Well, that is until Gregg Gillis (aka Girl Talk) drops in a Kelly Clarkson song and it moves from 'meh' to 'fucking album of the year' quicker than you can say 'remember when Ted Leo covered this song and he went to into Maps by Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the end?'.

Kelly Clarkson is awesome.

But this isn't an exercise in self-moderation, it's a record review, and the point I'm trying to make is that At Mount Zoomer has a lot to live up to. And that's not even taking into consideration all of the phenomenal work that Dan Boeckner and Spencer Krug put together in the interim in Handsome Furs and Sunset Rubdown, respectively. So when I say 'a lot' to live up to, I really mean 'like a months-worth-of-semen a lot'. So what then exactly is it, after wasting almost 2 paragraphs on self-indulgent drivel and jizz jokes, that this annoying twat thinks of the album, I hear you ask? Umm, yeah, pretty good, I answer nonchalantly.

Of course I'm disappointed and underwhelmed, how could I not be with such high expectations. Yet I am absolutely certain that this is one of the better records I've heard in the last 3 years. Such is the calibre of the artists involved - the supporting cast contributing just as many intangibles as the two all-stars - that they can make a piece of music nothing short of masterful and still leave one wanting more. It's the little things that bring it down a notch: a little too much synth in the chorus of Language City; the all-together confusing first half of An Animal In Your Care. On the whole, however, this is an album any other band on the planet would sell they're souls to be able to make.

The jerky swagger of Call It A Ritual really kicks the record into gear as the second track, and the album rarely falters on it's way to the climactic and epic Kissing The Beehive at the end. In between, California Dreamer, Soldier's Grin and Fine Young Cannibals provide only some of the albums bountiful highlights. So while it doesn't reach the miraculous benchmark set by it's predecessor, At Mount Zoomer still manages to show how much other artists that are trying to do similar work leave to be desired. That, and that the album artwork is fucking bonkers.

You see, much like fashion, music moves in cycles. Every now and again, ideas will get rehashed, reinvented and remixed to be made fresh for a whole new generation. Violent Soho channel the spirits of Kurtus Cobain (too soon?) and the countless other teen angst prophets that played a critical role in the explosive impact of the early 90's grunge movement. Ordinarily, I would have a problem with such counterfeit techniques, especially as some songs sound very 'familiar' - but these guys are great at what they do. They smash the formula only lightly, but at the same time lace it all with a believable feeling of genuine despair, which, essentially, was the heart and soul of this style of music the first time around.

Besides the two slower tracks towards the end, We Don't Belong Here, bubbles along at a frantic pace, barely slowing down to make sure it's purposely dirty hair looks good. Their tornado-of-fists style, not too far removed from that of Sydney's Regular John, although not too 'deep', is instantly addictive and fantastically well executed.

The band's hellfire approach is somewhat unhinged by an underlying feeling that behind it all is a fairly strict strict set of rules that governs their every move. At times, the inch perfect mix between attitude, catchiness and aggression can come across as being a little manufactured. This is easily ignorable, however, as the overall 'fuck everything' mood of the record overpowers any detailed examination of the it's lack of substance.

There is a believable aspect to We Don't Belong Here and an undeniable feeling that the band have organically developed from their influences, rather than this just being a blatant attempt to ride off the back of a previously mastered style. It's a very thin line, which Violent Soho, a spirited, energetic and exciting young band, hopefully continue to travel on the positive side of.

Editor's Note: this album was really only about a 7.5, but, while researching background info on the band, we came across this incredibly awesome promo photo and immediately boosted the rating up a couple of decimals.

Lil Wayne isn't on the same level as the rappers he references and often attempts to emulate - 1994 Nas, 1996 Jay-Z or 2pac and Biggie before they died and were corpse-raped by those in charge of their estates - but he is undeniably one of the leaders in 2008. Wayne's unique rapping style - glueing together the obscurity of ODB with the conversation flow of Jigga and wrapping it all up in a thick lazy Southern drawl - is the backbone of the record and the single reason Wayne rises above others in the current hip-hop market. Even though this album still seems to be manufactured more as product than a creative piece of music, it's impossible to deny that it is not only a highly entertaining collection of songs, but also a true sign that the ever fleeting genre is still able to produce something truly exciting now and again.

