystalline guitar sound. The songs are almost entirely instrumental and have a breathy lightness, something like the Cocteaus/Robin Guthrie or even Enya and Clannad, and a somnambulistic quality: fitting, asUnderrated Silence was largely recorded at night.

Opener ‘The Messiah Is Falling’ is signature to the album, Peters’ rich guitar set to ambient washes of synth, the gentle electronic sounds surely texturing a film soundtrack waiting to be written. ’Long Distance Call’ and ‘Forgotten’ actually sound like they are re-visiting classic sci-fi films Bladerunner (soundtrack by Vangelis) and The Fifth Element (Eric Serra), both in their epic sweeps of analogue synths and the syncopated Kraftwerk-like beat. Singers are used sparingly onUnderrated Silence, to add colour and atmosphere rather than to achieve any lyrical effect. We are “So lost in time/So lost in you/Forget my name/Forget your time”, as Harrison Ford scans the dark rain-laden horizon looking for replicants … Tomorrow will never arrive in this dream world and ‘Yesterday Didn’t Exist’, it was just a watery moonlight sparkle fading on the back of Peters’ guitar. This and later track ‘Gift Horse’s Mouth’ pick up the tempo slightly with the sort of hypnotic charms Mike Oldfield used on his Philip Glass-inspired late ’70s Incantations album. The mood is extended as we drift off gently into the night …

Schnauss is keen for his music to be heard, so you’ll find a lot of it floating around on SoundCloud, YouTube and the like. The key to the German svengali’s work is its widescreen possibilities: the emotional response that music triggers when we watch a film or take in a painting which allows us to briefly inhabit another world. Fans will find enough on Underrated Silence before the big release drops later this year, its title track  particularly endearing as it unfolds over its 7 or so minutes, reminding us to dream a little more.

I mean, where do you go from there? Make no bones about it, this simply has to be one of the most pored-over, painstaking albums made in many years.  In short, it took the two intrepid Danes the better part of 6 years from conceit to release to negotiate the repair of the world’s largest instrument, cart around their custom-made ex-Soviet recording gear and wrangle their way through the many copyright infringement loopholes.

Much, much more  important however is the way it all comes together in an energetic, scintillating collection of tracks written and recorded through a prism of ’60s sunshine power-pop and ’70s psychedelia, although the influences don’t stop there.  There are also nods to prog rock guitar solos, country & western tropes and even gaelic folk.

Queen Of The Wave is an absolute smorgasbord of aural delights, all of which are impeccably produced (often sampled from original recordings made by the band) and meticulously assembled, so that from one moment to the next you’re not quite sure what to expect, and sometimes the sheer audacity, verve and fitfully imaginative arrangements border on – but crucially never become – the ridiculous.

It’s genuinely hard to chart the topography of an album so consistently engaging.  Granted the overall, playful camp of the underlying concept might just be enough to deter the more closed-minded sonic adventurers  but for everyone else Pepe Deluxe repackage an awful lot of ephemera into a strikingly fresh-feeling album that encompasses raucous walls of noise, tender ballads and songs like ‘The Storm’, that could easily soundtrack a b-movie schlock horror movie.

Somehow, Pepe Deluxe’s “ideas tennis” consistently smashes out aces, and if there’s been an album like this since the experimental heyday of bands like Soft Machine, Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart or The B-52s I’m certainly yet to hear it.  Either way it stands toe to toe with them, so if those names don’t mean anything to you it offers an ideal contemporary touchstone; and if they do, then what a wonderful retro-futurist, trans-reality, sorcerous throwback it provides. Emphatically recommended.

It’s been seven years since Mark Lanegan‘s last solo album, 2004′s much-praised Bubblegum. This time, the extended delay wasn’t caused by the kind of self-destructive pursuits that have derailed Lanegan in the past. Rather, he’s been distracted by his serial duties as a guest vocalist. As well as being an integral part of the extended Queens of the Stone Age posse, Lanegan’s established a reputation as the go-to guy for a drop of authentically grizzled Americana menace on recordings by Country-trekking Isobel Campbell, electronic producer duo Soulsavers, and many, many others.

The hectic work schedule appears to have boosted Lanegan’s creative energies. A near-perfect culmination of ideas evident in past solo outings, Blues Funeral proves Lanegan’s ready to step up from cult acclaim-cultivating chronicler of hard living to the rarefied realm of dark side-dwelling songcraft occupied by the likes of Tom Waits and Nick Cave. Thematically, not that much has changed. Even in the drug-damaged terrain of grunge era Washington State, Lanegan’s substance abuse stood out, and the hard times – difficult upbringing, jail stints, mountains of narcotics – endured by the now clean, LA-based vocalist continue to inform his songwriting. Whilst seemingly unpicking broken human relationships, it doesn’t take much interpretative skill to figure out that likes of ’Gravedigger’s Song’ – powered by an ominous churn akin to a ghost train speeding towards the none-more-black heart of a particularly spooky night – and the haunted ‘Bleeding Muddy Water’ actually address a difficult break-up with Class As.

Although the building materials are largely familiar, the finished constructs are grander than ever before. As strong as Field Songs (2001) and Bubblegum were, their single-mindedly nocturnal pursuit of the essence of drug-addled blues occasionally risked sliding into repetitive, by-the-numbers world-weariness, with weaker tracks seemingly cut on stolen energy in between spells of slumber.

Blues Funeral emits a real spark of enduring inspiration. Lanegan and producer (and fellow QOTSA alumni) Alain Johannes, assisted by such guests as drummer Jack Irons, Josh Homme and Greg Dulli, manage to keep the proceedings sparse but also richly textured and deeply atmospheric. The pace is predominantly stately, but far from sleepy. The contemplative numbers, such as ‘St. Louis Elegy’, moaning and sighing like a theme tune to a Western populated by ghosts, throb with majestic grandeur. The subtly electronic foundations of the excellent ‘Ode to Sad Disco’ and deceptively upbeat ‘Grey Turns Black’ nod towards Neu!, Harmonia and other German past masters of the ‘motorik’ groove, suggesting Lanegan’s buried the obsession with the Blues that’s powered his solo career up until now. The few out-and-out rockers threaten to kick the door off its hinges.

Lanegan’s in brilliant voice throughout, his tobacco-scorched subterranean baritone rumble managing the Tom Waitsian feat of sounding damaged beyond repair whilst remaining a powerful and versatile instrument. In lesser hands, the outbreaks of regret, sorrow and religious imaginary that populate the lyric sheet could well crash-land into unintentional self-parody, but Lanegan packs enough gravitas to make couplets à la “if tears were liquor/I’d have drunk myself sick” sound profound enough for inclusion in the Great Book of Blues Wisdom.

I once watched James Graham play a show. I was working the bar in an old Presbyterian church. As the band stood up to preach their sermon, Graham reverse-prostrated himself and played the entire set lying on his back – an arrogant act of defiance and pride against God, in whose house he was playing.

Within the tight confines of The Twilight Sad’s previous records, the emotion was lost.

No One Can Ever Know is an entirely different affair. Bigger than ever, right from the first groan of the synth on opener ‘Alphabet’ to the very last strained chorus of ‘Kill It in the Morning’, the Scottish act wail their way through their third album.

“So sick to death of the sight now, it’s safe to say I never wanted you more” says Graham through a thick accent on the opening track. The Twilight Sad have always been about this torturous idea that they both hate and love in equal measures. This track is no exception as it moves its wall of sound increasingly quickly, increasingly near to your poor little face before eventually knocking you for six into track two ‘Dead City’, which gives you several seconds of dazed and confused respite at the start. But it’s not long before the band kick it back up into full swing with screaming synths and empty drumbeats.

‘Sick’ is like a warm hug from the otherwise death-knell-cold band. That said, it still also resembles a firmly regimented march through some industrial wasteland after the fallout of industry has left the city abandoned to crack addicts.

And this is exactly the feel of the whole album: the spectre of industry looming over every track more than anything they’ve put out in the past. Just listen to the middle tracks like ‘Don’t Move’ and  ‘Nil’ which are in stark contrast to the relatively welcoming tracks on their previous releases such as ‘Cold Days from the Birdhouse’ on their debut Fourteen Autumns & Fifteen Winters.

All the early reviews of this album have quite rightly noted that this is an innovation and evolution for the already-promising band who never did conform to the standard critical pattern: a quality first album, a difficult second, a strained but nonetheless brilliant third.

This album is tight from start to finish, evoking the despair and binding hierarchy of 1980s Britain. All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not this band – lachrymose beyond belief in both the active and passive senses of the word.

If any album warrants “early contender” status for Album of the Year, Kathleen Edwards’ latest Voyageur certainly qualifies. While any Edwards release warrants celebration, the Canadian songstress has outdone herself on her latest – a showpiece in a catalogue filled with gems.

Voyageur is an intelligent convergence of the many roads that she’s travelled to date. The dusty rock of Asking For Flowers is still a vibrant part of the proceedings, while enough Failer-style acoustics linger for long-time fans. However, Voyageur blends them all into a succinct, smart album that varies styles and guests while keeping Edwards as the star.

