Glasgow four piece Errors are a band of precision - being on a label run by Mogwai, it's no surprise that their music has a similar ability to pull cold beauty from a tool - like discipline, fashioning smooth, sleek and slippery surfaces from rugged terrain. The album often drifts into a post-rock glaciality with a Warp-esque glitch like a more humane Squarepusher. It often resembles almost any album from 2003, and at its least successful it illuminates how far we have moved from the implied seriousness of five years ago into a much less consistent and more creatively free era. Here Errors can sound overtly studied, like four intelligent men working their way through a BA(Hons) in Structurally Complex Musical Ideas at the Battles University.

Album opener Dance Music sets the pace for what's to follow, blurring the line between a live and a studio-textured sound. A series of evolving motifs played with cold clarity, drums mutate between fixed live grooves and laptop spluttered electrical showers - while the guitars remain glassy and spidery.

There is a real depth of ideas to Errors music that feels like it is yet to free itself from an unnecessary adherent to musical disciplines. Definitely a 2.1 dissertation in Mathematical rock yet it would be great to hear these chaps a little after Graduation, nine months into menial jobs and a few heartbreaks later. Then, maybe we could hear a band managing to structure their inventive, texturally fascinating ideas into something more idiosyncratic, more individual and certainly more unfamiliar than their only standout track Pump - in all its echoes of a cut loose acid New Order strives for.

Blue Hands is the Welsh quintets follow up to Under the Crooked Moon and marks the departure point both in sound and inspiration. Showcasing an array of influences from just about every source, David Bowie, Neil Young, Kraftwerk and Edith Piaf are all apparently present, as is the Old Testament! Even Hollywood actress’ of the silent movie era are drawn upon. Orphans of The Storm tells the story of the silent actress Lillian Gish’s near death experience filming the movie of the same name.

But, there is something about this showcase of influences that doesn’t quite ring true and sounds more like PR spiel. Is citing the aforementioned Miss Gish and John the Baptist really evidence of ‘Hollywood Reporter meets the Old Testament’. In some instances, references seem to be thrown in for no particular reason, on King of England the serial killer Son of Sam is name checked right next to Fred Astaire.

At least, The Hot Puppies are not playing it safe and have tried to experiment, even if the results are not always successful. In the alleged Kraftwerk influenced, How To Choose a Wife synthesizers have indeed been used, but the end result is confused, and sounding in places like a programmed demo on a Casio keyboard. Again, on King of England it feels like the same Casio keyboard has been dragged out and just left to play. However, the experimenting does pay off on the seemingly two separate sounding songs that make up Secret Burial.

The most successful tracks appear where singer Becki Newman is allowed to showcase her yearning vocals without the addition of synthesizers. On Dear Brutus Newman is initially accompanied on pianos and it seems like The Hot Puppies have found their niche, but then the synthesizer comes in and competes for attention. Elsewhere, Newman’s voice soars on Somewhere, sizzles on Where the Werewolves Meet, and is powerfully heartbreaking on Blue Hands, the strongest track of the album. Other nice moments on the album are provided by the sing-a-long catchy chorus Disney would be proud of, on Clarinet Town and Orphans of the Storm showcasing the whispered subdued lead vocals of Luke Taylor.

With their burgeoning ability to straddle genres, The Hot Puppies could have music critics eating out of the palms of their hands. But, it seems they can’t decide whether they want to record ballad quality songs or live out all their synthesizer fantasies. So, The Hot Puppies have settled for doing it all and therefore suffer the consequences.

Sharp, observational lyrics and experimental timings have always been the strong point of Hot Club de Paris’ music, and it’s safe to say they haven’t changed the formula. Tracks vary from the slow paced ‘We Played Ourselves (Ain't Nobody Else's Fault)’, which has beautiful swaying guitar loops, to tracks like that are brasher, with gruff yells that give some of their songs sound like old sea shanties.

Their math rock style indie pop always seemed to be ever so slightly smarmy, but I think this new album has eradicated what i felt was their only minor fault. All of the comedic asides that were a major part of their last album have been limited, constrained and have therefore become a more effective aspect of their music. In fact I really enjoy the more heartfelt songs on the album like ‘Let Go Of Everything’ and ‘The Dice Just Wasn’t Loaded From The Start’. I don’t know whether this is a sign of the band maturing since the last album, but I think it’s a sign that anything they do in the future could be even better, and that they should be a band that will be around for quite a while yet.

The album doesn’t really differ too much from their first album ‘Drop It Till It Pops’, but this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Most bands who try and make their second album different fail abysmally and produce something that just dissapoints there fan base. So for once, i think their lack of innovation is commendable. Hot Club De Paris have a sound that you could pick out from a mile off anyway, they don’t need to experiment.

Varying from one side of your new wave record collection to the other, Carsick Cars fuse the polar opposites within art rock. Tracks set off with the presence and gusto of something set to be in your head all day, but as the guitars rise there is a sense of a liars-esque, strung out, Sonic Youth vibe that comes through very strongly. This escalates until the barrage of guitar feedback and vocals is so gripping you find yourself needing to crank it up just that ever-increasing notch.

I was introduced to them by Amelia, who discovered them during the production of issue 6 of the magazine. After first meeting them for an interview during her trip to Beijing they were again reunited at ATP festival earlier this year. To see them release their debut album, as well as play around the world, has therefore been quite a personal experience.

The undeniable stand out track on the album for me has to be ‘Zhong Nan Hai’. The rolling jangle of guitar and sporadic Theremin style interruptions sit perfectly alongside the fantastically dulcet repetition of ’Zhong Nah Hai’ to create a song that personifies this band. It also has a fantastic interlude of soundscape feedback that sends the listener into dismay, only to slowly be introduced back into some type of structure by the recurrence of the bass line.

