Rae Mor­ris sounds like a sci­en­tif­i­cally per­fect mix of all your favourite quirky fe­male singers. The kook­i­ness of Regina Spek­tor, the early covert pop nous of Ma­rina of Dia­man­dis fame, and the ever present hint of El­lie Gould­ing – if only in the slight husk­i­ness that de­fines her an­gelic voice. She es­sen­tially writes pi­ano bal­lads, which have var­i­ous de­grees of pol­ish added to them, all fin­ished to a high gloss at­mo­spheric com­ple­tion. She’s got a bit of Enya about her epic de­liv­ery, es­pe­cially on For You, dec­o­rated with min­i­mal or­ches­tra­tion that sounds like it was recorded in a ware­house. There’s no skimp­ing on any of the full scale, cin­e­matic pro­duc­tion.

Un­der­neath the in­stru­men­tal flour­ishes of­ten lies a solid elec­tro base­line, such as the Run­ning Up That Hill-jud­der­ing that un­der­scores tracks like Un­der The Shad­ows – but it sounds as much like Fleet­wood Mac as it does Kate Bush. And yet de­spite th­ese ref­er­ences, it never cashes in on any self­con­scious nostal­gia or sounds – it’s very much a record made for 2015. The fact that she’s cropped up on Clean Ban­dit’s de­but al­bum tells you ev­ery­thing you need to know about her abil­ity to nail a con­tem­po­rary sound.

Idlewild Ev­ery­thing Ever Writ­ten Their first al­bum in five years, their rough punky edges have smoothed into some clas­sic in­die rock songs, with a size­able de­tour into coun­try slow jams. Roddy’s voice re­mains com­fort­ingly fa­mil­iar, as he keeps re­turn­ing to a lyri­cal ob­ses­sion with youth.

Des­per­ate Jour­nal­ist Des­per­ate Jour­nal­ist As Fierce Panda sign­ings, they’re not stray­ing far from the fiercely in­die brand sound. They sound like The Or­gan, who were a fe­male-fronted, The Smiths-sound­ing mis­er­ab­lists, and hit some of the al­ter­na­tive Brit­pop glory of Echobelly. And yes, we hap­pen to like this kind of thing.

Rix­ton Let the Road After the open­ing acap­pella, Rix­ton songs fall into two camps; the boy­band sta­ples with more an­themic acous­tic gui­tar than you can shake a Ryan Ted­der­shaped stick at, and the pop­pier faux-reg­gae beats that sounds like a four-fold Olly Murs. Slicker – as Pit­bull would say – than an oil spill.

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