The sound of Tha Carter III exists somewhere between straight-up pop, gangsta rap and a polished/harder version of the traditional New Orleans drum machine sound. The record has plenty of catchy hooks, but, besides the occasional skip-worthy R'n'b moments, there is very few blatant attempts by Wayne to take the traditional path to his destined pop stardom. His often manic, emotive style is a great contrast to the often unbelievably tight head-rocking production work and crisp beats of the record.

It's understandable that the hunger that fueled Tha Carter II is gone, as Lil Wayne has already proved himself as one of the game's premium MC's, yet it's also one of the key elements that weakens the collective impact of the third installment. The pop side of his sound is a lot stronger, however, and each song packs a lot more of a completed sense than his previous work. It could be said that this is Lil Wayne's first grown-up record.

Strangely enough, the two current singles, the painfully hypnotic A Milli and the dull, predictable 'sexy club song', Lollipop, are actually two of the weakest moments on the record. Other sluggish tracks such as 'that Babyface song' and Busta Rhymes' completely unnecessary and unfitting cameo on La La detract a lot from the overall enjoyment of the record and disrupt the overall flow, but the high quality stuff, including opener 3 Peat, the emotional Shoot Me Down and the straight-up ridiculous, sample-heavy semi-spoken word closer, Don't Get It, do more than outweigh these misses.

Wayne successfully keeps the replay level of this record high through his endlessly changing delivery and the way in which this coincides with his often insane lyrics. In fact, the endless array of quotable lines such as "up like viagra" and "swagger tighter than a yeast infection" will ensure that not only will I still be listening to this record in six months time, but also guarantees that the rewind button gets a bit of a workout as my ears continually do double takes.

It's probably not saying too much - but this is streets above any other hip-hop album I have heard this year.

The EP is kicked off by the title track, which sees the band put an atmospheric twist on a trademark, rhythm-heavy arrangements. The dream-like style makes it the band's most creatively layered song to date, with sounds injecting themselves into the mix at random occasions and the vocals falling behind the vibrant drum backing.

The second track, the previously released, City Of Painless Childbirth, is pretty much impossible to describe. It sometimes gives off a chest-thumping, aggressive vibe, while on the very next listen can come across as some sort of futuristic theatrical pop masterpiece.

Jubilation is a tragic love story of death, lust and possibly even the problems of organised religion. It's the kind of song you play late at night to try and uncover.

The highlight of the release and quite possibly their finest moment to date, Buzzrd, sees the band shoot off into chaotic punk territory. Powered by a forceful - almost macho - guitar riff, the song encapsulates the group's skill of melting their forever-changing scope with frantic, emotive vocals to create a lovely mess of start-stop battles between instruments. A fantastic way to close out the EP.

This sounds like nothing else on the current Australian music landscape. That alone isn't enough to enjoy it, but the undeniably artistic and carefree delivery surely is. These guys literally throw music at you, and, if you are lucky enough, it sticks to your head, rattles around inside your brain for a while and then drags you right into their world. If you don't catch it, then that's your loss. It's this persistent attitude that ensures Ghosts Of Television keep us longing for a full length release.

Opening track and recent single, Like An Arrow, triumphantly heralds the return of the band and showcases a fresher, more upbeat side to their normal down-trodden style. It's an instantly infectious song and, like much of the record, sees the vocals step forward a lot more than in their previous work.

As brilliant as the opener is, with the exception of a handful of other highlights, this record never really feels like it kicks into gear. Too many songs seem like they could have been injected with a lot more shifts of pace or momentum instead of simply following a somewhat stale and even forced path. This is never more apparent - or disappointing - than on tracks like Won't See You, Steer Your Helm Away and It's So Heavy which threaten to burst out from the band's comfortable fragility into either a triumphant emotional eruption or darker territory - but never do.