Perhaps it was a little naïve of me to single that track out, as the entire album works best as an entire body of work. It’s quite difficult to listen to just one or two tracks, as they all seem to lead on from one another. They really do fly the flag for Singapore’s burgeoning music scene, and if I have to sum up this album I’d say it’s the most entertaining album I’ve heard since ‘Mirrored’ by Battles.

The member of Black Ghosts’ solo project Lord Skywave is steeped in biographical influences and sways into the worlds of pop, dub reggae and avant-garde electronica. Then again, when you look at Simon Lord’s musical career you can see why his solo project is such a multi-genre mish mash.

Perhaps the most heartwarming part of this album is his extensive use of his families musical past. He samples the music his grandmother used to make so many moons ago. After a summer of visiting his grandfather’s house and going through his collection of old reel-to-reel tape recordings and 78's, he had an entire archive of her fantastically composed sweep off-your-feet instrumentals to work with.

As well as this, all the electronic bass sounds on the album were produced using the Lord Skywave synthesizer which was built by Simon’s dad in the 70's, and only 10 were made. Which I find hard to believe with such a tantalizing name, surely there must have been more demand!

I'm a huge sucker for electro. I mean real breakdancing-on-lino-in-the-middle-of-Wood-Green-shopping-centre-in-1983-to-the-sounds-of-Hashim’s-Al-Naafiysh-style electro. So I was highly excited when the new album from Bumblebeez began with more horn stabs, computerised blasts and turntable scratches than all 10 volumes of the Streetsounds Electro compilations.

Bumblebeez are a brother-sister duo from Australia, Pia Colonna performing vocal duties, with brother Chris Colonna handling both vocals and spearheading production.

Confounding my immediate expectations the first proper track Black Dirt is a combination of lolloping indie hiphop beats with brother Colonna shouting through a distortion pedal about the dirt in his mind. In all honesty it’s pretty annoying. Big phat 808 sub-bass pulses layered under heavy kick drums is what I was expecting, and Clubb Clubb dutifully obliges on that front, Miami Bass beats and rousing synths storming along accompanied by perfectly able raps from Pia, The Sister of Ill. It is somewhat contrived, but certain to fill a drunken dancefloor.

I will say the album does work by being brightly multicoloured and altering music style track by track, however Colonna proves himself to be a slightly uninspired musical thief. There’s no interesting, off the wall styles being plundered, it’s all a bit safe, and while there’s nothing wrong with switching styles wildly throughout the album (the Beasties’ Ill Communication being a perfect comparison point), there is when it serves to destroy any sense of cohesion.

If I were being overly cynical, I’d say that some of the mini-tracks were included specifically to gain PRS revenue from television. In fact the lack of cohesion between tracks as a whole lends to this idea even more. Rather than evoking a childlike eclecticism, the changes in style make the album seem more like a catalogue of background music designed for advertising agencies marketing to Generation-Y. A bit of faux New-Wave here, a bit of P-Funk there, but overall there’s no genius production style to keep it all defined, to give it the identity for which it sorely begs.

There’s no doubt that it’s fun, and the more dancefloor based tracks such as the aforementioned Clubb Clubb, and the mid-tempo electronic groove of Rio (which successfully echoes Homework-era Daft Punk) really do work very well. Hopefully they’ll be released as singles and get even more effective remix treatments, as there’s plenty of energy here to be exploited by furtive producers.

There seems very little to engage, tracks sometimes seeming to have been specifically designed to accompany a visual medium. There are a few standout tracks that work very well, but they are lost in a morass of filler and sound effects. It’s not that it’s boring, but surely the idea of an album is to grab you by the ears and force you to listen from beginning to end. It does work on occasion, just not enough. There’s no reason why an album like this should attempt to be timeless, or even to represent the latest fashions in music; what it should do is provide enough interesting musical ideas to hook you to keep you involved for forty minutes or more – unfortunately I fear this lacks the qualities to allow it any kind of longevity.

This Parisian trio really are filthy. From clipped beat-driven opener Homecoming onwards, Reality Check is ridden with lewd lyrics and sordid sounds delivered in charming broken English and inspired by an impressive range of influences from Slayer, Nirvana, Weezer
and Dillinger Escape Plan to M83, Jacques Lu Cont, Madonna and Beverly Hills 90210.

This striking first track sets The Teenagers’ impish intentions out perfectly as it paints a humorous picture of an adolescent holiday fling. Like a synth-tinged, mischievous take on Grease’s Summer Nights, the male vocal boasts about “fu*king American c*nt” while the naïve cheerleader in question swoons over her English romance. The band then turn their attentions to seducing someone new as breathy electro pop offering French Kiss finds them in a girl’s bedroom watching Dirty Dancing and offering a “French kiss on your soft lips”.

But this impeccably dressed, easy on the eye bunch are not just here to brag about past conquests and have their wicked way with the ladies; they mix alcohol-soaked anecdotes that would make your elders blush with witty cultural references, tell tales of violence on the streets of their hometown, address everyday teenage issues and bare their souls post-break-up. During string-tinged breezy ballad Wheel Of Fortune, for example, they ask what their lives would be like if they’d been popular at school and whether they would dance in the same way if they’d never seen Michael Jackson, Sunset Beach - their account of being dumped after a one night stand – finds them seething the refrain “this fu*king bitch deserves to die”, End Of The Road is a Cure-esque epic about the end of a love affair and Fuck Nicole was written about a Myspace encounter in the midst of a late night vodka session.