Edwards typically invites a veritable Who’s Who of contributors to each album and Voyageur is no different. Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon and S. Carey both appear, as does Norah Jones. Other guests include members of Megafaun, Francis and the Lights, Bahamas and Peter Wolf Crier. While that might seem like a crowded creative environment, all worries disappear once the music begins: Edwards is completely in control.

‘Empty Threat’ launches Voyageur with a sweet, summery refrain that belies its release date. Here, Edwards’ oft-floating vocal finds some new gravity. ‘Chameleon Comedian’ creates a perfect complement to the opener with a depth of its own in Edwards’ admission of hiding behind the songs that she writes. ‘A Soft Place To Land’ and ‘Pink Champagne’ hearken back to the singer’s delicate side, and the former track is among the album’s highlights.

Voyageur’s finest moment comes near the end, on the tune ‘Going to Hell’. Edwards recently gave some perspective on the song when she said “Sometimes when you choose badly, you’ve [made] poor decisions, you end up with songs like this”. Such substantive moments often yield the greatest artistic creations, and ‘Going to Hell’ is a perfect example. The confluence of the song’s emotional turn, the electric build and Edwards’ declaration (“See I’m going to hell/In a basket I made/Woven from the letters/and it spells your name”) come together in a stunning final arrangement.

Since 2003’s Failer, Edwards has been lauded as one of the better female songwriters of the last decade. However, Voyageur now firmly places her among the best songwriters of her generation. For album after album, she has entertained and explored; now she has mesmerised. Here’s to one of 2012’s first great entries.

Stream Voyageur in full, here.

Last week, Peter Robinson wrote what he considers to be The Final Word on Lana Del Rey. The thrust of his argument, such as it was, suggested that “alternative music scribes” are “having trouble with Lana” because they are imposing “boring ideas of authenticity onto a pop creation”. Plus, of course, that writers are desperately trying to predict how many records she will sell, so that they can craft their viewpoints accordingly.

It’s easy to imagine the wry little smile as he hammered out his final flourish: “You cannot be trusted with a popstar. You’ve had your chance. Hand her over.” It was cute: both delightfully pompous and totally inaccurate.

Robinson’s open letter was a perfect illustration of the tendency amongst some writers to suggest that all criticism of Del Rey can be reduced to either plastic surgery-fixated moronism or vague, apparently outmoded concerns about authenticity. It’s fascinating and frustrating in equal measure: fascinating because of the degree of vitriol on both sides, and frustrating because Born To Die actually deserves a proper, critical response.

There are some very, very good songs on this record. I will be surprised if, for example, there are a dozen tracks better than ‘Off To The Races’ released this year. It is everything that Born To Die nearly promised to be; a Danny Elfman-esque noir that reads like a mobster wife’s pocket diary, flitting between a “Las Vegas past” and Rikers Island like a bastard Holly Golightly, or a distorted Blanche DuBois. Meanwhile ‘Radio’ is an opiated flutter through the morphine daze of newfound celebrity, all languorously enunciated vowel sounds and the best lyric of the record: “Now my life is sweet like cinnamon / Like the fuckin’ dream I’m living in.”

The tunes are there – and yet this record remains a distinctly uncomfortable listen.

Lyrically, Born To Die oscillates between vacuous wealth-worship and acutely problematic submission narratives. The male gaze dominates; in ‘Off To The Races’, for example, Del Rey watches her “old man” watch her in the swimming pool while he sits “sipping on [his] black Cristal”. Meanwhile ‘National Anthem’ reads like a guide to repulsive consumption, with Del Rey intoning nonsense like, “I’m your National Anthem/God you’re so handsome/Take me to the Hamptons/Bugatti Veyron.”

It’s telling that Born To Die’s notion of success relies on such unimaginative signifiers. Del Rey conjures a world of professional leisure in which she attaches herself to a series of James Dean-esque men, all of whom are inevitably “no good for me”. She is cast as the doomed seductress, watching herself collapse into a series of relationships characterised by capitulation, in which she is expected to change herself, or play a part, to suit his preferences. She documents her dysfunction, and that of her boyfriends, but apparently lacks the ability to do anything about it. She is defined by her relationship to men.

In this respect, Born To Die perhaps makes more sense when considered next to Take Care or My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. There are stylistic similarities: all three records use the expansive but oddly flat-sounding production that has become so prevalent in hip-hop over the last couple of years. More importantly, though, they all centre on a protagonist who is brutally self-interrogatory, and yet apparently convinced that their problems are immutable. But while Drake and Kanye’s efforts seem confessional, there remains an impassable emotional distance between Lana and the listener. There is a sense that everything is happening behind glass; that there is a membrane through which the occasional great chorus travels, but behind which the humanity seems stuck. Del Rey is constantly offering herself up to someone, knowingly prostrating herself at the altar of a man or of money – and yet she seemingly offers us very little of herself. Instead, everything is couched in layers of irony, peppered with diversionary tactics like odd accents or the faux-turntablist vocal bric-a-brac in ‘Blue Jeans’ or ‘Summertime Sadness’.

This distance, this refusal to commit, is both the most interesting and the most infuriating thing about Born To Die. The lack of conviction feels oddly contemporary: a nice mirror for a generation that is, in many ways, still trying to emulate the recent past, and finding it impossible. Del Rey has attempted to craft personas that combine the hallmarks of both the hyper-sexualised pop stars of the mid 2000s and the ballsy opulence of the Jazz Age – but her manifestations are subdued, less bombastic. There is a sense of a descending pall from which she is trying to emerge; a fug defined by archetypical notions of womanhood, and in which she is fumbling to find a character that fits.

The problem with Born To Die is not, as Peter Robinson suggests, that people don’t understand Del Rey is playing a character, or that there has been some sudden, mass misunderstanding of the notion of “authenticity”. Rather, the issue is that she inhabits each character so unconvincingly that it becomes impossible to truly care about any of them. Combine this with a series of stories that slavishly reinforce the notion that a woman’s role is one of seduction, submission, or pliability, and you end up with a sour taste indeed.

Hysterical Injury

For frontwoman and founder Annie Gardiner at least, the project spans over five years. During that time Hysterical Injury have worked through nearly as many band members as they have songs and performances; with the recent departure of Lee Stone, Annie’s brother Tom Gardiner took over on drums. Hopefully he’ll prove a staple in the lineup, not just for the sake of consistency but because his hammered rhythm lends itself perfectly to the band’s style.

Much of the aforementioned old material is absent from Dead Wolf Situation. ‘The Works’, ‘Rosetta’s Waves’ and ‘Vex’ have been trialled live, but of their more established songs only ‘Visions of Trees’ remains, with current single ‘Maths’ also getting enough airplay on BBC 6Music and Amazing Radio to be considered familiar.

Not that the band have completely laid aside the sound that they originally set out to achieve. As on last year’s Our Lives are a Futuristic Nightmare EP, the tremendous noise Annie provokes from her bass bleeds around the whip-crack of percussion with enough fervour to consume everything within a five mile radius. However some fine tweaks have brought a climatic prowl that threatens to explode mid-way through several songs, whereas the demoed tracks were all go from their opening bars. This building tension contributes to Dead Wolf Situation’s importance; few British bands are capable of purveying this type of noise rock while maintaining a detailed, melodic and structured charm. Fewer still are this coherent from beginning to end.

By the time Dead Wolf Situation’s highlight ‘Vex’ comes into play, those previously unaware of Hysterical Injury will quite literally be kicking themselves. The track shows a sordid and epileptic devotion to deadpan vocals and roaming bass, the likes of which haven’t been heard since Queens of the Stone Age’s Songs for the Deaf. Elsewhere Sonic Youth and Deerhoof exercise their massive influence over the band, without turning Dead Wolf Situation into just another fangirl/boy pastiche.

Over the past few months Hysterical Injury have achieved enough momentum to push Dead Wolf Situation into the limelight, and with the sheer talent they display on the album it’s a sure bet this will allow them to make it onto a few End of Year lists. Hypnotic, menacing and above all enchanting, it’s a bitter-sweet wake up call for all first-time bands in 2012.

After two critically adored and cultishly worshipped albums, a rarities and live double album may not be the wisest career move for Madame Charlotte Gainsbourg, whose musical career has never quite achieved the same footing as her filmic forays. As enigmatic oozing from a pair of headphones as on a wide screen, her reluctance to be the centre of attention makes her even more alluring as a performer – a wisp of a woman with an inimitable accent and the most commanding non-presence one could affect.

Stage Whisper‘s first half compiles a handful of Beck-guided tracks left on the cutting-room floor from the IRM sessions, and four one-offs  with the great (Connan Mockasin), the good (Villagers) and Noah and the Whale’s Charlie Fink.  From the former camp, we have the baroque ‘White Telephone’, a stunning low-key ballad, and the slinky vintage-sounding electro of ‘Paradisco’, which betrays the influence of its producer’s beloved INXS. Yes, really. The songs are interesting – oddly, more commercial and, on ‘Hold the Rain’, with a distinct feel of Modern Guilt vintage Beck – but don’t quite have the same edge as those that made the cut on her third album proper.

