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The raspy sax, dramatic vocals, and ostentatious instrumentation could just as easily have a place in a gaudy musical as they do on this album.

There is so much going on, and the ambitions shown are so bold and brilliant, that you can’t help but root for the record even when it’s falling a little short.

IDLES’ most considered, sonically thoughtful, and complex release to date, taking the band down a new path while preserving their strengths.

As much fun as its riffs and crunching tone can be, the album feels like a product of veterans going through the motions. For a really long time.

Weaving larger-than-life arrangements with razor-sharp yet feather-light lyricism, Crookes sits as the centerpiece of a kind of big band pop.

Blake’s vocals are, predictably, beautiful; Blake’s production is, predictably, meticulous; and it’s all, predictably, quite predictable.

Come for the singalong hooks of “El Scorcho”, “Pink Triangle”, and “Falling for You”, stay for Rivers Cuomo’s tales of loves lost and loves unrequited.

Romping rock and roll sounded like a breeze for Marc Bolan, and when you add some vintage Visconti wizardry into the mix, you can’t really go wrong.

Uncompromising, and very brutal indeed. Some listeners will struggle to see it through to the end, whereas others will feel oddly comforted by its harshness.

TBD

Each note of every individual performance is captured and presented perfectly, with the ragged spirit of the band left intact. It’s scruffy yet masterful.

The record transcends hip-hop, a buttery fusion of rap, soul, synth-pop, jazz, and a whole lot more. There’s even a reggae section that hits the spot.

The record listens like rock music’s answer to an ice-cold six-pack of decentish lager. It’s unrefined, but a cheap and cheerful good time.

Ellie Rowsell’s drift between spoken-word musings and operatic soarings is alive and well, and the band as a whole is as simpatico as ever - if not moreso.

The early 1970s was a golden era for singer-songwriters, but this stands alongside the best. The beauty of Mitchell’s songwriting lies in its simplicity.

Annie Clark wrangles a myriad of vintage sounds and gives them a stunning contemporary sheen, but it is in service of a world unquestionably her own. David Bowie and Mia Wallace had a sweet baby girl and abandoned her in South Queens.

Squid take characteristics from krautrock, dub, funk, and jazz to form a sound that is remarkably coherent and wholly distinct. It’s chaotic, but it works.

All the great metal albums contain at least a small portion of cheese. Fortitude is similar to a mild cheddar. Versatile, resilient and, sometimes, unbeatable.

Where others might layer up to obscene degrees, Stott has a knack for finding beauty in minuscule details. It’s practically ambient music for club-goers.

The record takes listeners on a spectacular musical safari, zipping between genres without ever feeling the slightest bit disjointed.

Another commanding and deft iteration of Godspeed’s lauded post-rock style. Although lacking the range of previous records, it still offers space to think.

A rock record produced like a dance record, with endless amounts of saturation and compression applied to, well, everything. This is a failed experiment.

From brotherly estrangement to Fabergéal financial ruin to dental calamity, Bleeding Gums’ soulful howling and gravelly tone is magnificient.

Vintage Del Rey (in both senses of the word), though the curious thing about the record is that it flies highest when she sounds least like herself.

An epic poem in LP form, throughout Cohen embraces a brutal honesty that, although daunting on the surface, reminds you that bleakness can be beautiful.

An album caught in no-man’s land, its dozy stadium rock tunes neither advancing Kings of Leon’s sound nor recapturing the glory of their past.

The shift away from skeletal guitars is welcome, but Baker’s strength does not lie in expansive arrangements. The songs sound like they’ve been developed for arenas, which is a strange paradox.

An expansive, impressive listen with delicious moments of climactic eruption. For Mogwai fans, this should feel like a hit in the band’s discography.

The album dusky psychedelic pop is covered in so much haze that, despite serious musical detours, tracks tend to blend together. It’s a good blend, though.

A blend of teenage angst and a primordial, animalistic sense of something lurking beneath a thin surface, a beastly shape clawing at the other side.

The record listens like an all-night jam at an impossibly cool bohemian gettogether. It’s funky, relaxed, audacious, exhausting... but above all, it’s brilliant.

Tracks swirl about at a slower pace than in Bicep’s debut. It often feels as though in creating a ‘home version’ they have instead cut out the excitement.

Part dramatic dream, part sun-soaked soliloquy, part love letter to mid-century pop rock, Midnight Sister have sewn together a wistful, woozy record.

Never does the record come off as grandiose or self-important; it’s just that good, and it’s just that much fun. Not a masterpiece, but a master at work.

Unabashedly grim, but reassuringly gentle. The album's striking cover art of a menacing but fragile old man is a good indicator of what to expect.

