Tonight We Dance

England Keep My Bones finally gets the combination right and stands right alongside Love, Ire and Song as one of Frank Turner’s best works.

Overall, whatever you think of their craft, they’ve mastered it; this writer’s mentioned almost every track on the album to hold up this review--and that’s got to be a good sign.

What elevates Turn Out The Lights is that it’s sensory as well as earnest, personally destabilising while artfully assured; it oscillates in the spilling synaesthesia of panic attacks, the dizzying clarity of epiphany, the paralysing futility of depressive episodes, the unfathomable locus of being okay.

The modulations and switches in pace remain as bold as ever, and Clark has a knack for memorable melody and a winning voice with shades of Kate Bush and Leslie Feist.

It’s this insistence on resolutely following her instincts that makes this record so lustily appealing from top to bottom.

Daybreak is successful on two levels: in the way it touches on the best elements of Saves the Day’s past works, it’s a welcome entry point for new listeners; and with its freshness, it assures established fans that the band is still invigorated after going at it for over a decade.

The band has pulled off the difficult trick of sculpting a record concerned with weighty, complex themes and made it sound like the breeziest, most effortless thing in the world: a collection of fleet, shimmering pop songs; a master-class in sonic splendour; a bold, beautiful and brilliant reinvention that should surprise as many as it will enthrall.

The Decemberists blend rock and folk well and the songwriting crafts pastoral and emotional imaginery into tight-knit, attractive songs. This album is an unexpected treat.

Elsie is nostalgic, contemplative, and persistent; it’s also one of 2011’s best.

What elevates Turn Out The Lights is that it’s sensory as well as earnest, personally destabilising while artfully assured; it oscillates in the spilling synaesthesia of panic attacks, the dizzying clarity of epiphany, the paralysing futility of depressive episodes, the unfathomable locus of being okay.