The subject matter on display throughout Reality Check is clever, sexy, romantic and utterly of its time, as is the music which soars and simmers, combining breezy harmonies with blissful, instantly catchy melodies, scratchy riffs and pulsing basslines. It is a glorious triumph of a debut, crammed full of youthful oomph and oodles of ideas and originality that utterly justifies the hype about this band. The Teenagers’ lusty effort also makes many of their British counterparts sound lifeless and stale, but then we shouldn’t really be so surprised - French boys have always been more exciting…

Bragg's contentious mix of pop and politics has endured for a quarter of a century now but this is his first release proper in 5 years. It follows 2006's Hope Not Hate Campaign which was aimed at raising the awareness of a notoriously apathetic UK electorate to the genuine threat of the British National Party in the impending local elections. When the BNP won a number of seats on Bragg's local council in Barking, Essex the same year it seemed that his campaign had fallen upon deaf ears somewhat. Ever the stalwart though, Bragg tirelessly soldiers on - this time aided by the astute backing of The Blokes. His usual one man band approach shelved in favour of what is a more polished, if inconsistent affair.

Bragg has always been more interesting when he is singing about love and loss, as opposed to peddling his political ideals. This is not to say that his ideologies are without worth – far from it- but they tend to often come across clichéd and trite when consigned to the rigid structural constraints of song lyrics. On Mr Love and Justice the old qualities still shine through, and it would be fair to say this is Bragg’s most complete solo work in years. Promise indeed, then but it’s not great by any means.

The immediacy of opener I Keep Faith provides a welcome opening. It’s whimsical, soulful tones soon make perfect sense of the tailored production Bragg has opted for. What is also strikingly apparent is that Bragg’s voice has barely altered at all throughout his career. Here is it supplemented perfectly by Robert Wyatt’s starry eyed whisperings on a track that has a certain addictive quality.

The Blokes do a great job in keeping things uncomplicated whilst maintaing enough of a presence so as not to become an afterthought . The Morrissey-esque I Almost Killed You which is driven by harmonica, handclaps, layered acoustics and muted woodwind- with the odd burst of anthemic guitar- typifies their approach. Elsewhere the bluster of Something Happened demonstrates an essential versatility. The solo Billy comes to the fore on the genuine If You Ever Leave and there is a nice little ditty in You Make Me Brave.

There are a couple of clunkers and the aforementioned trite political driven numbers are present again in the form of troop withdrawal from Iraq (Sing Their Souls Back Home) and an ‘extraordinary rendition’ (O’ Freedom). But there is a lot here to hold the interest, and so on this evidence, it’s good to have Mr Love and Justice himself back.

Not as impressive as their first output, not as depressive as their comeback, their third album manages to have some really solid hits while they explore their own roots and bring the angular guitars back. Unfortunately, the excessive number of fillers making the experience less pleasant than it should be. You can’t blame them for trying. Their new songs see them trying to sound like their old selves – back when they had enough dancefloor anthems to make Franz Ferdinand jealous, and a major behind after them. After being dropped by their label because of News And Tributes, the second album which lacked the material which made them interesting in the first place, they had no option but to go back and give us their best impression of The Jam playing punk versions of Beach Boys songs. In The Beginning of the Twist, Radio Heart and Broke Up the Time they show that they still have what it takes to create shiny pop-dance songs. So what am I forgetting to mention? Oh, yes, the bad songs on the album. The ones that sound like a pastiche of themselves; soulless use of guitar and drums (as well as their accent - which we all liked) making me wonder where the energetic, meaningful two minutes of punk madness went. It could’ve been their chance to make it via their self made label, but regrettably This is Not the World could only be a good if it was an EP.

With such dry, ironic observations as 'home is where the house is', Superabundance introduces itself as a melodious continuation of the faux-geek, insightful pop-rock that first emerged in Voices of Animals and Men, but proceeds to take us on a spiralling journey into the dark depths of the Young Knives' psyche. In Terra Firma, we are confronted with the beginnings of the climactic incantations that slowly envelop us in a humming and howling hypnosis in Current of the River, which follows a sombre, medieval chant in the delightfully foreboding, pagan harmonies of Mummy Light the Fire. I don't like to compare bands, but I found some of their wistful, nautical narratives redolent of the Decemberists' historical fictions.

While the insinuations of suicide in Counters left me feeling tempted to phone the three band members to see that they were alright, Rue the Days has a positively nonchalant nineties feel and Flies, a gentle meditation on the natural world, seems to encapsulate a recurring fascination with human-animal relationships; a little idiosyncratic perhaps, but I get the feeling this album is somewhat an eruption of the Young Knives' musical multiple personality.

I listened to every word of the album, and realised it was poetry; a super abundance of philosophical metaphors immersed in a synthesis of unexpected genres, undulating from pensive, orchestral flickers to thick, satisfying explosions of bass, good old enthusiastic shouting and some of the catchiest hooks around. It may leave you weeping, but it may just as well have you running out the house in your dancing shoes.

Photograph by Jason Nocito

Thrilling things happen when oddballs get their hands on dance music, and Hercules And Love Affair are the perfect latest example of that. These five colourful characters currently breathing new life into disco are an NYC-based collective comprising of Hawaiian-born jewellery designer/DJ Kim Ann Foxman, Amazonian CocoRosie and Debbie Harry collaborator Nomi, gay B-boy dancer Shayne, Miss Piggy-loving ex-waiter Andrew Butler and new rave hoodie-donning keyboardist Morgan. And then there’s Antony Hegarty of course, he of the Johnsons fame, and it is his beautifully crooning vocals combined with the pulsing rhythms, incessant bassline and playful horns of Blind that has worked both dancefloor enthusiasts and bloggers into a frenzy since it leaked onto the internet late last year.