Relentless and unpredictable, the album's like the spawn of a Satanic ritual in a theme park. It’s oppressive and challenging, but also warm and charming.

The harmonies are wonderful, the instrumentation is charming, and, well, everything sounds rather bloody marvellous. Lots to love and little to dislike.

There is a huge amount of musical and lyrical ingenuity to enjoy here, with strong messages, jovial piss takes, and Joe Talbot as the megaphoned town crier.

It seems that a template was drawn up and filled in ten times over, such that every track sounds like the last, only wearing a different hat.

A sumptuously produced blend of folk, post-rock, and psychedelia, all with a smokey stoner sheen. When it gets rolling the grooves are irresistible.

The album is so delicate that it feels too fragile for its own good. It’s like a frozen wildflower - beautiful, but could shatter at any moment.

A pleasant, consistent, and enjoyable listen. Here’s hoping Nas and Hit Boy build on their clear chemistry with a follow-up.

Dead Kennedys' iconic debut still boasts some of the most brilliant and uncompromisingly cynical songs that punk has ever seen.

The album is a nostalgia trip and, unintentionally(?), the longest ‘only Millenials will remember’ meme in some time.

Along with a supremely confident and symbiotic backing band, Neil Young imbues each track with this and easygoing courageousness. A true classic.

The record lacks hooks and memorable moments. Although this is La Havas' most cohesive album to date, it may also be her most forgettable.

Parachutes is nice-feeling music written by nice-seeming blokes. As is the case with all things Coldplay, it’s easy to mock, but it’s easy to like as well.

Relaxing yet affecting, these songs are begging to be listened to with a chilled beverage in hand, alongside friends, watching the sun go down.

Grizzled and dusty, the album is as world-weary as it is worldly. Dylan sits in his chair by the fire and regales with stories, between naps.

The album is purposefully provocative, and whilst this brings exhilarating and hard-hitting moments, it can also result in disorientating frenzies.

El-P and Mike are on the frontline now. Here the duo stand up to be counted for what they really are: rappers, producers, activists, husbands, citizens.

Provided you're in the right mood, The Moon & Antarctica is one of the standout indie rock releases of the 2000s.

Emotionally vulnerable and creatively restless. The record plays out like a prolonged stream of consciousness, yet every aspect seems carefully constructed.

The album makes for hypnotic listening, bobbling along like a well-mannered German robot. All these years later it still sounds like the future.

Cosmogramma is a stunning showcase of music made, or at the very least assisted by, computers. Time has only proved it to be a genuine modern masterpiece.

Despite extended musical passages and eccentric lyrics, The Sophtware Slump is remarkably accessible. It's pop music for art students.

Solo material from a band as prolific as Radiohead can go one of two ways. Here it leaves the impression the band is greater than the sum of its parts.

Robed in ever so tasteful shades of pinkish beige, bluish beige, and beige, Song for Our Daughter is an often sublime Marling masterclass.

Thundercat rides the album like a surfer hanging ten on the world’s smallest, smoothest, slowest wave. It’s drifting with style, an uneventful good time.

Country music with a modern edge. To witness these songs being played live in a chapel would be quite the experience. Someone should work on that.

The richest and most melodious harmonisations of four men since John, Mark, Luke, and Matthew collaborated on their bestselling project 2,000 years ago.

The album's all a bit clean cut, a perfectly pleasant smorgasbord of gothy synth pop which goes in one ear and out the other.

A distinctive project that showcases exactly what Jay Electronica is all about. With a little help from a friend, of course.

Classic Gorillaz. Buoyant and aspirational, the project feels like a release of tension after the comparative harshness of Demon Days.

With Harvey it feels like you’ve stumbled across the ad hoc performance of a travelling mystic. It’s black magic with a smile.

Kevin Parker’s latest project has all the hallmarks of what came before, and it pushes harder on his more avant garde sensibilities.

Pretty much everything about Unknown Pleasures was, and continues to be, a total triumph in cathartic misery. It’s a true classic.

This isn't a game changer; instead a proud statement, delivered with finesse and flair by one of the true masters of IDM.

Throughout much of its run-time, There is No Year seems content revelling in its own (admittedly awe-inspiring) ambience.

As far as straight up heavy metal goes, Black Sabbath's Paranoid is one of the very best. It's very sincere and reliably silly.

For all its instances of greatness and undeniable beauty, MAGDALENE gets tangled in its own pop epic aspirations.

Quite simply one of the greatest anti-war albums of all time. In this current political climate its significance has only increased.

The Desert Sessions project has always been a lot of fun. Returning from an absence of 16 (!!!) years, nothing has really changed on that front.