The other collaborations are just as fine; even aforementioned Noah and the Whale contribution ‘Got to Let Go’ manages to keep sufficiently under the radar to retain its charm – at least until Fink himself pops up for a bleary-eyed verse. However, all of the outtakes featured here pale in comparison to disc one’s closing track, the Conor O’Brian-penned ‘Memoir’: a shuffling stunner whose lyric hinges on its chorus – “I might as well be anyone at all” – as perfect a summary of Gainsbourg’s shapeshifting talents as any.

The live disc actually turns out to be a pleasant surprise, in spite of the set’s self-deprecating title. While far from the most charismatic performer on the planet, many of the selections from Gainsbourg’s back catalogue work surprisingly well in a live setting. The atmospherics of ’5:55′ are torn apart by a tight six-piece backing band, ‘AF607105′ boasts the most assured vocal performance she has yet released, while ‘The Operation’ makes you wonder what would happened if she allowed herself and her band to rock out more often.

Sadly, IRM‘s more Beck-heavy moments fall somewhat flat. The title track doesn’t work half as well without the album version’s claustrophobic production, while the jaunty ‘Heaven Can Wait’ is simply too slight without its co-writer’s voice lurking in the wings. Luckily, a gorgeous cover of Bob Dylan’s ‘Just Like a Woman’ gives Gainsbourg a chance to show the crowd just how calmly impressive she can be, delicately breathing new life onto some of Dylan’s more tired lyrics in a way that manages to be respectful, but not over-reverent – much like the excitable audience captured during these performances.

All in all, Stage Whisper makes for an enjoyable deck-clearing exercise. It’s far from essential, but as a way to put a cap on the eventful campaign for her best album yet, it couldn’t be better. It’s certainly not one for a newcomer to Charlotte Gainsbourg’s material, but those who have already investigated her work should prick up an ear, and her dedicated fans (and by now, there deserve to be a fair few) will be in heaven.

The meeting of The Pistols, The Clash and The Ramones was one of those pivotal moments when New York’s combustible “Godfathers Of Punk” propelled the British punk scene into action. Dan Sartain‘s Too Tough To Live is a neat homage to his punk idols and marks a departure from the rockabilly and r&b-inspired Dan Sartain Lives released in 2009. 13 songs, 19 minutes! The Clash frontman famously adopted the name “Strummer” because he loved the guitar downstroke so much (and couldn’t play the fiddly bits), and there’s plenty of that here as Sartain slicks forward his quiff and cranks it up for these garage-punk stompers.

Opener ‘Nam Vet’ leaps out of the blocks and immediately brings back memories of Spizzenergi’s ‘Where’s Captain Kirk?’, but doing a Who’s Who of Punk would rather defeat the object: Too Tough To Live is a fun rollercoaster ride of a record, so it’s best to just lie back and enjoy it. Worthy of note include songs like ‘Now Now Now’ with its unmistakable homage to Ramones’ ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ (also featuring Jane Wiedlin from The Go-Gos on backing vocals to give it some extra zip), and ‘Rona’ (“All the kids wanna go to the show/But I only wanna go if Rona goes”), which reminds me that ‘White Riot’, back in the day, wasn’t much longer than a minute.

Sartain’s put slightly more than a cigarette paper between these songs (let’s say two cigarette papers) and wrapped them up in sneering punk attitude: the world may be on its knees but hey! ‘Fuck Friday’ (“Friday I don’t wanna be seen with the socialites and the drama queens/Saturday I don’t give a fuck if the muscle boys wanna size me up/Sunday you can have a barbecue with a bunch of bums that look just like you!”) and remember that ‘Even At My Worst I’m Better Than You’ (“Even At My Worst I’m Better Than You/Just wanna see if you’re digging it too/I think of you and it makes me sad/It takes all that courage just to look that bad/Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah”). Punk’s not dead, as we can see, but anyway just to make it quite clear, on ‘In Death’ Sartain issues the disclaimer that “I can’t take back what I never sent”.

I can’t see this being more than a pleasant diversion from his other stuff. He’s been playing intimate gigs with the garage-punk material in the first half followed with acoustic versions of his earlier work in the second. So Dan Sartain is mixing it up and shaking himself free from the inevitable Nick Cave comparisons which could have dogged a lesser artist. A smart move, and on the strength of Too Tough To Live, he would seem to be having a really good time about it, too. The new material remains true to the spirit of punk by not worrying too much about who or what it offends, and after the pretty shameful Sex Pistols reunion (which surely had Joe Strummer and Joey Ramone spinning in their respective graves), perhaps he’s restored some pride to the genre.

Francois himself was drawn to the UK, and Bristol in particular, by the burgeoning scene and rich history it boasted – and while he may cite Massive Attack et al as key influences, more readily in evidence are the rich atmospherics of fellow European troubadour Jens Lekman and legendary Scot songwriter Roddy Frame.

“Am I a dream in which you’ve found a home?” asks the opening line of the opening track ‘Les Plus Beaux’ and for the next 11 songs the answer is largely in the affirmative; the enveloping ‘Azrou Tune’ in particular sounding somewhere between a forgotten classic torch song and an old Disney ballad – its “what is in your glass, do you want some more?” lyric typifying the delicious comfort this record offers.

‘Muddy Heart’ eases itself from the speakers with a Go-Betweens-meet-John-Squire riff that chimes beautifully with an insistent, piano-driven refrain: “I’m trying to please you” chants Francois before decrying the possibility of an easy life with “but you want everything to be clean and clear” – clearly not a possibility in the dizzying, sticky world of love.

Romance is another keyword. ‘Edgde of Town’ positively drips with it, all juddering snippets of guitar, lo-fi beats that bring to mind Babybird or perhaps Momus and evocative, tender vocal parts; ‘Cherchants Des Ponts’ too fills the heart with rich strings and a female vocal that lays gently alongside Francois’ slightly mannered Darren-Hayman-kissing-Jeff-Buckley tone.

The most “obvious” track here certainly has an appeal – the Aztec Camera smartpop of ‘City Kiss’ is indeed a TUNE, and though hampered by clumsy lyrics manages in its bilingual delivery (the album as a whole is a fair 50/50 split between French and English) to both touch and convey the joy of fresh, if complicated, modern world relations.

It’s also worth looking out for a neat trick on ‘Slow Love’ which begins as a Destroyer-style ’80s pastiche before a few simply picked out piano notes reveal it to be an altogether more substantial beast. Clever. Sophisticated. See?

There are stutters of course. ‘Buried Treasures’ is an almost Britpop mid-’90s plod, and while later on the album abandons the carefully crafted melodies in favour of more experimental approaches as on the droning, apocalyptic ‘Bail Eternal’ and the Zun Zun Egui-aping electronica wig-out ‘Piscine’, we still close with a perfectly formed pop song in the shape of  ‘Do You Want to Dance?’ a slow and simple, sexy strum that sings with guitar jangle and smiling swagger.

So while we have a good deal of intellect, of romance, of smart instrumentation and of deliciously correct reference points what we also have is a record involving enough to give schmindie a good name and, hopefully, to allow this subtle, straining talent the chance to give sophistication a new poster boy.

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That Hefner were a band beloved by their fans and that many of those fans remain steadfastly faithful to Hayman’s work, whatever form it takes, is a testament to his winning charm. That Hefner were the critical darlings and oft-tipped for stardom during their initial run in the mid to late ’90s – resulting in their t-shirt slogan “Hefner: Britain’s Biggest Small Band” – is mostly overlooked in a revisionist history that favours Britpop over all else. Their booze-fuelled shrugs of scratch-guitar deviancy and tissue-delicate odes to shattered relationships were, for the most part, quite wonderful, hugely accessible and rightly celebrated.

Hayman has moved into the cottage industry, er, business of late, as so many cult artists tend to do these days, and as a result his work has become considerably more niche, often experimental as time has gone on. Last year he laid down the gauntlet to himself to write, record and release a brand new song every single day throughout the month of January. Originally available via his website, one year on we get a CD collection, ordered, rightly, as thes tracks were originally produced.

The album has many superb moments of both musical excellence (the insistent glam lead line from ‘Arthur the Dog’) and lyrical wonder (the chilling spoken word exercise ‘The Return’) and many of the record’s collaborations suit Hayman perfectly: he’s beautifully accompanied by Allo Darlin’s Elizabeth Morris on the resigned ‘I Know I Fucked Up’, takes a back seat to Valentine Leys on the wry ‘No Different For Girls’ and to Ballboy’s Gordon McIntyre on the sweet, dreamy ‘Isle Of Eigg’.

Sometimes it doesn’t work: the Wave Pictures contribution on ‘Who Hung the Monkey’ proving no matter the talent in the room, there’s no saving a truly poor song, and the same goes for the dull repitition of ‘Bad Bad Bad Girl’ featuring The Hillfields. Of course you can’t expect it to go absolutely right on every song given the hardcore remit of the project but for the most part Hayman strikes the right notes. His newer obsessions with escape, with driving, with the particulars of backroads and motorways is evidenced throughout, and the little steps into electronica like ‘Esplanade Drive’ may not echo the “classic” Hefner sound of yore but hold their own melodic pearls.