The album's highlight, the Devestations-ish cover of Smog's Bathysphere, puts forward a lot more emotion and the, almost Bjork-like, vocals perfectly compliment the heavy-breathing rhythm and explosive moments. As a whole, the track sounds a lot more alive and less forced than the rest of the album. This song is also significant as it kicks off the much darker, and far better executed, closing of the record.

In a similar vein to Bathysphere, the final two tracks, Hymn To An Empty Room and Lonely Children, create a fantastic contrast between the often gentle vocals and a deeper, more over-powering, aggressive backing. This rawer side, although still following the band's well-worn blueprint, is a lot more enjoyable than the first portion of the record where the group primarily build the songs around the way in which the vocals interact with the more pop-focused compositions. The lyrics fight their way to the top of the louder backdrops, which gives off a great sense of pain and struggle, perfectly suiting the often ghost-like vocals.

While this album is far from being offensively bad, it does see the group spend far too much time trying to decide whether or not they want to create a horrific, scary and completely engaging record or just a bunch of songs that the kids can tap their feet too. There is the possibility the band can do the impossible and blur the line between the two conflicting approaches, unfortunately The Shiralee isn't the record that achieves this.

The only consistent theme throughout this EP is the almost-midi sounding keys that consistently pop up, and the fairly enchanting emotive vocals. The supernatural/space-age aspect of the music immediately draws comparisons to bands like Muse, who playfully bask in the world of ridicolously over-the-top futuristic drama. Le Kingste don't quite exist in the same stadium-sized stratosphere and are a lot more interested in focusing their music around the switching of pace and tone, seemingly far more comfortable performing in dimly lit lounge rooms at house parties than in football arenas.

At the epicentre of this EP is the current single and moderately 'funked-up' number, Two Pills. It fuses together haunting elements over a bass-heavy, up-tempo composition to create a song that is the band's most pop-focused tune - yet also their lightest on substance. Other tracks, such as the dull Dark Night and the closer, Paradise, which switches from bedroom demo to bad barbershop quartet rendition with a quick decreasing gradient of cassette hiss, add little to the overall quality of the EP and come over as nothing more than last minute additions to fatten up the release.

The quality of the band - which is essentially an expanded one-man operation - is best on show in the opening two tracks and even more so on the EP's climatic point, the pain-soaked Chorus In Nine. These three songs are a lot more active, and although much less pop oriented, gather together a wonderful mix of strange, conflicting elements that perfectly compliment the strong vocal style. They also cleverly blur the line between minimal homemade creations and much larger epics. It's this contrasting of styles where Le Kingste really start to come into their own. Hopefully this is the side of their sound which the group expand upon when they move towards a full length release.

By mixing elements of country, folk, pop, electronic and alt-rock with arrangements often bordering on orchestral, the band manage on the most part to craft distinctive sounds worthy of attention. The addition of the sometimes stark but always earnest and delicately layered vocals makes for something of a unique combination that, while occasionally misguided or overambitious, is a demonstration of the groups audacity and willingness to stretch themselves and leave nothing in reserve. However, while the weak moments come very rarely, so important is the flow and pacing that it detracts more from the record as a whole than it should. In this way, it's almost as though the album is weaker than the sum of it's parts.

All this said, the majority of the record holds the listener's attention by way of the hidden nuances in the mix, as well as the brutally honest and often shocking vocals, which when delivered in the crooning lament hold even more impact. Casually delivered lines such as "...or should we kick it's cunt in? And watch as it dies from bleeding" or "..if we've both got the same diseases, it's irrelevant, girl" are perfect examples of this.