The album is enthralling in the same way a vampire's glamouring might be: warm, cold, hypnotic, enticing, and foreboding as all Hell.

Sonic Citadel leans into the grubby, raw, jam-like nature of the duo’s live performances, records it, and calls it a day. It’s like a whirring motorcycle.

The aura of each composition is beautiful, yet there’s also the aching feeling of something missing. Stunning, and yet also oddly forgettable.

Nine Inch Nails rapidly became renowned for emotive and affecting music. Pretty Hate Machine contains those qualities, albeit in anxious tidbits.

The last word of a band with nothing left to prove, and it sounds like it. Exceptional without being seminal, but with some truly classic songs.

There's a glaring sense of lunacy throughout. It's as though JPEGMAFIA is snapping between multiple identities, and yet still manages to be soothing.

A satisfying-yet-unspectacular entry in the Bat for Lashes discography. Heartily recommended to those who share Khan’s affection for the ’80s.

While we can all appreciate a slow build, a rolling riff, and an expansive soundscape, TOOL's 90-minute non-epic leaves much to be desired.

Lover isn’t as expansive as Kate Bush or as daring as St. Vincent, but it is accessible and intelligent, which are the hallmarks of Swift at her best.

It’s like Blanck Mass put Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, Mario, and the blood of a sacrificial lamb into a kind of sonic blender.

Krafty Kuts and Chali 2na seem to lack conviction on this album, never attempting anything overly exciting, content with being serviceable.

A record can be iconic and flawed at the same time. Elvis' desbut is unrefined, hit and miss, and sometimes irresistible. Could it be any other way?

This is ambient Muzak. For all its smoothness and gentleness it barely leaves any impression at all.

It’s like Frankenstein in a dinner jacket. Gothic synth rock sounds like a recipe for disaster, but it sounds delicious when The Cure does it.

ANIMA has the Yorke's classic oddball jumpiness, but there are some really fluid sounds at play too. Does the album delight? No, but it does satisfy.

Layers upon layers of sensuous strings, steady soundscapes, and ghostly vocals combine to create an record that is impressive, yet fatiguing.

Gold & Grey strives to be an epic of sorts, with its sprawling tracklist and adventurous sonic deviations. Despite some frustrations, it largely succeeds.

Faith No More create a journey of funky new wave rap-metal, and if that depiction sounds ridiculous... well that's because it is.

The heated, high-tempered attitude that Curry carried on 2018's TA13OO has been replaced by a less hostile outlook. ZUU is a fun ride.

This album is a solid and grounded metal music offering with interesting vocal themes, expansive drums, and raucous riffs. Well worth a try.

Tyler plays against his strengths and manages to push himself to make a good non-rap album. That in itself is pretty fucking fascinating.

To get the most out of the record, listeners must embrace the obscurity and relish the moments of discomfort; probing shadows in order to find answers.

Catchy and sterile. The majority of these songs wouldn't feel out of place in an advert for Google, such is the clinical nature of their formation.

The arrangements are expansive and diverse, with coarse guitars blending between the lines of timpani, bells, piano, and organ. Lots of organ.

A broody, elegant, sometimes transcendent blend of rock and electronic music unlike anything made before or since, even by The Stone Roses.

Ventura is super consistent hip hop experience, but we can’t help but wonder what might have been achieved with the safety wheels off.

Despite its glistening arrangements and ethereal production, this is a cheesy, yet excellently realised, pop album at heart; bold and forthright.

A solid entry into the band's catalogue and certainly worth a listen. As to whether it'll stick around until the end of the year? I'm a lot less sure.

LP5 seems comfortable not pushing any boundaries. Tracks unravel steadily, with heavy attention shown towards atmosphere and production.

While much of the Two Sun's tracklist doesn't feel as though it explores its ideas far enough, its highlights go a long way to make up for it.

Foals’ experimentation with synths and funky instrumentals is bold, often promising, but the pieces never quite fall together.

When I Get Home feels like neither a continuation nor progression from its predecessor. Here Solange’s airy delivery is empty rather than angelic.

In a time where singer-songwriters are ten a penny, Julia Jacklin has created an album that stands out from the crowd. She's one to watch.

Turning its back not only on the college path, but tropes of gangster rap as well, The College Dropout dares to be different in weird, supremely catchy ways.

HEALTH have continued their trend of making exhilarating music, but something feels off this time round. A record this polished shouldn't feel so flat.

Things Fall Apart is a fluid, continuous listen: understated to the point of being an excellent backdrop, which is both a blessing and a curse.

There is plenty of anger in the album, but it is used constructively. At a time when much music was obsessed with rejection, The Specials gave affirmation.