When Hayman hits his vintage quality stride it is a smile-raising joy, as on the wonderfully anthemic  ‘Tired Of Gettin’ Dicked Around’ and the hilarious, sad ‘I Can’t Control Myself’; and there really are enough great, sweet moments like this to carry a 31-track album, even if this doesn’t overcome the issue of the album’s sheer length, which makes it something of a struggle to get through in a single sitting.

Perhaps, then, this is a selection box of variable treats to be dipped into occasionally for the sake of retaining freshness – sometimes you’ll get a purple one, sometimes that green triangle thing. They all have a distinct flavour, there’s something for everyone and, chocolate metaphors aside, this is a superb reminder of what a unique and valuable artist Hayman continues to be, with or without larger public interest.

RM Hubbert was once a member of Glasgow post-rockers El Hombre Trajeado, a band formed back in 1995 and a mainstay of a wonderful scene at that time in Glasgow that included Mogwai, Ganger and The Delgados to name but three. I had just started university in the city and the depth and variety of music was incredible, I felt privileged to be immersed in something so new and exciting. El Hombre’s music was restless and inventive, edgy and funky, but they never quite got a hold of the record-buying public’s imagination and despite support slots for Nick Cave and Tortoise, the band spluttered to a halt some ten years later. A technically stunning guitarist, Hubbert took a break and returned to live gigging in 2008 before releasing his debut solo record First and Last. A stylistic change from his work in El Hombre, Hubbert’s work now takes its cues from flamenco and samba, his intricate playing suiting this genre well, often backed simply with basic percussion. First and Last, whilst dealing in loss and death, was a beautiful triumph, resulting in his signing to Chemikal Underground and releasing this collaborative new album Thirteen Lost and Found. A record made with musical friends such as Aidan Moffat, Alex Kapranos, Emma Pollock and Alasdair Roberts, it sees Hubbert’s acoustic guitar work combine with some well-known – and not so well-known – voices and players. And you know what? At times it’s brilliant stuff.

Hubbert channels his acoustic style (more traditional folk than flamenco on this record) through a post-rock filter, at various points reminiscent of Will Oldham’s sparse work on Seafarer’s Music. There’s maybe a bit of Labradford and Tortoise in there too, and a huge dose of Papa M’s terrific Live From a Shark Cage. However even with those guest starts, Hubbert’s singular vision makes this album very much his own.

Rumbling opener ‘We Radioed’ features the fine violin work of Luke Sutherland (Long Fin Killie, Mogwai) duetting with Hubbert’s guitar, creating a stormy beginning before rolling into ‘Car Song’, a slice of classic Arab Strap storytelling from Aidan Moffat.  Hubbert’s cyclical riffs combine with Moffat’s tale of reminiscence (“I used to swim over there; but that pub’s gone downhill/I made my very first and very last attempt at smoking on that swing bridge with Gillian Smith…we all loved Gillian”), and a wish for a simpler life:  “so let’s do it. Let’s sell our home and all our things/And buy a camper van and live on service station junk food and roadside pub lunches/We can burn our smartphones and donate the computer to the school down the road/Donate the clothes we never wear to the charity shop and just… go”. It’s a tale of hopefulness, carried by Moffat’s knack for a compelling story and Hubbert’s bright acoustic plucking.

Elsewhere, solo tracks like ‘For Joe’, ‘Switches Part 2’ and ‘V’ show what seems to be a huge debt to the work of David Pajo, with the chiming riffs and circular grooves at times mesmeric. His duet with John Ferguson’s banjo on ‘Gus Am Bris An Latha’ (Gaelic for “Until the breaking of the day”, a well-used expression on gravestones in the Scottish Western Isles) is utterly captivating and the best of the vocal-less tracks.

For all that the guests add a little extra to the musical offerings, Hubbert’s guitar work is strong enough on its own. ‘Half Light’ is one of the songs with vocals that don’t work: a gothic tale with singing from Emma Pollock, it never really gets going and ends up being a touch miserable and cold. The two other tracks with vocals fare much better: ‘Sunbeam Melts the Hour’ has curious Joanna Newsom-esque vocals from the Glasgow-based Finnish artist and musician Hanna Tuulikki, resulting in a Celtic/European gypsy folk song; and final track ‘The False Bride’ is the pick of the album, with Alasdair Roberts weaving a Scottish folk tale with a traditionally miserable and tragic ending:  “I loved a lass, and I loved her so well/I hated her all others that spoke of her ill/But now she’s rewarded me well for my love/For she’s going to be wed to another”. Hubbert’s gentle playing is sympathetic to the lyrics, resulting in a deeply sad ending to the record.

Thirteen Lost and Found is unfortunately unlikely to be played live in all its glory more than once or twice due to its collaborative nature, a shame given that it’s a marvellously played record and has emotional depth without excluding the listener. It’s further evidence, basically, that we should really start taking more notice of the talents of RM Hubbert.

Which brings me to the debut album of Black Bananas, Rad Times Xpress IV.  Start to finish, the record is a pale mush casserole.  There’s no colour, and rarely does a moment or melody stand out, even when BB liberally pilfer from others. This, of course, presents a problem given the claims made in the accompanying press release.  Words like “blueprint” and “pioneer” are thrown around in description of BB’s Jennifer Herrema, the band’s singer and songwriter. Sadly, neither are really all that true. When she’s not trying (and failing) to sexify her lack of compositional skill, she’s aping the vocal styles of Joan Jett (as on ‘Killer Weed’) and Alison Mosshart (as on ‘Earthquake’). Ironically, it’s when she bothers to sound somewhat unique (like on opener ‘It’s Cool’) that a song becomes memorable – if only for that reason.

As for the music, it doesn’t fare better. For all the cries of BB being the saviours of rock, everything about this record screams insipidity.  The acid-washed guitar on ‘Rad Times’ is a little too acid-washed: it’s supposed to be a guitar tone, not a pair of jeans. Even worse, its groove is lifted from Morris Day and the Time. Similarly, the guitar in ‘Do It’ is a so fuzzed-out that it’s actually distracting. But perhaps most offending of this dull set is ‘RTX Go-Go,’ with its sludgy-elastic bass stolen from modern dubstep and overall confused production. Skrillex, anyone? The record is just a series of ideas of popular music that largely have nothing to do with each other, all thrown together in the hopes that something sticks. Problem is, when reality’s covered in taupe, it’s hard to follow anything that’s going on.

The press release even tries to paint Black Bananas as the newest (and, because of this, the best) project of Herrema. In its words, the band is “fucking righteous”. Which is another lie. More accurately, it’s Rock ‘n Roll Economics 101:  if it ain’t catchy or memorable, no one gives a shit. If I wanted to listen to inoffensive – and, ultimately, unmemorable – drivel (stolen drivel at that!), I’d thrown on a Kenny G record.  Hey, at least his PR people never called his music a crusade.

When discussing which records The Line of Best Fit’s writers were most looking forward to hearing in 2012, there were a few names that kept cropping up. The more we considered this question, the more we realised that over the past year or so, this particular band had come to possess all of the tools required to create something really quite special. As such, the third album from Errors was placed very high up our list of “things to look forward to this year”, and it’s safe to say that we’ve not been disappointed.

With Have Some Faith In Magic, Errors have constructed something which, at first listen, appears to be fairly simple and graspable (which is probably the side of things that The Saturdays latched on to), but after peeling back the surface, the record reveals itself to be made up of all of the ingenuity and inspiration that we’ve come to expect from this band. The Glaswegian four-piece have become so good at their craft in the eight years since their formation that they make this whole album-creating process sound effortless – the trick being to make music that can be as emotionally involving, as physically involving and as mentally involving as the listener chooses for it to be.

Opening up with ‘Tusk’, we can instantly hear that this is the most considered Errors record to date. There’s an immediate sense of space and ambition to the track, and the seamless mix demonstrates a confidence that seems to be flying high in the Errors camp, as though the group are feeling fully comfortable with their sound and ready to take on and conquer whatever they please. ‘Tusk’ is a perfect choice of opener. A shimmering backdrop is overlapped by a driving guitar melody before the whole track slips into a  warm, resonating synth-led offering. Singles ‘Magna Encarta’ and ‘Pleasure Palaces’ particularly stand out, each possessing the strong, driving melodies typical of this group, whilst providing some of the more rousing and hypnotic moments to be found on the album. ‘Blank Media’ offers a response to these more raucous tunes, offering up a slower tempo and a softer mix, balancing out some of the more bracing elements on the record.

Over the past year, Errors have spent a lot of time on the road including a jaunt Stateside in support of their label bosses Mogwai. Having played in front of some unfathomably large audiences has clearly done nothing but good for this band, who have incorporated previously unexplored live elements, including processed vocals, into their repertoire.  A particular high point which shows off these freshly-tapped resources comes towards the close of the album in the form of ‘Cloud Chamber’. This is one of the tracks where the increased use of vocal elements is really given the time and space to shine, and the result? A rich and absorbing track that adds a soulful, soft and alluring edge to the record.