The outfit’s self-titled debut is littered with more of his famously melancholic performances over shimmering beat-driven efforts, but do this eccentric bunch have the talent and songwriting capabilities to sustain an entire album? The answer is yes - by the bucketload. Hercules And Love Affair slinks delicately into action with dark and sultry opener Time Will as Hegarty pleads “I cannot be half a wife” repeatedly over finger clicks and minimal backing before segueing nicely into Hercules Theme; a more upbeat affair driven by sweeping strings, soft female vocals and discordant brass snatches. This track along with the light and breezy sway of Athene, Iris’ stripped down stomp and the headspin-inducing walking bassline and scat singing of closer True False/Fake Real prove that Butler and co. can shine magnificently even when they don’t play the Antony trump card. One trick ponies this lot certainly are not.

Blind, of course, is sumptuous, sounding more and more like a classic with every listen, but it is cushioned by album tracks that each stand up admirably alongside it, and which reference everything from Chicago house to punk funk, techno and disco simultaneously through the irresistible ice cold veneer conjured up by killer production duo main-man Butler and DFA’s Tim Goldsworthy. In fact, Hercules And Love Affair is the perfect example of an epic work so cleverly constructed that its wide-ranging influences seep out subtly instead of bombarding the listener. Heartbreaking and dramatic yet utterly danceable, it boasts intelligence, heart and soul and features musical prowess that will stop you dead in your tracks. Prepare for this to soundtrack your life for months to come.

With the current proliferation of animal-loving musicians playing with tambourines and haunting harmonies, it is interesting to see that The Ruby Suns are experimenting with their musical menagerie Sea Lion; they have bravely avoided finding a sound that 'works' and sticking safely to it, taking a wildly different approach to each track. Blue Penguin, There Are Birds, Morning Sun - what was that I said about a revival of Romanticism? The increasing emergence of animalia and flora in song lyrics is enough to convince me that today's bands have been having words with the late William Wordsworth. To solidify my argument, Morning Sun consists almost solely of the lyrics; 'When I wake up, I get the morning sun', sung in such a high-pitched repetition of solar-worship it almost had me falling sideways off my chair in a brainwashed, slumbering heap.

In the flip of a sea lion's tail, the album oscillates between eighties electronic drum machines, latino guitar flicking and melancholic cult wailings, which may leave you asking, 'Quoi?'

But each track is a singular gem, luminous and curious; the ecclesiastical It's Mwangi In Front Of Me, which summons up images of smoking church candles and, towards the end, the ever-decreasing hallways of Alice's rabbit hole (you'll know what I mean when you hear it), precedes the wistful, dreamlike vocals interspersed with gentle wind-instrumental spates and apostolic chanting of Remember. Curiouser and curiouser.

Probably THE most illegal album ever, Pittsburgh-based cut and paste mash-up DJ Gregg Gillis puts the oo in booty shaker.

Sampling from the likes of big guns P Diddy, Kanye West, Busta Rhymes, Ludacris, Missy Misdemeanour and 50 ‘I would f* myself if I could’ cent, to name but a few, Gillis throws together every genre under the sun to create a truly pulsating head-banger of a record.

Night Ripper essentially favours old-skool hip-hop beats and lyrics, which are remixed with the most unlikely of partners. In homage to Jay Z’s unusual, but highly praised collaboration with Linkin Park some years back, this album blurs the division between very separate genres on our musically charged planet. The suspects which threw me most were a sudden appearance of emo-led Phantom Planet, a bit of Britney pop we all know and love, and believe it or not, some Spandau Ballet, as well as a little sing-along Oasis. Punjabi MC relives a few seconds of fame and lucky us, we also get to see the return of the Mack somewhere amongst the intelligent mess. A little birdie has told me that all in all 164 artists are included in just forty minutes of sampledellic heaven. The catch is that you now have to find these little gems - good luck.

It is impossible to identify the amount of thieving this album has consummated as every track delivers about five seconds - if you’re lucky - of one snip-it, and then flips over to something utterly different before you’ve even comprehended what the track sounded like those few seconds ago. Each second, no, millisecond, offers something fresh and so clean, clean, and jerks around like the bum which WILL automatically bounce up and down once you put this album on, even if you would rather it not. Remix albums are not uncommon in this day and age, but Gregg has perfected the art of piecing together a thumpin’ great, illegitimate compilation every shindig needs. I for one am addicted; it’s every ravenous music fan’s dream. So what if it’s not legit? It’s always more exciting that way. POW!

Racine 2 is the ingeniously named second album by Racine, an Anglo-American band fronted by Brit Wendy James. It is hard to define Racine’s sound; the album is a Juxtaposition of rock and a fair amount of roll, pop, punk, electro and occasionally indie. Wendy’s vocals are pretty diverse too- she’s a rock babe, a French lady, a pop star, a loose-lipped lyricist and also just a really talented singer. Sometimes these vocals are irritating, yet at other times I found Wendy’s vocal range enjoyable. A particularly enjoyable track is Bobby’s going electric in which she talks the lyrics so quickly they roll off her tongue in indefinable words.

If Racine 2 was to be categorized we could probably label it as pop-rock. It’s occasional hard rock and roll electrics are balanced out by Wendy’s pop influence that she’s bought from her days in 80’s band Transvision Vamp. Actually, we will label this as ‘bitch-rock’! This album is packed with girl-power, including lyrics such as “come on speak your peace you double crossing chimpanzee, come on start swinging and I’ll crush you like a wormy apple”. Wendy’s lyrics seem to be highly involved with her 42 years of personal love life dilemmas and problems with men (or chimpanzees- whatever floats your boat love) which, call me bitter, I find really exasperating and boring. At least she’s bitching about men, throwing around more F words than Gordon Ramsey, rather than applauding them, that is always good!

This album is sexy (notably track three, again cleverly named Racine in which Wendy goes all French on us). Oh a perfect Valentines pressie to go with your stomach turning Hallmark cards! My favourite track Bobby’s going electric would be an interesting soundtrack to your Valentines evening. “Swing that ass and I’m on my way” which is repeated several times over became personally a little risky during standing moments on public transport, where there was always a fear of spontaneous, uncontrollable ass swinging! This is a great upbeat song but there are many skip-able ones within the album, particularly the slower ones.