Blake has always been hugely successful at setting a mood, but for the first time in his career he actually exudes genuine emotive qualities.

The songwriting is unbelievably good, to the point where it sounds effortless. Bowie shows sensitivity, humour, and even a little arrogance.

Blues, psychedelia, jazz, and gospel are all deeply ingrained in the music. This is a rock record, but every track has a flavour of its own.

It may not be the best in its class, but Toxicity still has a charm to it. The record is a worthwhile listen for turn of the century flavour metal.

Midnight Marauders’ tracklist is an exhibition of seemingly boundless creativity, each track distinct, original, and memorable.

An audacious project, FM! sounds like a cartoonish snippet of overblown California radio, with all the pomp and sunshine and shadow that entails.

Honey delights in a downtempo sensuality. It finds voice in not being larger than life, delving instead into the deeply personal.

For every moment of serenity there's a feeling of incompleteness, and the result is an album that's sadly unmemorable.

The whole record has an easiness of manner, content to be the sonic backdrop for a wanderer with no particular destination in mind.

QOTSA’s debut serves as a glimpse into their career as princesses, before being made queens. There's always time for good ol’ sleazy rock’n’roll.

Noisy and arty, the album remains a kind of anti-epic; 70 minutes of exploratory rock with a flagrant disregard for pacing or commercial viability.

Instrumentals strike upon funky-yet-claustrophobic grooves, awaiting Barrow’s vocals to emerge from the mire. It’s a weird but often wonderful formula.

A constant stream of static with blunt edges, and the glitches are rarely more than a few moments apart, but it doesn’t come off as overbearing.

This is the first Spiritualized album in six years, so it's bizarre to hear something that sounds like the product of artistic saturation.

Joy as an Act of Resistance is refreshingly sincere and positive in a time where artists are finding it easy to sensationalise and despair.

Foals leaned into their restless, agitated, math-rock roots and carved out a niche in the mainstream indie rock of the time.

From its ludicrous track names to its filter-free kitchen sink instrumentation, *Smote Reverser* is an hour-long marathon of pretentiousness and tedium.

It has its lulls, but when Straight Outta Compton blows hot it feels unstoppable. N.W.A modelled a spirit of expression impossible to ignore.

That Bush could create something so deliriously weird and wild yet also break through to the mainstream world is great proof of her powers.

Psyence Fiction attempts to be the sonic equivalent of the visual cinema experience — a lofty ambition, but UNKLE give it a bloody good go.

The record stagnates into a smooth R&B mood, though admittedly a rather lavish one. It’s frustrating to hear an album so content with being unrefined.

The sonic scenery is colourful and smoky, and the band sound like they’re having the time of their lives. It's loose, but it's endearing too.

Björk creates her own identity by combining contrasting into something entirely unique. This broke the mould of what it means to be a new, exciting artist.

Whether the Beasties are rapping or singing, an infectious adolescent vigour radiates throughout. 20 years on and that energy has rarely been replicated.

This is most downright exciting NIN album in quite some time. This is a grubby, disheveled, and damaged album composed, produced, and arranged as such.

Production is where SOPHIE shines. Whilst there is a plethora of interesting ideas here, there’s also a notable absence of creativity in actual song writing.

Pulp nail the pop/rock formula to near perfection. The themes aren’t necessarily cheerful, yet the album sounds like a celebration from beginning to end.

Nothing feels heavy-handed or crass. OPN purposefully avoids the tired tropes of electronic music, which always results in at least a degree of fascination.

There’s no pretence. Here stands an honest-to-god ‘Murican wailing about everything from young love to the plight of the working classes; take it or leave it.

There's nothing mind-blowing here and no pretence that there should be. A solid, albeit unassuming, indie rock record that makes for an enjoyable listen.

Hushed, husky Turner monologues drift over sophisticated arrangements with retro sheens. The album basks in the seedy buzz of a make-believe underworld.

Singularity is ultimately a record to admire rather than cherish, but there’s enough scope here for it to become a favourite for electronic listeners.

As enjoyable, sometimes euphoric, as Dirty Computer is, it’s far from perfect. Some of the trap-tinged beats will likely sound redundant in a few years.

Inconsistent, but there's a lot to dig. The songwriting is hard to knock, and Damon Albarn leads the pack well with his social satires and cutting commentary.

The album is constantly evolving. The rare moments of tranquility take your breath away; they feel important and momentous due to the vast textural contrast.

Mr. E’s found fresh form. Only he could write something like “Sweet Scorched Earth”, which is the closest we’ve come to an Eels ‘classic’ in quite some time.

Air combined chillout aesthetic with downtempo percussion, adding the pop element that made them such a success. Pleasant, familiar, and often absorbing.

