Wildflower has been in production since 2005, and shares much of the same spirit of their 2000 debut. The plunderphonics style, where the band makes their music almost entirely out of samples, is still alive and well — although the band is definitely relying on it a little less this time around. But the tracks where they stick by that style are among their best.

I love Because I’m Me and Frankie Sinatra (the first single). I think the hip hop styles on the record are really fun, and it reminds me a lot of Beastie Boys — but in a positive way.

Unlike Since I Left You, Wildflower feels like it’s largely based on the 1960s counter-cultural movement, with a lot of samples dating from that period. (At one point, The Avalanches were reportedly making a Yellow Submarine-inspired video, but the funding fell through and the music never saw the light of day. The closest we might get to that sound is Livin’ Underwater (Is Somethin’ Wild).) Even If I Was a Folkstar, which samples Queens of the Stone Age, feels suitably retro.

If Wildflower has a single flaw, it’s its length. At twenty-one tracks (twenty-two if you include the extended mix of Frankie Sinatra), the album isn’t easily digestible. With albums of this running time, I always feel that the band could have done some trimming — and I still feel that’s the case here, even if the trimming would have amounted to cutting the briefer interludes.

When The Avalanches aren’t making interludes, there’s a sense of forward movement to the record that’s absolutely delightful. The Wozard of Iz has a really great sample, and an undeniable sense of momentum.

By the time the album concludes with Saturday Night Inside Out (which samples Father John Misty), I feel both exhausted and enlightened. The Avalanches have made a statement with Wildflower: one that says they’re still the kings of samples and partying, but one that also says they’re aware of where they come from. It’s essential music from one of Australia’s best bands.

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99.9% might not be the perfect dancing record, but it feels like it was tailor-made for the club — even when it’s being more experimental. I’m in love with Track Uno (which is, of course, the first track). Off-kilter note selections harken back to old-school jazz, but what really works is the way the loop becomes a pulsing, living thing throughout.

When Kaytranada experiments with rap and hip hop, he takes it in surprising directions. Glowed Up features Anderson .Paak, so I was expecting a bit of an R&B track, but it’s one of the hardest hitters on the record. It’s different for Kaytranada and Anderson, making 99.9% feel like a safe place for everybody to try new things, even after its halfway point.

Some of the other tracks feel old-school in a way that makes Land of the Loops feel modern. In Weight Off, for example, the dominating bass line dares to play with an Egyptian-like Dorian scale (I think it’s the Dorian scale, any way), offering a sound that’s both vintage and unique at the same time.

And it moves perfectly into One Too Many, which feels perfect for a good dance night. And if you’re not dancing to it, it makes a perfect song for driving around the city late at night, or playing Grand Theft Auto.

For a debut release, 99.9% is exceptionally polished, well above and beyond what most artists would ever consider attempting for round one. But Kaytranada is a whole different beast. The album is fantastic — often sensual, often club-ready, and always rich with vocal appearances that really do add to the tone of the record. This is a debut electronic record that’s not to be missed.

Oh, and we mention how wicked the album art is yet?

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In that sense, it’s surprising that some of these songs are as old as they are. The album’s first single, Burn the Witch, has been around since Kid A. True Love Waits (perhaps the album’s most impeccable track) has been a staple of Radiohead’s live performances for many years now — two decades, in fact. Yet both songs sound completely fresh.

(On that note, I’m surprised I haven’t seen any think pieces on how anybody can sit on a song like True Love Waits for twenty years.)

People who loved the direction that Radiohead took with their version of the Spectre theme will enjoy what’s on this record: tracks like Daydreaming are similar in texture to the rejected film track, and the whole record feels like it would fit well on a soundtrack. When Radiohead isn’t playing with solo piano movements, they’re embracing cinematic sounds in ways they haven’t since Kid A. (The track Tinker Tailor Soldier Sailor Rich Man Poor Man Beggar Man Thief playfully references John Le Carré’s novel/film(s) Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy in its title, barely veiling what Radiohead is attempting by aping the name from cinema itself.)

In that sense, it’s Radiohead’s most atmospheric record in years. But it’s also incredibly intimate. Even when the band experiments with orchestral arrangements, it feels like each song is performed only feet away from the audience, as if you were there with them.

In many ways, A Moon Shaped Pool feels like the sequel to In Rainbows that King of Limbs never was. Many critics have suggested that Yorke’s performance here is a reaction to his recent separation from his partner of twenty-five years. If that’s true, the album is an incredibly public breakup story that feels to me like it culminates in the spastic Present Tense and True Love Waits. (I would assume that at this point, separation is now only part of what Thom Yorke is working through on a daily basis.)

With that being said, the lyrics on the album are particularly glib this time around. “This is a low flying panic attack,” sings Yorke on the opening track. (It’s an excellent line because it’s the perfect summation of most of Radiohead’s career, if we’re being honest.) “You really messed up everything,” he sings on another. I’m still not sure if Yorke is speaking in the third-person.

It’s to the point that this article exists, in which a news curator transcribes an imagined conversation with his therapist where he only uses phrases from the new Radiohead album.

A Moon Shaped Pool is the continuing disintegration of aging men grappling with what life means when we all feel like we’re part machine and less human than we were yesterday. As always, Radiohead feels ahead of their time. The album is disarming, enchanting, and rewards many listens, and is easily good enough to stand among their best. It merits many more words than I give it here, but is more than able to stand on its own.