Errors have always been an immediately attractive proposition. From the get-go, their records have been loaded with catchy hooks, sonic nuances and understated textures,and Have Some Faith In Magic is exemplary of this skill. But there’s something much more grand and pristine about this album than what we’ve heard from Errors before. That’s not to say that it’s polished or glossy in any way, more that it’s very well thought out. Each track slips seamlessly and seemingly effortlessly into its successor, yet each track also stands sturdily on its own.

Have Some Faith In Magic proves that there’s a lot more to this band than excellently titled records (see: How Clean Is Your Acid House? and It’s Not Something But It Is Like Whatever) and that almost jarringly catchy, trippy number that is ‘Supertribe’.  This is a subtly brilliant album which harbours a quiet confidence, some outstanding tracks and a slight smirk knowing that ambitions were achieved with this effort, and that expectant listeners’ ears will well and truly have been appeased.

From the opening track, the tone for this rebooted Quartet is set. ‘Window Seat’ begins with an electronic beep that’s joined by an arc of violin, singularly swooping in. This then disappears, before returning – a consistent loop weaving through those electronic pulses which then itself gives way to a rising wave of fuzz, a delicate drone that disappears as soon as it arrives. All in all, nothing remotely like the previous music of Portico Quartet, and more akin to the works of Four Tet. There’s a glacial feel to the music, it’s all so clean and clinical, lacking an emotional hook on which to draw you in. Things look up when ‘Ruins’ begins with a deep double bass and swirling saxophone, but this is underpinned with another throbbing electronic beat, which makes the piece a rather alien listen. ‘Spinner’ is once again driven by the double bass, a saxophone slowly crying over the top, as a clip-hop beat repeats and drives the piece. ‘Lacker Boo’ also relies on electronica to drive the track. A piercing, icicle shard of a  refrain jags over a tight beat before a shuddering violin arrives with the double bass draped over it. The Hang (a steelpan-like instrument) then returns, forming a pretty dance between these other instruments. Once again, there’s the essence of something interesting here but it fails to be fully realised. The prettiness ends up becomes the only focus and quickly becomes bland with nothing else to hold the attention.

There are two moments, though, where this new approach finally works. ‘Rubidium’ beings with a sparkling Hang intro. A revolving electronic tone swirls around it before a trumpet arrives at the gathering, crying mournfully, before other instruments join the throng; all sounding as if they’re weeping for something lost. This is before the piece gets half way, and the electronic tone gains momentum before being clattered by a series of scattered drum rolls before it, too, is quietened by that mournful piece of brass, the trumpet. It’s a beautiful piece and stands above all else on the album due to its depth and character. ‘City of Glass’ also stands out,  a blend of the things that Portico Quartet are good at joined with their interests: the jazz background and the love of electronica. Here, the double bass and saxophone swirl together (the bass an unfortunately underused instrument on the album) and whip the track into a whirlwind tempo whilst the electronic percussion ducks, dives and swerves out of the way of that flowing sax.

It seems sadly apt that the album should end with a piece called ‘Trace’, for there’s very little left of the original band who crafted the Mercury nominated Knee-Deep in the North Sea. By treating most of the live instrumentation through pedals and computers and embracing, almost fully, their interest in electronic sounds, it’s left the album feeling a little lifeless. If this is a re-imagining of the Portico Quartet, we can perhaps hope for something more interesting on the follow-up, after the band have this time around set the scene and changed the template.

And while there was an elegant, innocent charm to First Aid Kit’s lovely debut, The Lion’s Roar represents a bold, distinct leap forward for the Söderberg sisters, one that will clearly take them into the hearts of many more music fans on both sides of the pond, not to mention larger live venues and festival stages. This stirring, striking new album will surely (in a just world, at least) find First Aid Kit a wider audience, although this resolute new batch of songs remains intensely personal and intimate, like the whispered longings and frustrations of two siblings talking candidly to each other long after the lights have been shut off and everyone else has gone to bed.

The record opens with the faintly Dylanesque title track, and the lush vocals and plaintive melody of the number lulls the listener in to a temporary sense of calm before the bracing chorus of “And I’m a goddamn coward, but then again so are you” snaps us out of our reverie as the song churns insistently forward amidst the sisters’ stately harmonies. And they keep our attention fixed with the gorgeous ‘Emmylou’, an affectionate love letter to the timeless impact of Emmylou Harris, June Carter, Gram Parsons, and Johnny Cash. First Aid Kit clearly don’t feel the need to deny or shy away from their influences, and in fact proudly name-check them here for those obtuse listeners who are slow to catch on. The fact that they were able to fit the names of theses luminaries so reverentially into their lyrics only adds to the song’s tender potency.

The graceful album continues to soar, with the dreamy elegance of ‘In The Hearts Of Men’ and the subtle nod to Joni Mitchell on the deceptively buoyant ‘Blue’ maintaining the strong start. Bright Eyes’ Mike Mogis adds a restrained but welcome texture to the stark songs with his sagacious production, the small sonic flourishes he brings to the proceedings augmenting the emotions and impact of the songs themselves, without ever outshines Johanna and Klara’s dignified presence. ‘To A Poet’ is a perfect example of this balance, as the dramatic resonance of the number is raised by the various strings, horns and keys that tastefully illuminate the haunting melody.

“Everything gets tiresome, everything grows old/With each secret revealed there’s another to be told”, the Söderbergs sing, emphatically, on ‘Dance To Another Tune’ – perhaps preemptively striking out at the critics who may find their auspicious backstory and delicate songs too cute to last. But that’s just it: there is a distinct timeless quality to these tracks, as Johanna and Klara unabashedly borrow traces of the most durable songs from the dawn of radio’s unsteady beginnings through the fitful digital age, giving these faintly familiar melodies a fresh, modern spin, one which tastefully makes the old sound new again. And by the time they get to the triumphant closer ‘King Of The World’ they have made believers of us all, including Connor Oberst and the Felice Brothers, who jubilantly join in the final song’s celebratory choir, having long since bought into the redemptive healing power of the glorious music of First Aid Kit.

If the word “soft” appears in the title of something music related, it’s often a pointer to just how good it is: The Soft Bulletin, The Soft Moon, The Soft Boys, Soft Machine…errr, soft rock? So, Seattle’s The Soft Hills have a lot to live up to with their new album The Bird Is Coming Down To Earth. Their music is a blending of cosmic folk and psychedelic country, formed and honed over the course of two previous releases, the Painted Word EP and the Noruz album. The four-piece – Garrett Hobba, Brittan Drake, Randall Skrasek and Brett Massa – belong to simpler times, be it the Laurel Canyon of the ’60s and ’70s, or the burgeoning gold prospecting days on the US West Coast; their music is yearning, with a sense of loss but also rebirth; and to be honest, you’re going to hear many worse records in 2012 than this little nugget of psych pop.

The finest example of the band’s songwriting is found on opening track ‘Phoenix’. A mix of druggy early Eagles and classic Neil Young, it’s a beautifully keening song beginning as a gentle pastoral with Hobba pining for a getaway (“You can ride with me anytime you want, we can journey to the end of the night/We can look for treasures of our own delight”). As the harmonies build the song slows down and a tension builds,  the change in mood reflected by some crackling Crazy Horse style electric guitar and foreboding lyrics: “Fire and ashes; this whole town’s gonna bleed/The fever passes, but I’m still down on my knees…darling please”. However the mood lifts and we return to the optimism of the beginning of the track, the titular phoenix rising with hopefulness. In a trippier analysis of the song, it could be seen as a vision quest, a rebirth of consciousness, and a new beginning.

There is a hippy element to The Bird Is Coming Down To Earth, with some tracks veering worryingly close to pastiche, but for the most part The Soft Hills stay the right side of the parody line. A song like ‘Purple Moon’ (“Virgin bloom, wanna eat your fruit….wanna drink from your fountain”) shouldn’t work, but Hobba’s wide-eyed innocence imbues the slowly-unwinding country ballad with a likeable quality; ‘Days When We Were Young and Free’ is equally innocent, with Hobba wistfully singing of simpler times, and ‘River Boat’ calls to mind early Grandaddy by adding some woozy synth sounds to the gentle and dusty song.

It’s not all bucolic though, as some much-needed crunch is added on ‘Tidal Waves’ through some huge drums and spiky guitars, spiralling into a mid-song freak-out and howling solo.  ‘Chosen One’ is a pleading rocker that talks of “stepping over to the world beyond”, once again referencing that vision quest, searching for something beyond the material. It gives the album a bit of necessary tonal variety: I’m not sure a whole record of dreamy visions would have been all that interesting to listen to, as confirmed by the rather grey and uninteresting ‘Return to Eden’ and ‘Midnight Owls’. Thankfully the final two tracks ‘It Won’t Be Long’ and ‘Falling Leaves’ are strong enough to leave things on a positive note, the latter a particularly gorgeous tune with beautifully plucked acoustic guitar and lyrics that suggest the quest is over:  “the raven’s call leads me back to my home…”.

