The Top 100 Albums Of The Quietus’ Existence, As Picked By tQ’s Writers

Flatland feels perfectly formed out of the clay of a multitude of styles, and, with rhythms this tight, it’s something of a triumph, even if it reflects nothing back but strobe lights.

Their ballads are their secret weapons, especially the ones that aren’t entirely ballads per se, and closing track ‘Radio’ is definitely something that combines the propulsive with the contemplative. Radio signals quietly emerge in the mix, the big surge in the centre ramps it up and out, it ends almost where it began, a signal beyond isolation looking for something more. Ronan Harris continues his uncanny knack of making what could be so much empty rhetoric sound like a reason to keep going in the face of humanity’s follies and miseries, and even the echo on his voice causes me to gulp slightly as a result.

It is a rare talent – one who is now bordering on auteur territory – who can relate folk music with such scholarly authenticity, and penetrate on such an emotional level at the same time.

One of the most striking things about this strange and idiosyncratic record is how not-strange it feels. That, along with Doyle’s very contemporary refusal to impose dividing lines between the musical styles he’s interested in – shoegaze and orchestral pop rubbing shoulders with ambient music and even, on ‘Hinterland’, fuzzed-out techno – makes Total Strife Forever that most welcome of things: an often fairly classicist pop record which nods heavily towards naggingly familiar influences, yet doesn’t feel like it could exist at any other time than now.

I very first heard his music when I was doing a show called Dubstep Warz and Kode9 played a Burial track on it as the last tune in his set, I remember saying to Steve, “oh my god, what was that last song you played?” and he said, “oh this is this kid I found called Burial”

What truly emerges from this exultant and exhilarating album is that this reunion has not been for any other reason other than a creative resurgence, and for all that the palette is more nuanced and the arrangements that much more articulate, Sonic Mass comprehensively re-establishes Amebix’s innate ability to rip your head from your shoulders.

With A Paean to Wilson, Reilly returns the endless favours Tony Wilson did for him, simultaneously sharing his grief and providing Wilson with the kind of eulogy he would have loved more than any: a vocal-free Durutti Column record that justifies every word he uttered about the man he called “his guitarist”.

Invigorated and full of vitriol after breaking free from the company that put out their debut, The Indelicates set up their own anyone-can-sign label and released a pop masterpiece. This venom with hooks is seen best on ‘Your Money’, but the spirited catchiness continues strong throughout. Highlights: ‘Ill’’s manic pop thrill, the feminist critique ‘Flesh’, and the stunning ‘Savages’.

Peter Bruntnell may well be Britain’s most unassuming singer-songwriter. This is both blessing and curse, and Ringo Woz Ere encapsulates the dilemma. It’s named after his cat, and comes in a promo-style cardboard sleeve. Perhaps because it contains a clutch of well-chosen covers (‘Think For Yourself’; ‘Five Years’; and a lazily intense meander through Goffin & King’s ‘Going Back’ that is the better of any of the earlier versions) and reworkings of two earlier Bruntnell tracks, it doesn’t even merit mention on the discography published on his own website. Yet this wonderful record – plainly produced, the feel almost live – is the only place to find ‘London Clay’, a drizzle of hopes and fears; the seemingly effortlessly perfect pop of ‘Fool Too Long’; and ‘Stamps Of The World’, two tight, taut, tremendous verses that sketch a relationship pushed beyond breaking point, viewed from the window of a jet as one half of the couple aims to end up “somewhere no-one has heard of”.

Managing to be both precise and impressionistic, it layers citrussy sour notes over a haze of delicious synths and samples, arpeggiated bass and beats derived directly from the hip hop Lanza clearly loves. The vocals are treated for distance, crisp enunciation and measured tone dissolving into swoops and sweeps of texture.

This is feeling expressed with meaning in music that makes me fill notebooks with scrawl, that makes me ponce about like a tit, that makes me move and smile and think and speak and be… as it tells me how sublime, and simple, the Pet Shop Boys music can be.

Never let it be said that dance music has to be simple. Pinch & Shackleton is a love letter to club music’s many possibilities, and to the brooding power still locked tight within dubstep’s framework. And it’s magical, from start to finish.

It’s full of nonsense lyrics like all the best pop music is, and every song ends in a blaze of neon glory. It’s a messy moreish morass and yet simultaneously as tight as a pair of sprayed on jeans. The bubble writing had been on the brick wall that finally we’d get here to this righteous soundtrack to a psychedelic summer, not so much a block party as a rock party on Electric Avenue.

Derren Brown can fuck off. He reckons he can control the nation by playing some shit noise with funny swirls? He needs to talk to Fuck Buttons: using some noise and melodies and other stuff that sounds like God cracking his knuckles, they’ve come up with a staggering piece of art that exerts a curious power over all who listen. It directly makes their life better.

It deserves to be heard on a far wider scale than anything they’ve previously released. Before, their appeal was limited by their approach, however excellent it might have been. Now, the sludgy guitars and snarled lyrics are a minor component, not the driving force. There’s tinkled ivories, rock-club air guitar moments, a genuine pop sensibility, camp theatre and high drama. Plus a backstory with an ending that’s happy not just for Årabrot, but for all of us.

A set of tracks whose fizzing surfaces are always disturbed by some new action just beneath, where ridges of static ruffle and tumble over one another, and where harsh regions of higher density sluice violently into the foreground.

Smoke Ring…flows from track to track with elegance and grace, and it fast becomes obvious that this is Vile’s first real attempt to compile an album of songs, as opposed to whittling down his unlimited fecundity into the requisite 11 or 12 bite-sized chunks.

Ouch. The thwack of John Congleton’s trademark slap-in-the-chops production seems, for once, not so excessive, as Annie Clark’s third outing as St Vincent kicks off with an account of a cathartic S&M session, voiced with tremulous yearning but powered by whopping great jagged riffs and blocky beats.

Clocking in at over 75 minutes, The Inheritors is an exhausting, complex and disorientating listen, but one that will stay with you. Once upon a time, Holden used to bridge the gap between bedroom and club, but now the most suitable location to take in his music would be in the middle of the woods, a windswept moor or a stone circle. It’s the boldest of sonic statements.

In One More Time With Feeling Nick Cave speaks about his fear of being exposed by words, but at times Skeleton Tree has him naked and trembling for all to see. In many ways it’s all quite simple. Something terrible happened to a man and his family. He soldiered on, kept going to work – and this is the result.