The Midnight Organ Fight puts the band in an interesting position. By alienating radio stations, and leaving others that are faint of heart squirming with their extremely forthcoming lyrics, the band put themselves in a position of contrast with the unique but altogether more mainstream sound they have developed since their first record. If they continue on their current trajectory, they could be one album away from a modern masterpiece. However, with even a slight toning down of their intensity, they are just as likely to become the next Gomez. You can figure out what I mean by that on your own.

From an outsider's perspective, Australian hip-hop can be lazily thrown into one of only a few categories - the foolish jokers, the US imitators, the Hilltop Hoods and The Herd. For as long as I can remember The Herd and the Hoods have existed in their own world, a level above the rest of the pack. Whilst the Hilltop Hoods played the blue collar Australian angle, The Herd took on the more complex political side of things. Their track 77%, with it's carefree use of the c-word, had Triple J pulling themselves off over their 'alternative-ness' and sparked the group's steady flow of light political indie hits with thesolid backing of the radio station and a legion of non-hip-hop fans opening up to them. Truth is, it could be argued that The Herd aren't political at all, that they just stumbled onto something that struck a nerve with the public and ran with it. Their earlier work, which dealt with issues such as ordering food at a takeaway shop, is a long way from calling the country a pack of racists.

But who cares. 77% was and is a fucking great song. It's forceful, albeit simplistic nature was impossible to ignore and for better orworse threw a dagger in the direction of the political and social landscape of this country. What is most disappointing about Summerland, their fourth studio album, is that with the exception of a couple of tracks including the John Howard exiting homage, The King Is Dead, and the more global-focused2020, they don't continue with this direct approach. Gone are my hopes that these guys were going to develop into the Australian version of Dead Prez and spark some excitement, action and aggression within a country that most would agree is in need of a continual shake-up for a whole variety of reasons.

From a musical point of view, the group with it's giant line-up of MCs, bring a whole truckload of intelligent and focused rhymes to the table. The production - split between the group and the Elefant Traks extended family - consists mostly of live instrumentation and while thrown to the back behind the lyrics, doesn't detract too much from the songs. However, for the most part this is a very dull and uneventful record. The majority of the tracks follow the same pattern; three verses, broken up by a bland, R'n'B female led chorus.Skimming through, it's difficult to notice substantial differences between each of the songs. The choruses often lack a catchy element to separate them from each other and the verses, although technically well conceived, don't make as big an impact as they should.

As they have during other moments throughout their career, The Herd playfully use a whole bunch of somewhat cringe-worthy colloquial references. The track Toorali, which borrows lines fromBotany Bay, is most probably their worst attempt at this technique to date - with it's copy/paste approach to the famous Australian song incredibly painful to listen to. The track lacks enough substance to force your attention to make it an exciting listen, just the same as most of the other tracks on the record. At times there are flickers where the group break into more creativemusical arrangements, but there is just not enough of these to sustain the interest of people like me who aren't getting a lot out of their insistence to keep serving up the same recycled formula.

On the few occasions where the group do what they do best and attack some ideas and/or preconceptions - the music goes to a whole new level. When You Escape (Music Vs Fashion) takes a swipe at the current state of the Australian music scene and does a great job at dissecting not only the bullshit image side of theindustry but also where their own image as a 'political hip-hop group' fits into the scheme of things. It's a great example of how good TheHerd can deliver a message in the form of a clever and precise argument.

Sure, they might be starting to get smarter - and more commercially focused - in the way in which they deliver their message, but they arealso getting lost in their own complexity. I hardly think Public Enemy's music would have had such an impact if they had replaced theirwho gives a fuck about a goddamn Grammy with something like yeah, so we don't really think the Grammy's are really thatrelevant to our genre. This record tip-toes around a lot of stuff, but rarely grabs the issue with both hands and shakes the shit out ofit. This is frustrating, to say the very least.

Eddy Current Suppression Ring are undeniably Melbourne. Their music is stripped back, honest and every moment overflows with a perfect blend of sincerity, determination and blood. It's aggressive music but not at all macho, finding it's place on the railway tracks that run between the football club and the arty part of town. It's not only enjoyable because of it's lovely balance between the dirty delivery and the often stark and crystal clear rhythms, but also because of the way it pretty much sounds like it doesn't have a place in the current Australian rock 'scene' and seems more than happy to stand out by itself.