The Soft Hills are never likely to be world-beaters, but in the January gloom of early 2012, The Bird Is Coming Down To Earth offers some lovely moments, some fine songwriting and a sense of wonder that’s not always easy to find in these cynical times.

Country sounds from an urban girl, Rebecca Pronsky‘s second release was recorded in Parsonsfield, Maine and it is here where its sound lies. With the assistance of engineer Sam Kassirer, previously working with the likes of Josh Ritter and John Prine, this Nanci Griffith-reminiscent recording harks back to the work of classic country music stars, harbouring a distinctive jazz-trained vocal coupled with urgent, quick tempoed melodies.

Born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, Pronsky’s follow-up to 2007′s Departures & Arrivals paints personal stories centring on love, relationships and doubt, placed against a dusty whirlwind of passing southern country landscapes, or perhaps the ‘Highway 17 Express’ cited in Lucy Wainwright Roche’s lyrical contribution to the buoyant ‘Mercury News’. Opening with the galloping slide guitar and tambourine of ‘Hard Times’, Pronsky’s self-assured vocals form the heart of these songs, a bold and warm timbre which builds to a climactic close – and indeed it is hard to imagine these songs taking off with the same guttural passion were her vocals not at the core. While a country-twinged strain runs throughout, there are also flirtations with other stylings: the moody psychedelic twangs of the lyrically-dark ‘Day of the Dead’ complement the song’s sombre theme while, conversely, the uptempo intonations of ‘Give Up Too Easily’ don’t resonate with quite the same vocal conviction as the perhaps more maudlin of her tracks. The vocals on these more positive exhaltations often fall flat, the fuller instrumentation of Dan Shuman on upright bass and Russ Meissner’s drums muffling their sound.

This is a record clearly defined by its treatment of  mature topics – featuring a young vibrant vocal delivered by an old soul. ‘The Wheel’ harbours something of the girl-next-door vocals of Laura Viers tucked into its world-weary narrative and it is this soul-searching – both personal and yet universal – that ultimately keeps the album’s scope varied. Often these topics are tinged with a double meaning, perhaps relevant only to the singer: fleeting references to struggle and freedom, loss and gain, growth and war which all have their roots placed deeper than we may think upon a first listening.

While Pronsky’s melodies, driven by galloping guitar chords (courtesy of Rich Bennett) and foot-tapping, thumping bass and drums, retain a joyously infectious country twang at their centre, this is a record that will perhaps only gain the recognition of listeners already predisposed towards country airs. With its old-school, old-feel approach, performed with such precision and displaying such crystalline production, Viewfinder strides carefully between country, rockabilly and folk without ultimately breaking these boundaries down for the wider audience.

The London-based trio have certainly moved on somewhat from the deadpan observation of  ”We went out/And we got wasted/You went home/And turkey basted”, which made ‘You Came Out’ one of the easiest electro-dance anthems to sing along to in 2009, as it did the rounds of pretty much every club and bar worth its hipster salt that summer. And this is not a bad thing, as the Bloc Party-nodding ‘Oh!’ and indie era-Rapture ‘Honeytrap’ have dated frighteningly quickly since their first airings a couple of years ago.

So it’s on to electro pastures new for We Have Band, who have embraced bass and beat and use both to excellent effect throughout the first half of Ternion. ‘After All’, with its lyrical leads, is catchy pop dance at its best and surely has the potential for a thousand remixes-in-waiting. ‘Visionary’ is an indie-shoegazing siesta compared to the scratchy, sexy likes of ‘You Came Out’ from 2010′s impressive debut. And while the distinctive whistling WHB decrescendos may be a thing of the past, the addictive guitar plucking remains, which  - along with the odd cow bell – makes the early part of this record as irresistible as a cold beer on a hot beach.

Probably the most obvious difference between Ternion and WHB is the slick production, courtesy of former Clor member and Foals producer Luke Smith, who gives the band a grandiose leg-up in sound, removing some of the scratchy “disco-rock” they were peddling on their MySpace page before releasing actual records. And, whereas vocalist Dede Wegg-Prosser describes making the first album as “us getting together and having fun”, she acknowledges that “this time we were making a record with the knowledge that people would be listening to our music”. There’s also a more italo disco feel, most noticeable on ‘Tired of Running’, which incidentally, is a strong contender for the accolade of Best Record to Jog Away The Festive Excess To.

Thomas W-P (the other half of the husband-wife duo that comprise two thirds of WHB) takes on most of the vocal duties this time around, with only occasional input from his missus Dede, whose nonchalant matter-of-fact tones defined ‘You Came Out’. Thomas dominates soulfully on ‘What’s Mine, What’s Yours’ before the track gives way to an all-consuming freight train of bass that rumbles past you full pelt, then fading away into the horizon. And it’s at this point that Ternion transforms.

‘Steel in the Groove’ is a Metronomy-esque mix of beats with shifting pace and a wide and varied selection of sythesised bleeps, peeps and drums, which the more cynical listeners among you might liken to a pre-party soundcheck. Then there’s ‘Watertight’, which does a good (if rather strange) impression of Britney Spears’ ‘Maneater’ before turning into a shouty punk screamathon only to then calm itself down again, paving the way for the record to fizzle out with the distinctly underwhelming and rather misleadingly-named ‘Pressure On’. Sadly the latter stages of Ternion seem unsure about who or what it is, or where it wants to be, which is what lets this otherwise solid second LP down.

Folding Leaves, the second full length from Oxford multi-instrumentalist Jerome Alexander, marks a notable progression for Message To Bears.  2009 debut long-player Departures sounded much like an  snapshot of damp autumn mornings in the English countryside, but Folding Leaves  takes some bold steps towards a more rounded and expansive atmosphere by mixing the instrumental pieces with some of Alexander’s neatly applied vocals.

A noticeable example of the changes comes in ‘Everything Was Covered In Snow’ as it begins with gentle twinkling keys under the faintest buzz, before ratchet glitches and spare drums give way to strings and distant field-recorded voices. It is reminiscent of the hushed Nordic tinkering of Amiina or Mum and this delicate frostiness seems like a move towards a more glacial and arguably trite ambient strand  of post-rock-ish sounds, as opposed to the more folk influenced rustic pallette of someone like Balmorhea (a big influence on Departures).

This might seem like a cynical change were it not for the fact that:  a) nobody really cares about “post rock” any more, and b) the resultant change sounds incredibly natural given the crisp glistening production quality here – something which seems to have been further accentuated by having ambient stalwart Keith Kenniff on mastering duties. He is a man who knows this kind of music inside out, and has himself been responsible for releasing some of the very best of it over the last five years or so under the names Goldmund, Helios and most recently (and a bit less ambient-ly) Mint Julep. So his involvement alone gives some indicator of the quality on offer here.

The problem with “that kind of music” is that all too often it is unengaging and more akin to muzak than anything else, something which both is and isn’t the case here. ‘Mountains’ is undoubtedly one of the most memorable tracks with its galloping guitar swaying alongside violin, and mollified vocals urging “we could run away before the light of day”. The same can be said for the rasping delayed guitar of ‘Farewell Stars’ set against a backdrop of finger-picked acoustic; it is soothing and feels a world away from normality. These, along with those tracks infused with higher tempo programmed drums and layered sounds (such as ‘Unleft’), are the moments where the album reaches its most engaging points. Conversely, the likes of ‘Undone’ and ‘Birds Tail’ suffer from stasis and similarity, failing to rouse much interest as anything other than background noise, plodding around in their pretty but plain uninspiring colours.

Opening track ‘Daylight Goodbye’ is a gorgeous introduction to the record’s charms (of which, I should be clear, it certainly has enough). Glimmering piano melts into ethereal whispering strings and echoey vocals which gradually pick up gentle momentum with drums before easing out on the harmonised vocals alone, a neat ending point on the newest introduction to the MTB sound.

There is a never-ending glut of similar artists in the “sweet-twinkly-evocative-instrumental-soundscapes” field, and sorting the good from the bad soundalikes can be tough. If I’m to be completely frank then I suspect most of it will never graduate beyond being woefully mis-used backing music for moments of high tension in teenage drama shows or simply as music for going to sleep to, and it’s difficult making a case for this music being any different. Which is a shame really because, that being said, Message To Bears is about as perfectly formed as these things come, and as good a choice to make if it’s that kind of delicate escapism you’re looking for.

 Retro fashions and sample-culture, tribute acts and cover albums – with music in the 21st century pretty much everybody sounds like somebody else. Whether a band is slipping into another genre for “crossover appeal” or “borrowing” a style to develop their sound, it’s a rare album that doesn’t come encumbered with a press release breathlessly citing more reference points than there are words.

Islet, though – they’re different. Somehow, despite a list of influences that probably runs into the hundreds, they don’t sound like anybody else. Tool, Youthmovies, Massive Attack and Portishead, Battles, Muse, System Of A Down, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Errors and 65 Days Of Static – they’re all in there somewhere, but at no point do the Cardiff three-piece lose their own identity, or find their songs lost within a photocopy of a photocopy of some other sound from some other time.