Van Houten’s first and only studio album is flawed, for sure, but also profoundly personal. After 20+ years of mockery its reputation seems a tad unwarranted.

Those looking for the muscle of The White Stripes should just listen to The White Stripes. Jack White’s output here is chillier, more demanding... stranger.

Neither immersive nor memorable. Any time the group stumbles onto a passable bass line or melody they run it into the ground in a slow-motion indie panic.

The record isn’t a masterclass, but there are still enough dashes of genius and genuine fun to make it one of the strongest releases of the year.

While the riffs and breakdowns are charging, raucous, and spine-tingling, the range of influences can often be distracting. There's no clear vision.

Each player is a master of their craft, yet not one of them flaunts their talent. Kind of Blue plays out like a beautiful alien language.

This is a compact, highly rewarding record; 30 minutes of mesmerising electronica that is both pleasingly disorientating and emotionally stirring.

MGMT plod along with all the charisma of a mumbler with a weak chin, and it’s not as if the mix is lush enough to distract from the absence of drive or direction.

There’s a lot to be said for the album’s quirks, but when all is said and done, This Nation’s Saving Grace is in fact a great album in its own right.

Freedom’s Goblin is a victim of its own ambition, and of Segall’s protean talent. A lot of ground is covered, but the album’s identity never quite clicks into place.

Artists can and should explore different plains, but Ruins sounds safe rather than bold. It sounds like Americana recorded in an air-conditioned studio.

Tapping into the bohemian sensibilities of the era, Led Zeppelin feel like a sonic equivalent of the Beats in their indifference to the status quo.

The Marshall Mathers LP is Eminem’s finest accomplishment, but it’s too maniacal to be a masterpiece. It succeeds mostly as a surreal expansion of his debut.

The record is scattered with gorgeous moments that ultimately feel like a tease. Utopia occasionally grips its claws in, only to let go seconds later.

The delicate craft of Wiesenfeld’s earlier work is mostly gone, and the instrumentals are instead excitable, fidgety, and erratic. It's quite the sensory overload.

Murphy's not merely indulging his influences or recreating the past here. He delves into the past to forge a new, heady, indelible blend of electronica and rock.

Dylan sings and we listen, the instrumentation hanging on his every word along with the rest of us. The album is an expressive, beautiful, and timeless classic.

There’s a mindlessness to the instrumentation, lyricism, and vocals that is devoid of surprises. The 32-minute runtime blasts by as a blur of repetitive noise.

You’d expect huge, theatrical arrangements topped with sizzling guitar solos, but this wasn’t to be. Most of the songs on News of the World are weirdly tame.

An ambitious, splintered record. Glammy schizoid pop rubs shoulders with tightly wound, rather despairing cud chewing, but the two styles never truly mesh.

You should come out of a Marilyn Manson record wanting your stomach pumped. The softcore offerings of Heaven Upside Down prompt hand washing at best.

Visions of a Life is a triumph of contemporary British rock. The riffs roar and the melodies soar, with the band playing beautifully to Ellie Rowsell’s strengths.

Luciferian Towers’ rolls through sonic aesthetics lifted from Scottish Highlands and the streets of dusty towns in the Old West, inviting listeners to fill in the gaps.

An overwhelming, but vastly enjoyable experience — the essential Verve record. Richard Ashcroft set out to make history, and with Urban Hymns he did so.

Deerhoof cram dozens of ideas into a 40-minute album, which is not only technically impressive, but thoroughly amusing. This is a defiant and joyous listen.

As is probably appropriate, Every Country’s Sun listens like an immense post-rock mass of warmth, light, and/or incineration. Who could say no to that?

Mark Ronson’s production is pristine, which while technically impressive feels inappropriate. The music sounds kitschy, like a gigantic quiff’s greatest hits.

There are moments of glory all over the release but they don't hang around long. As time wears on it seems there is more to forget than there is to remember.

Almost fully instrumental, the post-rock arrangements twang and moan through a sumptuous range of soundscapes, sounding as fresh as they do apocalyptic.

It took Michael Jackson five years to follow up the greatest selling album of all time, and despite showing signs of age, Bad gave it a damn good go.

It’s hard to believe everyone involved in Everything Now was on the same page. The music seldom seems comfortable in its own skin, and for good reason.

The album’s craft is a pleasure to experience, luring one's attention rather than commanding it. Listens through have the sensory, slow-motion quality of a dream.

There is a remarkable confidence to the record that you wouldn’t usually expect from a debut, which is a testament to Costello’s immense musical capabilities.

An album of inoffensive and enjoyable pop music. With strong instrumentals that step above the norm, the shiny production is actually surplus to requirements.