I have no problems lazily labeling this as the swaggering, drunker cousin of You Am I. It's more brass, more aggressive and not as introspective, but it's definitely built from the same Australian pub rock ideals that the previous generation leaders - Tim Rogers, Tex Perkins etc - took to the masses.

If there is a single weakness of not only this record, but the work of ECSR to date, it's that their music is almost completely free of any emotive connecting line between themselves and their audience. The music is served to the people as an amazingly entertaining package, but rarely do the band invite others in to make them feel like they are part of it. We watch, but don't get allowed to touch or feel anything.

That said, there is not a single dull moment on this record. The group cleverly hide their influences under a thick layer of Australianisms and a unique vocal style. Primary Colours is 'chockers' with songs that are both nostalgic, yet void of any clear attachments to any particular style or ethos. This is music that makes you want to go and get drunk in an alleyway, fight some strangers and then maybe go and throw rocks at an abandoned building for a couple of hours just for 'something to do'. I highly doubt that too many other local releases this year will force me to act like such a ruffian.

As catchy and enjoyable as this record is, it - like 94% of all music to come out of the overcrowded indie pop rock genre - still suffers from sounding slightly repetitive and a little light on ideas after a while. The emotive vocals add a lot to boost Sparkadia above their competitors but if there is a negative side to Postcards it's that it doesn't offer a great deal of surprises.

But there is still plenty to enjoy. The opening track, a polished version of the old demo, Too Much To Do, is arguably the group's finest moment to date. It's not only a fantastically well structured pop track, but it also takes a single idea and communicates it well, just like all the other moments when Sparkadia are at their best. It's about time us mid-20 workaholics had our own anthem.

The reworking of Morning Light, while feeling like a slightly watered down version of the original, is still a great slice of carefree lo-fi party music. Help Yourself, a piano-led down tempo tune relies heavily on the story-telling delivery of the lyrics. The haunting nature of Jealously is brilliant, the fragility of the vocals working perfectly with the subject matter. Also, the contrast the band successfully create with slower tracks such as Our Own Way set along side the thrusting bursts of life of Animals is a nice trick of keeping everything interesting and a great opportunity for the band to show off their ability to switch styles and keep the listener hooked.

This album won't set your brain, heart or soul on fire with it's awesomeness but it definitely achieves what it aims to do. Sparkadia, suprisingly enough, have risen to the occasion and created a debut record that is not only worthy of praise as an enjoyable 45 minutes of music but also worthy of the commercial success the band seem destined for.

The A-side, Common Species, is pure pop bliss. The homemade feel of the music attached to the chest-thumping bragging creates a lovely contrast. The fury of electronic overlays, coming and going as they please amongst the continual pounding background, makes for a highly enjoyable three minutes of structured chaos.

On the B-side, When You're Dead, the method of attack is very similar, but given a slightly darker edge with the male vocals stripping away a lot of the carefree fun. The track, in a blaze of punk-like chanting, collapses into a messy heap, knocking home the idea that this group isn't happy simply following a linear path with their music.

If there is one sour point to the sound of WOW it's that the lyrical content is heavily overpowered by the strong musical backdrop. The punk drawl in which the lyrics are delivered almost allows me to forgive the shallow nature of them, but ultimately this is a key factor that will restrict repeat listens. That said, this is fun music which, with it's combination of accessible up-tempo bumps and angst-driven power moves, is not only original, but also incredibly addictive.

Partly due to the abrupt end, yet also because of the large array of ideas presented, I long to hear more from WOW. This short, almost faultless, EP achieves exactly what it aims to do - leave the listener slightly unfulfilled. Hopefully, this is just an entree to a much larger feast of creative electronic music from the duo in the not too distant future.