Instead, Illuminated People is, at its best, extremely exciting – the sound of a band all wild-eyed and frantic, saliva glistening on bared teeth. There’s more ambition in the fifty minutes here than most of 2011 churned forth in its entirety, each moment never far from some new experiment or idea.

Sure, they don’t always work. Opener ‘Libra Man’ sprawls with proggy time-shifts and artillery percussion but never quite has the impact that it should, the vocals a touch too jarring and the production lacking the punch needed to hold the track together. Elsewhere some of the guitar lines – on ‘Funicular’, for example – veer perilously close to a Christian rock jangle, and the relentless movement of the thing can get a bit exhausting. “We don’t really believe in sitting on songs” said the band last October, and by god it shows, their attention apparently wavering midway through a track onto some new rhythm or melodic structure.

But it doesn’t matter: any album that can segue from the Karen O yelps of ‘This Fortune’ through to the drowsy singalong of ‘What We Done Wrong’ and the gothic howl of ‘A Warrior Who Longs To Grow Herbs’ earns a considerable measure of goodwill. And by the time it reaches the Animal Collective erraticism of ‘Shores’ and the manic carnival of closer ‘A Bear On His Own’ – a TV theme song spliced with a Nuremberg rally – well, you’d forgive Islet murder.

Heck, let’s not even begin criticising a band for trying to do too much. Illuminated People might not be perfect but it’s never anything less than interesting, and its high points – the grinding outro of ‘Entwined Pines’, the frenetic build of ‘Filia’ – are outstanding enough to warrant attention on their own. They may not yet have fully found their voice but at least Islet haven’t settled for some old and tired sound, stifled by its own yawn – and hey, any rough edges that Illuminated People has quickly pale next to the sheer vigour of the thing.

Since then, the trio has become a duo, the exit of Aaron Pfenning leaving Polachek and multi-instrumentalist Patrick Wimberly to forge ahead with Chairlift’s second album (as well as squeezing in some collaboration with satiro-rappers Das Racist in the interim). Something brings with it no great reinvention or even reassessment of the band’s sound – glimmering electro-pop, intuitive melodies and the ever-present neon shadow of the ’80s is still the order of the day. Something must have changed, however, because where their first album felt laboured, its successor presents its charms in a way that’s assertive, unaffected, and most importantly, a lot of fun.

So what changed? The simple explanation is that Chairlift are making the same music they made before, only they’re doing it much, much better. For long stretches of Something, Polachek and Wimberly offer up track after track of propulsive pop, each chorus seeming more gorgeous than the one before. The starry-eyed melodies of ‘I Belong in Your Arms’ perfectly evoke the romantic abandon of youth: you’d sit through a shitty high school rom com just to hear it over the end credits.

‘Amanaemonesia’ combines a Police-esque, limelight-hogging bassline with the cool songwriting sheen of fellow ’80s-obsessed Brooklynite Twin Shadow to create a fizzy earworm of a lead single. Meanwhile, ‘Met Before’ kicks off its gold-plated chorus with a keyboard refrain that somehow manages the remarkable feat of channelling Van Halen’s ‘Jump’ without making this listener want to throw himself out of the nearest window – a triumph in itself, against all odds. Polachek’s lyrics have undergone a welcome overhaul as well, the rather self-conscious constructions of the past replaced with direct, emotive declarations that fit more snugly within the sumptuous tracks that surround them, as well as the singer’s all-in delivery.

A few tracks break the album’s impeccable rhythm. The overplayed melodrama of synth ballad ‘Cool as a Fire’ slips onto the wrong side of pastiche, a turgid album midpoint after the brilliant five-track hot streak that precedes it. Towards the end of the album, ‘Frigid Spring’ and ‘Turning’ attempt to slow the pace for some more considered atmospherics, but the unengaging, unexceptional results highlight the lack of strings to Chairlift’s songwriting bow. Animal Collective they ain’t.

Like a hungry shark, Something relies on its momentum to flourish. While it’s gliding forward at speed, Wimberly and Polachek have the power to chew up all their influences and spit out something convincing and compelling, but if that energy dissipates they tend to flounder. A couple of inconvenient stains can’t spoil the simple pleasures of this retro disco, though. As it stands, Something succeeds as a bona fide kick-off-your-Sunday-shoes dancefloor filler, and stands as proof that commitment can trump originality if the songwriting is strong enough.

Now, there’s no need to use a quote taken out of context as a rod with which to beat a band half to death with – and yet here we are. Nada Surf are a band that actively prefer playing acoustic sets to full band gigs, and whose records from a decade ago sound nearly identical to this new release – vocals overwhelmingly prominent in order for the listener to appreciate the poetry of singer Matthew Caws while the music itself is barely audible, a simple backing to Caws’ earnest, very occasionally neatly-observed lyrics.

Yet. Yet they are so uncool, so straight and serious, take the art of songwriting so very very seriously, wear their plaid shirts with such intent that it’s sometimes hard to resist their furrowed brows, their strained observations about the loss of youth (‘When I Was Young’), their attempts at playfulness (‘Jules and Jim’ – yes, it’s best not to discuss the titles) and even their weird, semi-creepy allusions to sexy times (‘No Snow On The Mountain’).

After all, this is the band that overcame years and years of mistreatment by major labels; survived the career killing of a massive MTV hit in the shape of 1996 anthem ‘Popular’; this is a trio admired by Death Cab For Cutie to the degree that Chris Walla sometimes produces their records, Ben Gibbard guesting on them; they’re a band with the good taste to cover The Go-Betweens and Kate Bush on their recent covers album If I Had A Hi-Fi. They are, like most survivors, simply endearing.

The vocal melodies on tracks like ‘Teenage Dreams’ and ‘Waiting For Something’ are as good as something from a Weakerthans record and sometimes they even strike a little vein of Jonah Matranga/Far-style harmonic gold, as on ‘Looking Through’. Even when they are extremely clumsy, as on the sweet as Reese’s cups ‘Let The Fight Do The Fighting’, they are still dropping memorable earworm tunes and the occasional smart line.

Of course, there is “awesome” at the top of the rock mountain, and in the deep pit of slurry at the very bottom of that hill lay bands like The Goo Goo Dolls and Hootie & The Blowfish, Blues Traveller and Better Than Ezra; haggard ’90s leftovers, seeing themselves as torch carriers for some kind of nouveau M.O.R path to truth and enlightenment.

Nada Surf are slipping into the quicksand as perilously as ever, yet somehow there’s always a vine for them to grab onto in order to make it back to the surface. Just.

You could easily turn that previous paragraph into an ugly outcry. These guys think they’re clever enough to mine the same tired, needlessly-overwrought influences? UGH, I bet they think they’re so cute with that metrosexual rhyme. Quivering boy-girl melodies over innocent chimes, playful guitar, and schoolhouse ambivalence? A lyrical posture that scarcely gets beyond love and not being in love? Its like ‘Young Folks’-core all over again. You’ll dig out those forgotten Boy Least Likely To records jus because the resemblance is uncanny. Yes, your appreciation for Foxes! is entirely dependent on how willing you are to give them the benefit of the doubt. Do they write the right songs? Well, they don’t write the wrong songs. ’6 O’Clock’, ‘Oh Rosie’, ‘Who Killed Rob?’ are all perfectly capable low-stakes indie-pop morsels – but in a culture of year-end lists it’s hard seeing Foxes! sticking around for long.

If you’re someone like me, and if you’re reading The Line of Best Fit, as there’s every reason to believe that you are, Foxes!’s self-titled debut is pretty far outside your range for investment. However, all that said, it’s pretty hard not to root for them. I hope some inwards-turned kid stumbles on their songs completely unfettered by the meddling, bogus context of similar sounds, and falls in love with the way they sing about being in love. If anything it’ll offer some needed psychology. You love Foxes! because they remind you of a generational-gap, not necessarily for their music. A record that isn’t resonating certainly doesn’t make it a negative experience, just a demographically restricted one. These kids are too forthright not to be respected – dissolved songs be damned.

The textured album opens with the relaxed beauty of ‘Drifting In And Out,’ as Remiddi (who is a former member of Sunny Day Sets Fire) is able to capture the full attention of his listeners even while he suggests that they allow their focus to fade a bit. It’s all rather ethereal and lush, as the hypnotic, stylish melody does indeed carry you away and back again. The strong start continues with the plaintive ‘Shapeless & Gone’, which is led by a watery acoustic guitar riff, and comes across sounding like an expansive, drug-addled early b-side by The Verve.

Things get decidedly downtempo on ‘Is It Too Deep For You?’, another mesmerizing track which further proves that Remiddi definitely has some quality equipment at his disposal. The fact that he is able to produce these pristine, soaring numbers is a testament to not only his boundless creativity but also to the simple fact that he knows exactly what he’s doing. Remiddi is clearly not just twisting knobs and pressing buttons in the dark here, he’s crafted something far more grand and accomplished than most of his “chillwave” cohorts; and the stately, lavish sounds featured on Strange Weekend should easily distance Porcelain Raft from those tiresome comparisons and indolent genre classifications.