What The Fat of the Land lacks in diversity, it makes up for in consistency: pulsating basslines and thrilling beats, delivered with trademark Prodigy grit.

American hip-hop melded with house, techno, trap, and UK garage is an interesting approach, but as an artistic expression it’s frustratingly restrained.

There isn't much substance here. The album gives a far clearer impression of who Royal Blood want to sound like than it does what their actual vibe is.

Rock and roll delivered with swagger is such a buzz, and that’s the game on Definitely Maybe. It's relentless, unstoppable, and totally mad fer it.

Relaxer falls together for spells, sometimes very well, but for the most part the music sounds drunk. The general impression it leaves is inelegant and sloppy.

Doolittle balances boisterous oddness with sweet and sugary pop tunes, making it not only Pixies' most intriguing record, but also the most accessible.

Superunknown is a sprawling record, spanning grunge, alternative metal, stoner rock, and psychedelia, all while being one of the '90s most accessible works.

Music for Airports comprises of calming tones that induce sedation and tranquillity. Listeners are invited to float among soft, fluffy ambient clouds.

Growling beats, echoing synths, and dark use of space lend themselves well to El-P and Killer Mike’s delivery: severe, angry, and macho, yet also great fun.

The album’s songwriting is fairly subpar, trying to say everything at once. Humanz is by no means a terrible album, but it’s definitely a disappointing one.

Because of the Times is laudable record with a plethora of well written tracks, but it sits there with a mediocre comfortability, and does little to push or challenge.

Kendrick explores a multitude of personal predicaments, but it's difficult to stay focused on what the record is actually trying to convey. It feels incomplete.

Music written by a composer of Ellis Ludwig-Leone's class should never feel formulaic, but it does. It makes for a mildly enjoyable, yet rather hollow experience.

Cobain, Grohl, and Novoselic had an elemental chemistry, and their controlled, aggressive introspection on In Utero lends itself to a heavy meditative state.

Songs regularly start with promising grooves then go nowhere. Rhythmic repetition attempts to disguise a very obvious lack of development in ideas.

The jams are drawn out in a ceremonious manner, with hooks piled on top of other hooks; each chorus repeated enough for it to become a sing-along.

In today’s climate of formulaic acts dominating the charts, Laura Marling continues to resist that temptation and further perfect her craft as a songwriter.

Some artists have a hard time returning after a lengthy hiatus, but Grandaddy has done it with aplomb. Last Place is all you could want from a comeback.

Thundercat doesn’t want to exhaust an idea, getting in and out of a song as soon as possible, but that doesn't keep the album from being exhausting.

Riffs in giant proportions, subtleties hidden between the pedal switches, and Turner’s Sheffield charm in spades. Possibly Arctic Monkey's finest album.

There are a handful of stellar pop tracks, and a mammoth mid-album climax that will go down as one of the group's finest moments. A lovely indie-pop record.

Little Fictions is the sound of contentedness. It’s pleasant, it’s gentle, it’s unassuming... sometimes it even threatens to be gorgeous, yet it's barely there at all.

Homogenic is a stunning work. Björk often defies categorisation, but her third studio album has a coherence that’s often missing from her other records.

The album boasts a lush, colourful sound, drawing from elements of funk and soul to create an impressively modern vibe. It's just a shame it's so cartoonish.

The record warrants a listen for the highlights alone. The problems, such as they are, stem from the country vein of the album. It borders on twee at times.

It lives and breathes like a reincarnation of disco. The melodies are infectious, the bass lines are vibrant, and the drums are wonderfully expressive.

The record certainly has that classic Tribe vibe, but it lacks the key finishing touches for it to be favourably compared to the material of the early ’90s.

A staple of the psychedelic folk-rock genre, feeling as fresh and vibrant now as it did in 1967. It sounds like a wonderful montage of the ’60s.

The album functions best as a fantastical journey of curious thoughts and emotions. It’s clumsy, yet very loveable, and there’s nothing else quite like it.

Precious little of what makes Gaga special is on show in Joanne. Outrageous, infuriatingly catchy pop anthems are nowhere to be seen; just pedestrian ones.

Furious metal rackets trade blows with soft, elegant jazz fusion and string arrangements, and the whole exchange is gorgeous and horrible at the same time.

An extremely smooth ride with no turbulence or unnecessary distractions, full to the brim with colourful instrumentals and warm, comforting Solange vocals.

22, A Million feels like a nondescript blur. It doesn’t deal in structure, but in loose clusters of peculiar sounds and imperceptible words. It’s a pretentious mess.

It’s an intensely focused musical space, guided by a vocal delivery that seems simultaneously lethargic and passionate. Post-punk is rarely more unsettling.