For the most part, this musical journey is a confusing blend of ups and downs. It spends a lot of it's time completely lost in an endless sea of conflicting layers of haunting, distant sounds. It flourishes on how these situations interact with the band's more traditionally structured music. This is the record where Snowman discover their sound and have a lot of fun seeing how well it bends and twists out of shape. It's the result of a band successfully ignoring their instincts and escaping from their comfort zone.

Occasionally, the music on this album feels as though it's miles from you, engrossed in it's own endless loop of horror film scenes, but then, in the very next breathe, finds itself warmly wrapped around your head squeezing the life out of you. Best treated as a single body of work, it uncovers it's brilliance in the way in which it finds the perfect balance between uncontrollable assaults and floods of emotive atmosphere. This record wouldn't be as brilliant as it is without the quieter pauses and fantastic use of space and time - best executed in The Blood Of The Swan and She Is Turning Into You - but the unashamed and somewhat brutal angst-driven snippets, such as the thrilling opener Our Mother (She Remembers) and Daniel Was A Timebomb, play an equally important role. Holding these two sides of the album together are tracks such as The Horse (Parts 1 & 2) which splits itself between a spacious cinematic composition and gut-kicking, thunderous, drum heavy chaos.

Although not without it's own flashes of brilliance, Snowman's self-titled debut sounds disjointed and undernourished when placed alongside the epic compositions that make up this album. Gone are the attempts to create anything that even remotely sounds like a radio-friendly package and in it's place is an album that is overflowing with real depth and substance. The giant leap forward - and the speed at which the band has transformed their approach, from this record to their previous work - is quite remarkable.

The Horse, The Rat and The Swan is an incredibly cohesive musical journey, showcasing a band that is truly in their element and enjoying being fully immersed in the beast they have created. Every precise element of the songs seem to have poured straight out of their soul, created from freshly squeezed blood and sweat. This is as graphic and horrifically beautiful as music of this brutal nature can get. Snowman have set the new benchmark for all Australian records this year and I find it very hard to imagine any other local release being better than this in 2008.

Unfortunately, all this loses some of it's punch when the music leaves something to be desired. It's not that its bad, it just lacks the substance that is required to sustain interest for more than a few days. Once the novelty of a free album wears off all that is left is a bland collection of songs, some of which chug along at the trademark pop-goth pace while others fill their alloted times with the familiar soundscapes that can be found on most of the previous NIN records.

While this is all coming out as negative the album does have some pretty nice moments. Discipline does some sort of onomatopoeia of it's title and rolls along briskly, regimented in it's approach to the interpretation of pop music that Nine Inch Nails have developed through dedicated practice and study. Meanwhile, Lights in the Sky is a truly sincere piano based number that showcases Reznor's emotional fragility.

Ultimately though, whether it's due to the years of honing a particular style that has now become dated and all too familiar, or - as I sometimes like to jokingly claim - that Reznor's not on heroin anymore, the fact remains that the material that the band have put onto The Slip simply doesn't stand up to the golden era work that they did in the mid 90's. And while it's never really fair to pigeon-hole a band based on the old stuff that you liked better, neither is life.

And there it ends. As Pitchfork slaughtered the album, I became intrigued. Sure Movie Monster was messy, but it was also very under-appreciated by most. Without a chance to redeem themselves, Capitol immediately culled them from the label and Sound Team parted ways. Ex-bassist for the band, Bill Baird, performed under various monikers after that, before tagging himself Sunset - or {{{Sunset}}}, with three annoying braces on either side - apparently representing waves of sunlight.

Adding braces to the name surely won't increase talent. But it will stand out. That's how I discovered Baird's new project anyway - it simply caught my eye. But Bright Blue Dream is an album that does not come off as a desperate ploy to win back the critics. The option to avenge Sound Team's murder by Capitol is nonexistent here. It seems Baird prefers to keep that in the past, having much more to say in the present, as a solo artist. Although the band name is eye-catching, the music shies from the spotlight. It impresses sans intention.