Racine 2 concludes on the good note of Bitter Funny- a song about a whorehouse or drugs or something, with the hard-hitting intro “Hey numbnuts you forgot something, I got my pot, my pills and my pussy god damn it”! This is a great song, but I don’t think this album is great. Some of Racine 2 will be lucky enough to be salvaged from my itunes trash and live a life on my ipod, only some however, and who knows maybe I’ll be keen to force myself to grow to like some of Racine 3…

Using the most sweeping of musical stereotypes, musicians can be divided into two camps. The first group of artists use albums as points on a map documenting their journey through music. Radiohead have never made an album with any distinct reference to the one before it apart from Thom Yorke’s whining baritone. The second group meanwhile pour everything into creating a first album, then spend the rest of a five album record deal trying to emulate the success of the first (see The Black Keys). The Figurines, before their release of When The Deer Wore Blue (WTDWB), fell into the latter category. But thankfully, their latest LP sees the Danish quintet turn their back on the frenetic, three-chord indie pop seen on previous albums Skeleton and Shake A Mountain in favour of something more accomplished and varied.

Taken from a lyric on album track Good Old Friends, WTDWB has been packed with a whole host of different styles – garage psychedelia, pastoral blues, blues rock – almost as an apology for churning out so many songs that sound the same.

But don’t be fooled into thinking they’ve completely gutted what they originally sounded like. Christian Hjelm’s reedy vocals are still very much the focal point of the songs. But instead of compensating for the lack of imagination from lead guitarist Claus Johansen, Hjelm’s yelping is enhanced by more complex, and takes-more-than-one-listen-to-like sounds. Which is no bad thing. The sound is more mature, rounded, and dare I say it, grown up.

OK, these criticisms are aimed squarely at what came before. In isolation, the album has the ability to captivate in places and please in others. The harmony led The Air We Breath and The Shins-esque Hey, Girl are a case in point. Some see the Figurines as a bad attempt at sounding like Built to Spill and Modest Mouse. But WTDWB doesn’t have anywhere near the same sense of self-importance or indulgence. Instead, this album is an honest attempt from a band moving through a period of transition. But without the lofty label of being ‘experimental.’

Comic Strip visuals by multi-talented Jeffrey Lewis and words by John Darnielle

The Mountain Goats are essentially all about one man. John Darnielle's meandering and often intriguing changes in direction on the lead up to this, the fifth release proper for the Goats have resulted in the emergence of a minor cult following for the US three piece. A following that have been on board for the entitrely fictional low fi rumblings of debut offering Tallahassee, endured the naked narratives of 2005's The Sunset Tree – which offered the personals of an abusive relationship with a stepfather and struggled through the bleak failures that characterised Get Lonely in 2006. Long term sufferers will then take some comfort from the fact that on Heretic Pride Darnielle has retreated back into his own peculiar mythical world and carved an album of largely fictional based offerings, which, thankfully, for the most part, provide some respite from the uber-morose tones of previous offerings. A start at least.

Sound wise, things are still sparse however. Most songs are based around a simple acoustic rhythym backing Darnielle's vocal, which is politely described as coarse. Or possibly Billy Corgan without charisma. Even a poor man's Mark Greaney (JJ72). Put simply, it's an acquired taste. I am yet to acquire said taste, and these vocal frailties are emphasised throughout the record by a half baked sound, that is extremely unattractive. Things are rescued somewhat by some wholesome melodies, but these are hardly in abundance. Key moments arrive when there is a genuine effort at expansion. Take San Bernardino for example. From the outset there are bongo's, cello's, sweeping strings – they all work perfectly and go to show what might have been had these tactics been employed elsewhere. They also serve to present Darnielle's vocal in a more soulful light, the sandpaper tones seemingly dispensed with. If only these moments could have been more frequent.

The moronic tones of So Desperate, which sits smack bang halfway through the record, proves to be the rut from which the record can't quite escape from. We get by the number rockers (Lovecraft In Brooklyn) and a host of silly titles such as How to embrace a Swamp Creature (!!) or Marduk T-shirt Men's Room Incident which only serve to diminish credibility further.

Heretic Pride is a strange, ill-conceived record, and it's weaknesses are emphasised all too easily by the rare instances when Darnielle dares to be bold and offer the listener the complete package. These instances however are all too rare indeed.

Paris-based record label Kitsuné are releasing the fifth in their series of compilations, promoting the work of such prodigies of electro MIA, Autokratz and Alan Braxe. The Parisian music scene is pretty wonderful at the moment, and, as you may have noticed from the way I can't resist slipping in a bit of vocabulaire Francais in every review, I have a deep affection for it. So you may think I'm biased when I say that this compilation is GREAT. But it is.

Big Face, described by the label as 'some nutters from Glasgow', Cazals and my old friends Does It Offend You, Yeah? all grace us with their musical presence, and the princes and princesses of cutesy keyboards CSS themselves get in there with a remix of Bitchee Bitchee Ya Ya Ya's Fuck Friend. I wasn't particularly enamoured with the Silverlink vs Kicks Like A Mule remix of MIA's XR2, but perhaps that's just because I like the original so much that I felt it didn't need manipulating. And this is the only - very minor - disappointment of Kitsune Maison Five to my ears. The Teenagers are inevitably heading skywards this year, as are our very own Nottingham-based Late Of The Pier, and their second single, Broken, is brought to the fore with Fairy Lights' fantastic remix of Earl Samuel Dust's charmingly vivacious vocals. Alan Braxe, co-creator of the now decade-old Music Sounds Better With You (remember that one?) also contributes a delectable track; in my opinion, his departure from Stardust has done nothing but good, and Addicted truly lives up to its name - it cannot be played only once. A thumping, adrenaline-fuelled beat ascends into a climactic eruption of zombie-like strobes of sound. Indeed, with regards to his former musical collaborators, the music really sounds better without you. Autokratz present a morsel of hearty rave goodness in Pardon Garcon; it isn't a new sound, but it's as hard, dark and satisfying as a bar of Bournville. Expect an album imminently.

