But of course, that’d be underselling it.

While a lot of their style doesn’t necessarily sound as original now, that’s because they were ahead of the curve in 2013. Their two-part harmonies (which get particularly inventive in Nomads) feel country-influenced, with an air of originality that their peers lack. And songs like Fleshy Bones feel more like Dirty Projectors b-sides than they do Said the Whale.

The first time I heard HIGHS, they reminded me of We Are the City’s debut record, Violent. I did some digging and found out that the two bands toured together for years and are good friends, which makes perfect sense — because of course they are. Their styles are similar: there’s a clear disinterest in status quo and doing what other bands are doing in the genre, and a willingness to experiment a little.

What makes HIGHS interesting is the level of complexity they bring to their music. Unlike many of their contemporaries, they’re not writing pop-punk songs disguised as alternative indie. They’re writing songs with intricate structures, changing tempos, wildly varying energies, and vocal structures that are all divine.

It’s a totally different approach to indie pop: you can’t turn on this record and leave it on in the background and remain undisturbed. The record is a challenging, rewarding listen that feels absolutely vital.

I, for one, cannot wait for HIGHS’ official debut.

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II is a distinctly lo-fi record, performed almost in entirety by frontman Ruban Nielson (with the exception of the drums and a few horns). For this reason, the album sounds very tight musically — Ruban is clearly an expert musician — but it also sounds distinctly lo-fi, almost as if its being played underwater.

That’s the intention, of course, on a record that seems obsessed with vintage-style songwriting and musicality, but it might also be for thematic reasons. On one of the record’s most poignant moments, Nielson sings “I wish that I could swim and sleep like a shark does; I’d fall to the bottom and I’d hide till the end of time in that sweet cool darkness.” That Simon & Garfunkel-style melancholy is perfectly suited to the production style of the record.

The production is worth talking about: It demonstrates that Neilson has, compared to his peers, a superior understanding of what made those old records great. Today’s recordings reveal every note with crystal clarity, but these older records age so well because their production inefficiencies hide some of their details and preserve a sense of mystery (Led Zeppelin IV being a classic example).

While Unknown Mortal Orchestra is often reminiscent of the afore-mentioned Led Zeppelin and Simon & Garfunkel, they’ll also remind you of The Beatles’ approach to psychedelic pop (From The Sun) or Jimi Hendrix’s trademark fuzz sensibilities (One At A Time). This amalgamation of style makes Unknown Mortal Orchestra feel uniquely original, in an odd way: So Good At Being In Trouble is at once comfortably recognizable and uniquely Unknown Mortal Orchestra, with Nielson’s falsetto during the chorus giving the song a sense of urgency.

The same sense of urgency is often missing throughout the latter half of the record, which feels frustratingly more indulgent (although certainly in line with the styles the band is emulating). When the band finds their groove again on Faded in the Morning, it’s a much-needed and appreciated kick in the pants. But the wandering in the album’s mid-section demonstrates the band’s mastery of this lo-fi psychedelic style: unhurried and willing to experiment, the band refuses to settle on a single style. It’s an approach almost entirely ditched on last year’s Multi-Love, perhaps because the band felt they took the sound to its natural conclusion on II.

Regardless of why the band drifted away from this approach to songwriting, II feels like the sort of record that will later be recorded as a forgotten gem. Authentic and unique, despite its blatant influences and obvious stylistic emulations, II might go down in history as Unknown Mortal Orchestra’s best record.

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The two also make an incredible pair. Flume’s electronic synthesizers pair well with Faker’s wobbly, broken-sounding voice and result in something that sounds more like an amalgamation of both of their styles than it does the sound of Faker or Flume alone.

While Flume has a great sense of beat and rhythm, and is more than willing to break tradition to try something new, on Lockjaw he breaks that tradition to cater more towards Faker’s voice. And Faker stretches himself to match Flume’s pop sensibilities.

Hindsight is 20/20, of course. What’s most interesting about Lockjaw is what it says about Faker’s career progression: the EP nearly perfectly bridges his styles as he moved from Thinking With Textures to some of Built On Glass’s more evident pop tonalities. It makes you wonder what Flume’s sophomore record Skin, due at some point this year, is going to sound like.