The emotional centerpiece of the record is ‘Backwords’, a gorgeous, melancholy number full of both regret and promise, as Remiddi’s wistful vocals ride gracefully over a gradually swelling beat. It’s a stunning, poignant track that never sounds cloying or overly sentimental as Remiddi hits all the tender notes right. After such a glorious but sombre number, the album picks back up with the buoyant, beat-driven urgency of ‘Unless You Speak From Your Heart’. But the record does begin to suffer a bit during its stolid second half, as both ‘The End Of Silence’, and ‘Picture’ stray too close to the standard, mundane pop construction that the rest of the record easily distances itself from.

But things get sorted quickly on the experimental (but far too brief) ‘If You Have A Wish,’ and the heartfelt closer ‘The Way In’, which elegantly brings the album to an end. Mauro Remiddi certainly lets the listener in to share some of his innermost thoughts and fears on Strange Weekend, and the impassioned, stylish results featured throughout this debut record should easily take Porcelain Raft from a heady bedroom project to a worldwide audience in no time at all.

That radio producers have become enamoured with the band is another sign of how special they are. While comparable bands are left to late night shows at best, Pulled Apart By Horses have made their presence felt on the daytime schedules – suggesting they are the perfect soundtrack for any disgruntled office workers ready to punch their bosses in the throat.

But has the band been forced to trade some of the haywire pandemonium that so dominated their debut album to get this far? Not at all. If anything, Tough Love has taken the madcap formula of the first and turned it up to 11.

Opener ‘V.E.N.O.M’ takes cues from Leeds compatriots Hawk Eyes – that is, a finale that sees singer Tom Hudson yelling each letter of the song’s title with a rasping anger (akin to Hawk Eyes’ ‘Kerosene’). Play it loud enough and you’ll be forgiven for thinking you can see Hudson’s spittle flinging out the speakers.

You can tell this is a band that has forged a sound through tireless touring. ‘Epic Myth’, with its tight twists and turns and eccentric vocalisations from Hudson, is a massive statement of confidence in ability that was perhaps lacking on the debut. The paranoid intro to ‘Degeneration Game’ shows how the band have learned to rely less on Hudson’s yapping for emotion, and the haunting guitar wails on closing track ‘Everything Dipped In Gold’ give the album an eerie conclusion – a stark contrast to the call to arms that ended their debut.

If there’s one criticism to level at the album, it’s that it just fails to encapsulate what a phenomenal force PABH are in a live setting. That’s not a massive surprise considering this is a band that has relied on a fair share of the taxpayers’ money in NHS care. Without the accompanying bodies, hair and instruments flying everywhere in a pool of sweat and blood, Tough Love does struggle to keep things interesting over its surprisingly brief running time.

“When I was a kid I was a dick/But nothing changes/Threw myself around ‘til I was sick/But nothing changes” shreds Hudson on ‘Wolf Hand’. Despite his aggrieved delivery, it’s startlingly poignant. When The Line of Best Fit spoke to drummer Lee Vincent as the band gallivanted across the UK for their first headline tour, he told us that growing old is an ever-present concern. But Tough Love is evidence that there is no need to panic. Pulled Apart By Horses continue to be a devastating whirlwind of energy and it looks like they have plenty of that energy left to continue for a while yet.

Cowley’s strong grounding in classical tradition makes him a good man for the job, and fortunately the task is sensitively handled. Opener ‘Lament’ shows us that the trio’s augmentation with a string section has not led him to lose his knack for melody. His typically catchy, neoclassically-influenced motifs lilt up the keyboard, subtly underscored by muted strings and ambient textures. As Cowley’s breathing sneaks into the mix, it becomes clear that production values have not come at the expense of intimacy.

After easing us in with the plaintive opener, the trio remind us that they are an extremely well-oiled machine. Tracks like ‘Rooster Was A Witness’ and ‘Fable’ bound along with the kind of impeccable timing that is only possible in a group with great musical understanding of the kind which the Neil Cowley Trio possess in abundance, as anyone who as seen them in concert will know. Moreover, the rollicking energy captured here would not sound out of place on many rock albums. In fact, the “jazz” umbrella that the trio are so often pushed under can be a bit misleading, and can perhaps alienate some potential listeners. Although they do have all the trappings of a jazz group: an eponymous piano, double bass and drums ensemble playing instrumental music, Cowley eschews jazz harmony and extended improvisations in favour of bags of hooks and riffs. The coda in ‘Skies Are Rare’ teases the listener with a tasteful piano solo, a rare moment of flair. Perhaps Cowley is deliberately taking a “leave them wanting more” approach here, but one can’t help from hoping that he lets his hair down more in future.

The album also sees the addition of Brian Eno collaborator Leo Abrahams, whose ambient touches, like the strings, are subtly done. Particularly notable is ‘Mini Ha Ha’, featuring bizarrely maniacal laughter over the music, leading into a meditative outro. It is unfortunate though that some of the tracks fail to do Abrahams’ soundscapes justice. ‘Slims’ and ‘Distance By Clockwork’ comprise the mid-album dip, lacking any of the depth of feeling or originality that make some of their other compositions so interesting, and it would not be surprising the hear either on a banking advert some time in the near future. The quality picks up once again, however, and penultimate track ‘La Porte’ is close to being a perfect Cowley track, with its wide dynamic range and stop-start rhythms only complemented by the change in sound.

The Face of Mount Molehill finishes much as it started, with the soft and distant piano-led ‘Sirens Last Look Back’. As the reverb-soaked notes die away, the warmth of the record is truly felt. The changes made on this album are bold and effected with skill, and perhaps this, along with Cowley’s raised profile and accessible arrangements will help people to understand that jazz isn’t so scary after all.

Rodrigo Y Gabriela

Besides their collaboration with Hans Zimmer on the new Pirates of the Caribbean score, this is the first we’ve heard from Rodrigo Sánchez and Gabriela Quintero since July’s bootleg album Live in France. To a mere mortal their next development was never obvious, but few could have predicted their collaboration with a Cuban orchestra (aptly named C.U.B.A.) on Area 52, a re-working of nine original songs.

The results aren’t encouraging. Instead of offering an interesting cultural angle on Rodrigo Y Gabriela’s music, Area 52 slumps towards the mundane. The slapped heartbeat of guitar still indicates the ferocious skill with which Rodrigo Y Gabriela play, but the brass and faff that envelops Area 52 diminishes the music’s potential and makes a mockery of the original recordings. It’s equivalent to an icon brutally ruining a live performance of classics in the name of artistic licence, except in this case Rodrigo Y Gabriela have carved their mistake into their back catalogue.

While it may alienates their current fan base, Area 52 is just as unlikely to attract a new audience. The album fails to produce anything noteworthy, narrowly avoiding the lounge-jazz tag but mimicking the background jabber found on BBC One’s travel programme Holiday. It’s only practical application would be to help keep up appearances at a middle-class dinner party, although even then the guests probably, and justifiably wouldn’t pay it their full attention.

Area 52‘s only strength is that of the composition of the songs in their classic format, and despite some heavy overcrowding their genius continues to shine through the Cuban dynamic. Rodrigo Y Gabriela may have intended to showcase a different skill here, but instead they’ve confirmed they would be better off sticking to what they do best.

It’s a windy, moody night in the much maligned hump of January as I listen to Rough Trade Shops – Electronic 11, a decidedly left-field and downbeat compilation of the industry stalwarts’ 2011 picks.  It’s a fitting night for it, because this is The Wire style electro, for the most part, a far-removed cousin to the sparkly synths that characterised so much dance-floor trash this year just spent.

If you’re not familiar with names like Rene Hell, Nic Jaar, or John Maus, then you’re in for rather a dark treat, wherever your electro sensibilities lie on the spectrum; for the sounds they conjure, corralled by the seasoned ears of the Rough Trade folk, are a potent if acquired taste.  Acquire it herein!

Two excellent tracks in particular speak of the hope for 2012 that this compilation represents: the nouveau-soul of Hercules & Love Affair and Azari & III.  If nothing else, these are the wheat that stands out from the chaff found elsewhere in 2011 – if either of these bands and tracks inspire a good swathe of new sounds in the coming twelve months then we’re sorted.

Satisfyingly, the swollen middle of this 22-track compilation amps up the pace and the verve; so whilst the darker ambience of the first third can’t exactly be said to ease you in, Modeselektor and Rustie really put you through the wringer.  Sensational Meets Koyxen and Death Grips represent the Ninja-Tune flavoured hip-hop side of things in big fashion, and short of delineating the entire track listing, things just carry on messing you up from this point onwards.

I expected nothing less of Rough Trade than a total oeuvre of electro, a grand, scenic tour not pandering in the slightest to the mainstream (although Azari & III did flirt dangerously, briefly, with it).  Like a true connoisseur, Electronic 11 contrasts taste, pace and texture so that, bizarre as these elements may be in isolation, their essence is the clearer for the juxtaposition.

The long and short of it is such a diverse album of excellent, challenging, and loosely speaking, electronic music, that you’d be mad to miss unless you only ever listen to Ellie Goulding and Example.  If I ever hear any of the tracks featured on this compilation in a club, then I’ll know I’m in the right place.