Tension lingers in every song. The record is defined by its desolate atmosphere, underlined by instrumentals featuring elements of ambient and drone music.

M.I.A.’s fifth and final album is an unfortunate affair. Comprised of lazy lyrics, half-arsed sampling, and grating production, AIM completely misses the mark.

Shifting smoothly from ’90s R&B to psychedelic funk, Channel Orange is a liberation that Frank Ocean experiences as an artist as well as a man.

Blond flirts with indulgence but just about manages to stay grounded. It’s an account of slight thoughts, vague ideas, and delicate musings.

True to its reggae roots, Based on a True Story's mood is consistently mellow, providing an ideal vibe for those warm summer evenings.

The record is a rich and gloriously grubby collage of sounds. It stands somewhere between Pixies and Nirvana, with an added injection of psychedelic rock.

Daisies of the Galaxy comes to terms with the torment that constructed the deeply bleak and reflective Electro-Shock Blues, and injects a taste of happiness.

Discovery is a classic dance albums despite its age and the progression we’ve seen in the genre since. Listening remains a pleasure, flaws and all.

The album is ice-cool summer groove music, with shimmering guitar stabs, slender double bass slides, and silky smooth vocal delivery aplenty.

Instinctive, messy, and rambling, with shimmers of the divine. Electric Ladyland speaks in a kind of rock and roll tongues, with Jimi Hendrix front and centre.

Wildflower brims with positive energy, and is a worthy, if lopsided follow-up to Since I Left You. The music is carefree, graceful, and extremely accessible.

This was 50 minutes of anti-climax. Interesting instrumentals are peppered throughout, but they mostly fail to evolve from the opening moments of each track.

Under the Midas wing of Brian Eno, Talking Heads juggle African genres with Western experimentation and innovative digital play.

The Glowing Man is a rewarding experience, if not always a pleasant one. It’s healthy for ears to be bombarded with music like this every now and then.

Illmatic has every element required that goes into making a great hip-hop record, with no gimmicks to intervene. It is, at its core, ten essential tracks.

Brimming with catchy vocal hooks and harmonious moments, Something Blue is a pleasant record, but its production leaves much to be desired.

To brand this a landmark of the '90s is a disservice to its quality. OK Computer is as relevant now as ever, both culturally and sonically.

A daunting experience that revels in its sorrow. Radiohead have produced better records, but never before has their desolation sounded so gorgeous.

For an album that clocks in well over the hour mark, it’s regrettably unambitious and even a little safe. This is effectively James Blake on autopilot.

An endearing record of mystery and wonder, deftly inheriting elements from a wide selection of genres that amalgamate to create a category of its own.

Without sacrificing the brutality fans have come to expect from Deftones, Gore strikes a delightful balance. Perhaps the band's most accessible record to date.

A capacious sequel that seems confused by its own message. It neither sinks nor soars, and fails to make any sort of impact as a result.

Formulaic songwriting; a complete absence of dynamics; a detachment in structure… these are tropes of dance music that will continue to frustrate.

Atomic can be exhausting, but in a manner that exhilarates rather than drains. There is plenty for Mogwai fans to love in this soundtrack.

The Eraser is a wonderful listen that comes with some baggage. If you’re able to handle its intensity, it’s actually a very beautiful record.

A solid Iggy Pop record, but with a lingering sense of disappointment that all the talent involved couldn’t create something more substantial.

This is pop music for the mature listener; easy to consume, enjoyable enough, but flimsy and a little watered down compared to Cocker's work with Pulp.

Comprised mostly of dabbles and snippets from the formative months of To Pimp a Butterfly, this album embraces its patchwork nature and in doing so manages to sound more complete than many ‘real’ records do.

Raw, deeply personal, and tremendously honest, this was rock & roll as Lennon had envisaged it. Sometimes it's gorgeous, others twitchy and uncomfortable.

Uneven, sporadic, and totally erratic; an unfinished version of a potentially great album. Enjoyment and frustration abound in equal measure.

Melding orchestral and jazz samples with beats that surge tracks forward, Dummy remains intriguing for the listener throughout. An iconic album.

While there’s little wrong with any of the cuts, the album in its entirety can feel a little half-baked. An extra push could have made this Williams' defining work.

Funeral is the beating heart of adolescence, a journey that voices the struggle of coming to terms with growing up. Beautifully intense and emotionally draining.

The vitality that makes Savages so appealing is too often replaced by a softer blend of turmoil that isn’t as rewarding, nor a progression in sound.

Weezer were unapologetically weird, yet strangely glamorous, which in itself brought a warming message; they showed us that it was cool to be uncool.