The compilation has a spontaneous but natural development to it - it's not just an array of random electro thrown haphazardly together. Creativity and consideration has evidently been imbued in this nocturnal dream of dance music, and French consideration at that. Oh, monsieur!

Some poor saps believe that this country's most talented singer/songwriters are best exemplified by dullards like Newton Faulkner, KT Tunstall and James Blunt. But if anyone can save their souls it’s School Of Language. This glorious first release from ex-Field Music man David Brewis proves that you can be inventive with a much-pillaged genre, while keeping each melody completely singable.

A glittering example of what laptop recording can create, Sea From Shore starts as it ends, book-ended by two completely identical songs titled Rockist Part 1 and Rockist Part 4, with parts 2 and 3 sandwiched neatly in between. A series of daydreams on words, their meanings and the decisions which follow from them, these offerings are as compelling musically as they are lyrically - driven by woozy guitars, clattering rhythms, fuzzy basslines and a loop of incessant nonsensical vocals which sneak their way into your subconscious from first listen, while simultaneously giving the record an incredibly satisfying symmetry.

It’s an eccentric concept, but one that proves an undeniable highlight, along with such other stand-out tracks as the gorgeously squalling Disappointment ’99, which includes appearances from Brewis’ hometown pals Barry Hyde and David Craig of The Futureheads on vocals. The soaring psychedelic squelch-pop of Poor Boy and the infectious Marine Life are also hugely impressive, as is scratchy riff-tinged and time-change-ridden ballad Extended Holiday, which features an additional performance by Craig alongside former Kenickie/Rosita star Marie Nixon and friend Sarah McKeown.

Although it would seem that Brewis’ old collaborative approach to album-making is a hard habit to kick, his full-time band days seem to be behind him for the foreseeable future: in April 2007, Field Music announced that they were heading into hibernation to help the three core members, individually and collectively, ‘get creative and produce more and better music’. And while this decision disappointed both a large number of devoted fans and excited critics who had tipped the trio for greatness, it has worked out wonderfully for Brewis whose new project hints at the warm, catchy and quirky efforts of his former incarnation, while showcasing a strong desire to push himself and innovate both sonically and lyrically.

If you haven’t yet had the pleasure of sampling any of this chap’s creations then you’d better start playing catch-up, as Sea From Shore heralds the latest twist in what promises to be a long and compelling career.

Call me a pessimist, but the world as it is today seems to be fuelled with the need to grow up too quickly, and the value of youthful innocence is lost altogether faster then you could say "Fancy a fag?" to your 12-year old brother.

But low and behold there is a saviour - once you listen to the tracks of I Want You To Know There Is Always Hope by rising stars, I Was A Cub Scout, memories of old school never-should-be-talked-about-again naïve teenage crushes, impulse summer road trips to nowhere, and mooching around with your closest friends anywhere, because it didn’t matter where you were, only that your friends were with you, come flooding back again. This record takes you back to adolescent youth; days when it was perfectly acceptable to release the fickle rebellion inside because ‘you were going through that phase in life’, and when love (or lust, however you view it) could hurt. Bad.

The teenage (ish) duo made up of Todd Marriott, 18, and William Bowerman, 20, produce the kind of untarnished music, which makes you want to hug everyone in the room unashamedly. Todd’s voice oozes of heartache and emotion that evoke empathetic life experiences, and most importantly the music is, and feels real (unlike some of the more generic ‘bands’, which keep popping out from some sort of indie band pez dispenser). They re-coin the meaning of emo with their abstract but intellectual mixture of a little punk, a pinch of rock, extract of pop, and a generous smothering of indie.

Their first track of the album, Save Your Wishes, my personal favourite, sets up the mood of the entire album, commencing with an upbeat and captivating synth sequence combined with an equally up-tempo drumbeat, which allows the introduction of almost tear-inducing, (of the good variety) vocal chords, courtesy of Todd himself; young as he may sound, he doesn’t half know how to sing with his heart, which is hard to come by nowadays.

Then there is their forthcoming single Pink Squares, which also fails to disappoint; the juxtaposition of mellow synth lines with thrashing guitars and over-excited drumsticks sway to and fro states of tranquillity, and then back again; a parody of life that anyone can relate to.

Tracks in between manage to accumulate the best bits of an array of genres, from the indie-esque atmospheric keyboard lines in Echoes, to the reflective, and almost melancholic introduction of We Were Made To Love, which speedily picks up with a more playful, humorous pop beat. The closing track A Step Too Far Behind, is truly the delicious icing on this indulgent, feelgood cake of a record, ending with a glorious spectacle of Todd’s heartfelt vocals and Will’s pounding drums, guaranteed to hit the spot; I challenge anyone not to be moved by the last one and a half minutes of this track especially.

This album won’t knock your socks off, but could certainly well be the soundtrack to your life; after all, everyone has a little child inside them. And if it could put a smile on an often cynical, old before her time city girl, it could well save the hearts, and minds, of all the misguided alcohol swigging twelve year olds out there.

Having grown tired of the sort of vacuous, disposable music that has infiltrated our world in recent years, drowning out the quiet geniuses that modestly create wonders amongst them, I was pleasantly surprised to discover Junkboy's auditary universe of considered, positively unfashionable sounds.