Baird's densely layered and repetitive psych-pop songs are delivered through Syd Barrett's haunted vocal style and encrusted in a sonic landscape with cosmic elements to attain intrigue. I Love My Job features witty lyrics presented earnestly and Eno-esque. It ends with Baird's vocals transforming into a robotic chant, as he tediously repeats the title of the track in an attempt to find meaning in his futile life, or simply, office job. As each song progresses, it becomes evident that Baird expresses himself through the perspective of a self-absorbed mind, unable to escape into nearby reality.

The centrepiece of the album is Man's Heart Complaint. It features a hopping bassline with grooving drums and continues the trend of eerie vocals beneath a lush sonic landscape. The surreal-folky Gulf of Mexico is the transition song of the album. As it's gentle ambiance dissolves into the 14-minute title track, the album changes completely. We now enter the dream-world and are trapped inside it by hypnosis. The instruments gel perfectly in this ambitious symphony that develops ever so slowly. If you make it through without skipping, Moebius will certainly test your patience. The 7-minute instrumental track concludes on guitar feedback that seems worth all the wait, yet lacks a much-needed release. But that is the point, as we remain unable to flee this dream.

Baird, along with an ensemble of guests, have produced a highly ambitious and moody record that defies genre - one that could easily be segmented into two sections (A: pop songs, B: experimental ambient.) As the final drone sounds however, it seems more intelligible that Bright Blue Dream be experienced as one cohesive whole instead.

Although This Is Not The World contains a lot more hunger and passion than News and Tributes, it still sounds a lot like it's a single idea reformatted 12 times. The band, now free from record label restrictions, have shown a slightly harder edge and definitely lean a lot more towards the light-punk half of their sound, however, the most annoying thing about this album is that the group seem to be holding back.

This apprehension and uncertainty is frustrating, mainly because it's so clear what the group could have done to make this record more enjoyable. If only they had started a few less songs with the same burst of guitar 'energy', thrown a few more spanners in a few more works and made the track Sale Of The Century about Tony Barber, the album would surely have sounded a lot less like it was bogged down in it's own set of pointless, strict rules.

The Futureheads are currently focused on creating neatly packaged pop numbers aimed at the charts instead of their audience and thus this record ends up sounding a lot more like product, than art. This Is Not The World is a disappointing record from a band capable of a lot more.

The second track, Eraser, highlights the band's increased awareness of the importance of their music having a pre-defined direction. Built around an extended loop intro, it is eventually taken over and mauled by lazily delivered vocals and another fantastic guitar-led intervention. Teen Creeps, a clear front-runner for the finest three minutes of music this year, is an infectious slice of perfectly executed punk rock. The sheer amount of sound that the duo generate is mind blowing, with every song overflowing with layers upon layers of noise suffocating melodic arrangements that attempt to fight to their way to the surface.

There is still the occasional wandering artsy moments that littered Weirdo Rippers, but the band is clearly focused on putting their best foot forward. Their ability to create structure from noise, catchiness from feedback-driven chaos and emotion from dreary half-assed vocals is amazing and ultimately what makes Nouns such an addictive record.

The vocals, delivered by drummer Dean Sprunt in varying degrees of monotone-like drawl, won't appeal to everyone. That said, I can't remember the last time I enjoyed an album this much yet wasn't completely sold on the vocal style. More than anything I think this is a testament to how overpowering the musical arrangements on this album are and just how well the often conflicting styles and ideas melt together.

From start-to-finish this is an outstanding slab of music. Built on the top of a solid foundation of energetic punk-rock noise, No Age have managed to add a wonderful sense of depth and thickness to their sound that I honestly didn't think they were capable of. This is a highly addictive album and one that I can't see myself getting sick of any time soon.