A portal into the world of remembrances that grief gives birth to... and the last word. Trust Bowie to turn dying into performance art.

Homme’s quip that rock 'should be heavy enough for the boys and sweet enough for the girls' rings true here; there’s a near perfect balance of grit and finesse.

Inoffensive and unspectacular pop fodder. People will listen to it on the radio and find it agreeable and vaguely evocative and then forget it ever existed.

It’s beautifully discreet, formed with an elegance that pushes it to the point of invisibility — blissful for some, but perhaps too despondent for others.

Twisting and turning and purposely blindsiding its listeners, Garden of Delete doesn’t stop evolving, often feeling like a stream of consciousness in musical form.

Capturing the middle ground between passion and precision, Annie Clark’s sound here can only be described as some sort of melodic computer malfunction.

A world both wonderful and despairing. Such dainty music will inevitably turn certain audiences away, which is a shame because, frankly, Divers is a triumph.

Strung together with downtempo drum beats, silky basslines, warming pads, and soulful vocals, it’s a very consumable album with little to jolt listeners' senses.

Impressive vocal performances and a hugely gratifying tribal rhythm section ensure *Sexwitch* makes for an enjoyable — if limited — experience.

A model misunderstood album; flawed, overdrawn, deserving of a good deal of its harsh reviews, and yet still host to a unique and worthwhile character.

A polished, lumbering beast of an album. Not so much concerned with peaks and troughs as with a steady, charismatic drone of all things Compton.

It isn’t a classic, it isn’t conventional, it’s oftentimes a bit daft, but the record does what it does terribly well. A loud and peppy splash of creativity.

For all the merits of Lianne La Havas’s thoroughly lovely and dynamic voice, the album ultimately comes across as lopsided and a little flat.

Bite-sized servings of vintage Bowie glam-rock combine with brooding instrumental soundscapes to make Low a truly special album.

A record that’s unabashed and vibrant and full of potential. Wolf Alice show glimpses of what's to come, straddling genres with almost childlike enthusiasm.

Peaks are matched by (very pleasant) plateaus. Exodus isn't so much a great album as it is a good album with a handful of iconic songs.

A model of casual listening. It bustles along quite happily, from section to section, from track to track, and then it's over and you don't regret having listened to it.

On The Beach is perfect for those late nights alone. Both mellow and despondent, the record features the purest of songwriting from a genuine artist.

The opening third is nothing to write home about, the middle section is terrific, and the last twenty minutes are ludicrous. Drones is the full Muse package.

There are few better highs than Muse in top gear. It’s breathless, explosive music; the kind that compels listeners to pick up an instrument or start a band.

Flowing beautifully from beginning to end, the album in its entirety can feel slightly taxing due to the bloated, overstuffed nature of the songwriting.

One of the most enjoyable pop albums of all time, an iconic work that will forever be used as an example for songwriting expertise.

A rather unbalanced comeback that relies too heavily on its somber tone, resulting in forgettable and lifeless songs that drift by in apathetic fashion.

A cartoonish odyssey bristling with creative energy. The whimsy of the band's debut album is replaced by a biting sombreness very much of the 21st century.

Squarepusher produces another solid album without pushing any boundaries. The beats are as intricate as ever, whilst the melodies keep their charm.

With a vast and powerful sound, here we experience U2 without the excruciating self-indulgence that turns listeners away from their more recent works.

A lot of The Power That B seems like it shouldn't work, and yet it does. It's a huge, crazy wall of sound, and that makes for an exhausting listen.

The catchy riffs and toe-tapping beats are there, but that's precisely the problem - stubborn in nature, with very little desire to change, they are just there.

If Good Kid, M.A.A.D City introduced Kendrick Lamar to the masses, To Pimp A Butterfly cements his place in the hip hop hall of fame. This is an instant classic.

Rain Dogs isn’t for everyone, but if you want to hear what the roots of an urban jungle sound like - in all their sad and messy madness - it’s well worth a listen.

Trent Reznor set a benchmark in the industrial rock genre whilst simultaneously providing a form of therapy for millions of angst-filled listeners.

The Dark Side of the Moon is one of those high-water marks of artistic expression. It’s just sublime. I don’t have a bad thing to say about it.

The songs are beautiful in ways only Ray Davies can achieve, but the album’s scattered feel keeps it from being more than the sum of its parts.

A magnificent journey, with tortured themes, fragile vocals, irresistibly groovy basslines, beautifully spacious production, and such a curious closer.

The Chemical Brothers’ second album is likely to please a number of electric tastes. It seldom rises above a good beat, but then it doesn’t need to.

Our first ever review. Reads like it too. In any case, the album can certainly boast a groove, but it lacks the edge of Pixies' best work.