With nature-derived titles such as There Is Light, Volcano Mono and Kano River, and the reverberating sound of crickets fading out the end of Tonight, Three evokes a stirring sensation of an imminent revival of nineteenth-century Romanticism, whilst slipping you softly into a lunar dream of skin-tingling dischords.

The sound of the sea, by which the Brighton-based band live, seeps lucidly into each and every track in a mesmerizing fusion of nature and technology, devoid of irony, sarcasm or the general post-modernist attitude that so many bands of this decade seem to operate around.

Tonight and Held Inside have the strange, distorted resonances of a medieval folk song that, with carefully placed silences, tinkling bells and soporific vocals, drowsily transcend the categories of folk, classical and electronica and, to quote the legend of Alexander Pope, will "wake the soul by tender strokes of art". It is certainly the right time.

Having already waxed lyrical about These New Puritans after seeing them live in September, I was more than ready and willing to get stuck into their much anticipated full-length offering, Beat Pyramid. After much to-ing and fro-ing with release dates, it looked like this one was going to up in the air for some time, however news is that’ll hit shelves this January and if you’ve an MP3 player, turntable, cassette deck or CD car stereo, I urge you to go out and buy it in every format and play it at high volume wherever you go. This is not THE perfect album, if such a thing even exists, and I won’t and can’t vouch for its life changing properties. However, what this is, I’d like to hope, is the beginning of something great. An album that delivers some absolutely stompingly good tracks, interspersed with a few that never take off; however it’s all a matter of context. Reaching such heights of brilliance at some points, if they fall short for just a moment at others, it hits as a minor disappointment. The fact is some of their lesser tracks would put most ‘indie’ hits to shame. Not a bad position to be in.

Beat Pyramid starts as it means to go on. The opener, ...ce I Will Say This Twice which is picked up again in the closing track, sets the scene perfectly for the rest of the album. A beautiful slice of 80’s inspired, sharply constructed electronica, vocals nothing more than a mysterious, androgynous voice stating ‘I will say this Twice’. At just 16 seconds long its peculiar hypnotic effect leaves you wanting more, the sudden end coming frustratingly too soon.

Luckily the stomping drums that usher in Numbers make everything better again. As with their live performances, the beat is king on this record and having seen George Barnett (ringleader Jack’s twin brother) do some quite incredible things with a set of drumsticks, I was more than pleased to see all that demonic, tightly controlled energy translate onto record. "What’s your favourite number/What does it mean?/What’s your favourite number/what does it mean?" Jack never lets up. Insistent repetition is very much the order of the day with TNP, words becoming a beat within themselves, not what is said but more the pattern in which it’s spoken, over and over until it loses meaning but never effect.

Swords of Truth’s distorted trumpets swoop in like the opening of a Dancehall track, the beat conjuring similar reference, it’s easy to spot those unexpected influences that transform this band into something far more interesting and complex than your average post-punk outfit. It would be easy to mistake their eclectic tastes for pretension (Sonic Youth, Dubstep, the Occult, David Lynch) but they’re all laid out here, grabbed and borrowed from seemingly disparate genres. When mention was made of hip-hop whiz kid J Dilla I had my doubts, but they meant it; his irresistible, inside out beats littered throughout.

And now onto Doppelganger. I first heard this track online and immediately spent a good hour trying to track it down and just own it. A stuttering, Timbaland-esque experiment in beat and rhythm, it’s sparsity and directness carried along by, what can only be described as a ‘jangly’ electro dreamscape, giving it a kind of futuristic grandeur and irresistible head nodding appeal. It’s very rare that a band actually creates anything new but Doppelganger is so wilfully unusual and unexpected that it becomes almost impossible to place. At points I’m reminded of The Fall, Aphex Twin, GGD, Klaxons but as quickly as the comparisons come to mind, they’re dashed aside. This is something else and I’m having trouble putting my finger on it. I gave up trying. Whichever way you read it, at its core is something that just works, ultimately making it the standout track of the album.

Infinity Ytinifnl, £4, mkk3, all march along in a similar vein, perhaps a little less instantly striking, they nevertheless continue that ‘new sound’ with some impressive angular rhythms. Aggressive, brash, disjointed, taut. Heard outside of the context of this album, they would probably have had me frantically scrambling for the volume dial. Instead I just sit back and enjoy.

Things come to an unusually melancholic close with Costume, all drawn out, languid keyboards harmonising with Jack’s slow, deliberate vocals as they rise and fall through what feels like one continuous chorus. Interruption in the form of George’s powerful stuttering, staccato drumbeat, take this track to another level. The obligatory ‘Downbeat Finale’ this is not.

So, we return to the beginning again with I Will Say This Twi..., this time just 7 seconds long and ending abruptly like a sudden pull of the plug. The album comes full circle and while none of the mystery surround TNP has been solved, as impenetrable and cryptic as ever in their themes, even their intent, what they do reveal is a unexpectedly accomplished collection of off-beat, otherworldly tracks that remind you that taking a risk sometimes pays off.

Dan Deacon will survive the media hype thrown at him in recent months because he knows he's a space brain from Wham City, USA (or Baltimore, Maryland to be exact). He knows what he likes; obsolete synthesizers, multiple effects pedals and the Looney Tunes. And he more than likely knows he’ll be compared to the original rock n roll space brains, Devo, at every opportunity.

But while the mass of similarities between the two rekindle happy memories, I’ve always loved Devo records for Mark Mothersbaugh’s social commentary-come-overall vocal bonkers-ness. And while Spiderman of the Rings comes close with Deacon’s own brand of chipmunk delay, he has decided to take the head crushing drum machine and synth route even further. And it works.