At three tracks long, Lockjaw is short and sweet, and easily digestible. Putting it on repeat reveals a lot of fine details and incredible production value: only Flume and Chet Faker could make it sound as if the music you’re hearing is coming from above and below you, as well as the left and right channels of your stereo speakers.

Lockjaw, like everything these two artists make, is an experience.

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Every time I listen to this album, I’m caught off guard by the track changes. It feels as if the track is changing in the middle of a thought. Tim Hecker isn’t really dealing with thoughts here, though, so much as he is in themes. And the thought that carries us from one theme to another often shares both themes in common, and it’s really the thematic shift that feels sudden.

But as a songwriter, Hecker carries it sublimely. You newer feel as f he’s out of control, and he guides you on a story that it feels like only he can tell. There are emotional swells in this that you won’t feel outside of the Inception soundtrack (if that sort of music is your thing), and it’s all written so well that you feel as if you’re in the hands of a master.

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The proof is in the pudding here, because this is a great record. I’m often reminded of Fleet Foxes, but with a bit of an extra edge. If you live in Australia, you likely already know this record — these guys are very popular there. If you don’t know them, Boy & Bear is worth checking out this week.

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Each of the tracks here is pretty long, with the longest one six seconds shy of twelve minutes, but it’s worth a listen all the way through with good headphones on. Like all great glitch music, Hopkins is writing songs that build and layer intricately, getting lost in repetition like your favourite techno.

While a lot of people love tracks like Collider and Form By Firelight, which are really glitchy, I prefer the moments where Jon pulls back a little bit. Form By Firelight actually has some great moments where he explores quieter sections, but I could live in Breathe This Air’s more somber moments and the quiet build of Immunity. (Actually, Immunity might be enough to bring some of us to tears. Something about the piano as it builds over glitchy sound effects is just so emotionally powerful.)

If you need good work music, or simply want to be blown away by a quiet hour spent wearing good headphones and listening to fascinating music, you’d be hard-pressed to find better.

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With No Better Time Than Now, it feels like Shinto is finally willing to be his own man. Allowing his music to breathe more than ever before, it feels like a nearly celebratory record for him. Big beats and dark tonal flourishes decorate what ends up being a surprisingly decadent record perfect for work and play.

Detroit Part 1 makes no bones about this being a darker record than you’d expect, and Perfect Crime follows that up with constant shifts in beat and melody that sound original and memorable compared to Shigeto’s peers.

Miss U is the most popular track and the most well-reviewed track on the record, perhaps for good reason — it’s a serious earworm. I love the opening beat. From what I’ve seen a lot of people say about tracks like Silver Lining the record is creatively stimulating — and perhaps that’s because of the steps Shinto is taking to expand his own creative identity.

There are old theories about how you can perceive the artist’s emotions through their work. No Better Time Than Now makes the case for that: one feels Saginaw working through his creative inspiration to try and find something original to say, something new. And although he’s not redefining the genre, it feels safe to say that Shigeto has now begun exploring his own identity. No Better Time Than Now is proof not just that Saginaw has something to say, but that he’s worth listening to.

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I Can’t Help You and Duke are great intros to this oddball record. That’s not to say the whole record is slow or apathetic; some of the later tracks introduce rock elements unheard in the first couple tracks. Check out Wild as an example.

When Cate really slows it down for the title track, there’s a whole different vibe of sadness going on. Throughout the record, you get the feeling that Le Bon isn’t pleased with the world around her. But by the end, you feel like maybe she thinks she’s the problem.

The album is existentialist wandering, as Cate drifts from one point of anxiety to another. It’s not political, and it’s hardly societal, but Cate is writing about the same dissatisfaction many of us go through: if everything is good, why are we so sad? What is it we’re missing? As a result, it’s a record that feels both distant and intimate, like Cate is holding up a mirror and also saying that we can’t possibly understand what her life is like.

She’s not despondent, though. She shouldn’t be: Mug Museum might be her strongest record yet.

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There’s a hint of moroseness to the record that a lot of these indie pop bands don’t have these days. I love Anything to Hurt You, but the real catchy songs are things like You Can’t Just Stop Being Cruel or Dragging Me To Hell.

Most of the album is catchy though — by the time you’re done, it’s almost to the point of being overwhelming. Tracks like Just To Be Like You or Boy don’t stop coming. Maybe it’s too much of a good thing — but is there really such a thing?

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