Right from the start, with the feedback-laced opener, Le Ruse, it is clear that this isn't going to be The Loon Part 2. I wasn't going to compare this to the second release by similarly Internet-raped victim, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, but this track takes on board a very similar raw, under-produced style to the first track of Some Loud Thunder. It comes as no surprise to discover that the same producer, Dave Fridmann, has been given the tough job of being in control of both records. This dirtier sound is the obvious rebellious path to take, shifting away from the often squeaky clean sound of The Loon. This technique, apparent in varying forms across all 12 tracks, comes across as a bit of an afterthought and a last minute tactic to attempt to mildly fuck with the band's sound.

The majority of the record travels along on it's own momentum, fueled by an almost effortless rhythmic bounce and spurring along by the feeling that the band is having fun with what they are doing. There is nothing contrived or falsely manufactured here. This one of the main factors that made Tapes 'n Tapes so appealing to begin with and something that almost saves this album.

The bands destruction, or re-invention, of their sound is never more apparent or better executed than on the two tracks - Demon Apple and Blunt. They are drenched in heavier arrangements, instantly appealing 'rawk' tracks where the group's signature up-tempo sound has been given a pleasant massacring.

Walk It Off features occasional flashes of brilliance where the key elements that make up the Tapes' core sound - guitar driven, off-centre indie pop - come together nicely and wrap snugly the new rougher approach. But on too many occasions it seems as though the band are simply going through the motions. This isn't offensively bad, but the flatness and the aimless musical wandering makes it hardly worth fighting through to uncover the good bits.

Initially when I heard Portishead were making another album I just shrugged it off. Oh sweet, I thought, another old band getting back together and making a record because they need the money.

But the truth is Portishead never broke up. Up until this new album the band has been on hiatus.

Their first two albums were great, you know, they were fun. I mean they didn't really stand out for me, and yes, I'll admit, I found them at times a little boring. Trip hop seems... well... it seems so 90s. I think it's because I wasn't a teenager in 94 and that I've grown up listening to this stuff in retrospect. It's not really... uh... relevant?

Well, okay, I'm being a toss.

Portishead's first two albums were great. Really great. But not Mezzanine great. The songs just didn't seem to fit together. Maybe a little too clean, a little too safe?

Third, I can safely say, is the best thing I have heard this year. It is fragile, delicate and intricate. Opener Silence just happens, really happens in front of you. Guitar lines crack and sizzle around Gibbons' soft vocals, there's this drum beat that just fucking makes you want to grit your teeth it's so good. Then these strings flood the track and you're ears just want to implode.

Every track is a standout. Third is a perfect balance between sonic noise, electric and acoustic sounds. Portishead have accomplished what every band searches for: consistency in tone. The whole album just drips of atmosphere. Acoustic guitars replace synthesizers, drums echo in cavernous reverbs and Gibbons' vocals are never far from distortion or a slap delay.

Third lives up to its hype. It really takes you somewhere; somewhere not too far from Burial's Untrue or The Knife's Silent Shout. And it's not too removed from the band's first two efforts - Third still sounds like Portishead. Portishead with a darker twist.

And thank god there's no fucking vinyl scratching on this record.

You know what I mean.

The opening track, KC's In Trouble, is arguably the most brilliant local indie pop jam this year. It's unclear whether or not it's a song about the less talented half of KC and JoJo and the realisation that JoJo is probably going to go solo and end his free ride. It's not really important what the song is about. It's pure, unapologetic pop-tastic fun, wrapped up in a warm cuddle of sunshine and melodic surf rock.

The remaining three tracks that fill this EP follow a similar vibe of catchy-as-fuck swooning rock, delivered in various moods and from slightly differing perspectives. While they don't reach the instant appeal level set by the opener, they play an admirable supporting role and complete an EP which above all presents a band finding their sound and sticking to it. They play their hand well and don't attempt to bend their sound around corners it isn't built for.

Songs is over before it even seems like it has begun, leaving the listener half unfulfilled (or half fulfilled if you are an optimist), and longing for more. It will be interesting to see whether or not the group has enough variations on their already defined style to stretch out their sound to a full length release. We hold our breath.