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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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For years now the music of Trent Reznor has proved to be, yes, The Perfect Drug. Here lies my worst-to-best list of Nine Inch Nails studio albums.

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.

Channeling the sounds of Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, and more, Elliott Smith's words still cut deep, as darkly precious now as they've ever been.

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.

Be it anxious art-rock, spasmodic electronica, or jazz-tinged soundscapes, Thom & Co. have you covered. Here are Radiohead's albums ranked worst-to-best.

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.

Time might be up for 2-D and the gang. Without the music belonging to them they’re nothing but cardboard cutouts, and without them the music rings hollow.

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

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.

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

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Though there remains a sizeable fanbase, The Strokes don’t have many chances left to convince the rest of us they actually know what they’re doing.

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.

“Burn the Witch” is a fine song; a satisfying introduction to a new Radiohead era that will naturally leave fans wanting more.

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.

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.

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

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.

This is the first Radiohead track to drop in years, and it serves far more than its original (intended) purpose as a Bond song.

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.

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

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.