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All of that makes The King of Limbs makes it hard to recommend to casual fans of the band. It lacks most of what made them successful, often becoming twitchy. Like most Radiohead records, people were confused by it — particularly the (still hilarious) video for Lotus Flower. But some now consider the video, the song, and the surrounding record a classic.

I’ve long thought The King of Limbs to be Radiohead’s quirkiest record, the one that always felt the most uncomfortable for them to make. It’s an album based largely on rhythm, almost entirely removing the melody from the lyrics in favour of the loop. Some people would jokingly (or maybe not jokingly, I’m not sure) suggest TKOL is everything the band warned us about with OK Computer.

Despite all the issues with it, it’s a charming record. Radiohead had become much better at jazz-like moments like this. Bloom’s erratic drumbeat is at once as hard to follow as it is Miles Davis-like. Morning Mr. Magpie follows a similarly difficult rhythm, this time using guitars as a punctuation points for the loop. Thom Yorke doesn’t choose to blend in with instrumentation, but to use his voice as a way to elevate the music and give it a sense of direction.

The album’s best tracks are the quieter, more introspective moments. Give up the Ghost is one of Radiohead’s best tracks, excelling with a (comparatively) minimalistic soundscape, drenching Yorke’s voice in reverb and delay to give it maximum impact.

Amnesiac, Radiohead’s followup to Kid A, featured Humphrey Lyttelton on one track. Johnny Greenwood (Radiohead’s not-so-secret songwriting weapon) admitted in an interview with Spanish newspaper Mondosonoro, “we realized we couldn’t play jazz. You know, we’ve always been a band of great ambition with limited playing abilities.” This is why they had to bring in an expert.

I’ve always thought that bothered Radiohead. That’s not to insult their musicianship; the folks in the band are genuinely incredibly talented. But it’s difficult to admit your weak areas without wanting to improve them. I think The King of Limbs is their way of writing a jazz record in the style of Radiohead. Naturally, their focus is on the beat, and on the polyrhythms and the madness of the Miles Davis records they so frequently talk about adoring.

In that sense, The King of Limbs feels remarkable, special even. It’s a record that completely defies what everybody thinks Radiohead should do, ditching guitars and melody almost entirely. While they had proved to everybody they weren’t just a rock band, The King of Limbs is undisputed proof that they can do anything they want and do it well. Maybe it’s coming from a place of unease or unrest, and maybe it’s coming from a desire to continue to push the limits. I have no doubt that it’s all of those things and many more.

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So imagine my surprise when the heart-attack like electronic opening of 15 Step begins, and Thom Yorke began to sing: “How come I end up where I started? How come I end up right where I went wrong? Won’t take my eyes off the ball again; You reel me out then you cut the string.”

Maybe I was odd, but I was instantly hooked — the music appealed to my then-germinating perfectionist tendencies. It also struck a chord that many artists weren’t hitting anymore: it was possible to do something totally new in both rock and electronic music. It was possible to re-invent yourself.

It’s hard for me to see this album outside of the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia, although critics tend to agree with me about the album’s quality. I think it has many of Radiohead’s strongest, but most infrequently acknowledged tracks: the blissfully intimate Nude, the heart-crushingly beautiful House of Cards, and the otherworldly qualities of Weird Fishes/Arpeggi.

In a lot of ways, this is Radiohead at their most human: while the album is still littered with the electronic invention the band is now known for, it’s a more organic record than what came before (or since, really). Thom Yorke is at his primal best, but it’s not because he sounds as paranoid as usual. He seems unusually dialled back, this time yearning for any sort of human connection.

It’s as if the band grew tired of sounding digital and instead wanted to be human again — on both musical and personal levels. Its haunting beauty comes from its complete vulnerability; never before has Yorke or the rest of the band sounded so broken. (And Radiohead is not known for being happy.)

For people looking to get into a post-OK Computer Radiohead, it’s hard to recommend anything other than In Rainbows. Its vulnerability makes it approachable; its organic nature reveals its warmth — despite the band’s increasingly cold spirits. If I was absolutely pressured to choose a Radiohead album, this could come out on top.

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Empress Of excels at writing electronic music that is accessible without degrading into pop territory. The lead single, How Do You Do It, is a great example: Empress of makes a song that wouldn’t feel terribly out of place on a dance floor, but she sings it with the grace of a pop star in the makings.

It’s an album that will appease people who love electronic music, and maybe even dream hop or EDM lovers, but it’s also a record that will be loved by the pop mainstream among us. Empress Of finds success in the crossover appeal, and I think she’s got a bright future.

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One of my favourite blogs, Henry’s Music Blog, calls Modern Vampires of the City “the best album I’ve heard all year”, and goes so far as to call it the second-best of the past decade. I don’t know if I’ve earned the right to say anything that wild, but this record is absurdly good. Who knows, maybe Henry’s right. Years from now, we could look back on Modern Vampires of the City as one of the decade’s best releases.

Check out the lead single, Diane Young (which is also a hysterical video). If that’s not enough to convince you to buy this record right now, give Step and Ya Hey a whirl. (And if you’ve never heard of them, check out their first two records, the self-titled Vampire Weekend and Contra.)

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