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

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.

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

The end of the 2010s is upon us, which means we are bound by obscure 16th century law to rank our favourite albums of the decade.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

Dylan Seeger is a musician and designer living in New York, as is tradition. We talk Claye, the pressures of recording solo, and (sound) circumcision.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Looks like Oaysis have competition." André and Fred's first impressions of 'As You Were', the debut solo album by professional manc Liam Gallagher.

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.

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.

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

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.

“This is like a classy Disney tune” – André and Fred listen to Lorde

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.