His Looney Tunes fascination is cemented after only 10 seconds as opening track Wooody Woodpecker loops the famous cartoon bird’s signature laugh over a dramatic build up of synth pulses and xylophones. This combination sets the tone for the whole record, immediately giving way to the best two tracks; The Crystal Cat and the epic 12 minute long Wham City. The first, beginning like an 8bit cartridge racing game, repeats one synthesized note with a steady bass drum until it explodes into a euphoric melody any pop producer would be proud of. Rolling Stone placed the track #84 on their list of the 100 best songs of 2007, and it’s easy to see how when a song clocking in at almost four minutes feels like it’s over before you’ve even had a chance to get up and dance. Wham City comes on like the first ever electro opera, flowing from calm xylophone loops and muted chords to pummel drumming and siren squeals headed by a choir of militant troops chanting a new age fairy tale over and over before fading to a down-beat game of drum ping pong and computerized harmonies. By the time an a-capella rendition of the chant kicks back into all out electro-popathon the listener is ready for bed. Big Milk provides the much needed rest but then comes the problem. There are still 20 minutes left of the record and you’ve peaked too early.

Much of the second side of Spiderman of the Rings carries the same traits as the first. A lot of synthesizer and drum machine driven computer music and a glut of high pitched vocal effects begin to take their toll. That said there are some great bass driven grooves in Okie Dokie and Snake Mistakes. The latter’s bass and shaker combination, reminiscent of the infectious Tom Tom Club, brings a welcome change of pace. Shades of Daft Punk form a strange interlude but Deacon pulls it back with the beautiful Pink Batman which allows a MIDI harpsichords and guitars to mix with organs and oscillators in a far more successful way than you’d imagine.

Running at nearly 46 minutes Deacon’s vision of an epic electro-pop showpiece almost comes off. The record is perhaps, just too long, but a definite grower. At first it may seem like you're hearing the same song in 9 different ways, but once you notice the subtle dabbles with sine waves, vocoder blasts and discover his palette of garbage retrieved weapons (instruments), Spiderman of the Rings is a mini masterpiece in one man bandship.

When one thinks of Washington DC's musical scene, it evokes images of right-on punkers kicking up a politicised, Converse clad riot. Loud guitars. Soap box sermons between songs. Well, meet Washington's Mark Charles, a.k.a Vandaveer, and prepare to swoon to a different beat. Or lack of beat…

There's no shortage of neo-folkers right now and some might say we need another one like the world needs another epidemic of the Black Plague. But Vandaveer is something else. What he has is soul; and that genuine, bohemian restlessness that characterises truly great singer-songwriters. Seeing him play to six people in Brighton the other week did little to diminish his aura and captivating stage presence – it oozed into every nook and cranny of the venue.
Vandaveer's debut album is a sonically stripped down affair that serves to melt the listener's heart in slow motion. Its minimalism renders Charles's voice the main weapon here. A good thing given that he sounds like a most pleasing bastardisation of Dylan and Donovan. These are appropriate musical and lyrical references too but, at times, Vandaveer seems even more archaic, beamed down from another place and time. The harmonies that caress the chorus of Grace and Speed are almost pre-Beatles in their innocence while the tumbling chords of Parasites and Ghosts will make the hairs on your neck stand up. Dark humour, too, abounds on Out Past The Moat, its mellifluous melodies couching disconcerting lyrics: "Got my guns, I got 'em both/Now's a good time as any, tell my brothers I love them both…"

There's more to meets the eyes and ears then. All human life is here and then some. Not bad for a dude with a guitar. Clear all that Homefires Festival endorsed shit and make way for a talent that demands a place in your life.

When The Go! Team arrived, out of the blue, almost three years ago with their exhiliratingly wonderful debut 'Thunder, Lightning, Strike' they proved to be a breath of fresh air.Their childlike innocence, party packed live shows and an album full of unashamedly 'fun' tunes - fusing hip hop, rap, indie guitars and sampled brass, was the perfect tonic for a scene cluttered with spiky guitar acts who took themselves all too seriously. Sure the record missed on the much coveted Mercury prize, but it has endured and The Go! Team are now a fixture on any festival bill worth its salt.

Aided in no uncertain terms by a show stopping performance at Texas’ recent South By Southwest festival, Portland three-piece Menomena present their debut UK release. This is in fact the bands third release – with their two previous albums available in the US exclusively. School friends Danny Seim, Justin Harris and Brent Knopf have derived a creative process of much interest that has resulted in a work that is both experimental and forward thinking without being inaccessible.

The blurb that accompanies ‘Some Things Just Stick In Your Mind’ make Vashti’s personal concerns for this album’s flight into the public sphere clear. Vashti was not in her tender years a folksinger. Andrew Loog Oldham did not lead her down the garden path of pop because in her mind she was already there. The singles and demos that stretch over two disks in this compilation do indeed support this statement. For example ‘Coldest Night Of The Year’ is testament to her mainstream tendencies brining back memories of the woah-wao-yeh-yeh-yehs of 60s pop, adorned with reprises and key changes.

Seems to me that back in the 80’s there were a whole load of post-punk, art-punk outfits dotted around the country, most of whom are largely forgotten. A prominent concentration of these was centred in Scotland. Somehow though, overshadowed by the continuing success of the very English The Fall and Gang Of Four, bands like Josef K and Orange Juice (both fellow Scots) seem to have fallen by the wayside. More forgotten than all of these, p’raps due to a mere eighteen-month existence, are Edinburgh’s Fire Engines.

Though they pulled it off incredibly well live, Tunng have always sounded like a studio project, hence the nu- / laptop- / future- folk albatross that’s plagued them from the start. Possibly in a deliberate attempt to escape that tag, Good Arrows sees them for the first time sounding like a live band; it’s no surprise to discover that, while co-founders Mike and Sam were responsible for the lion’s share of Mother’s Daughter And Other Songs and Comments Of The Inner Chorus, this third album was recorded as a full six-piece.