First Impressions has become a new section of this journal: Recently. I've been finding myself pressured to write something about every new release I've heard, usually only the once, sometimes months before I feel like writing about them. Naturally, the writing in the journal suffered when I attempted to cram in entries on albums I had nothing to say about. "Recently" will function in much the same way as "First Impression" did; to discuss the new releases of the year, but with quality to the forefront of the journal. This means in the long run, fewer entries, but hopefully higher quality reading! Traffic light system of approval will remain intact, though I probably won't be using many red lights, or any yellow lights at all. And now, without further adieu:

Who are the unsung heroes of music? Are they the drummers, whose control of rhythm and meter engages the oldest part of our brain, the cerebellum, and gives us a pleasurable structure in which to comprehend the music? Are they the bassists, whose lines give a pulse to a song, often buried in layers of instrumentation, the unseen drivers of a song? I feel it is the producers, whose details and nuances flesh out the feel and consistency of an album. Artists such as Radiohead and Brand New depend so heavily on their producers as to consider them members of the recording line-up (Nigel Godrich and Mike Sapone, respectively). Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips once said "If someone asked me what instrument do I play, I would say the recording studio".

What is your idea of a non-traditional instrument? The didgeridoo, created from the found, termite-infested trunks of gum trees which only a master of circular-breathing can play? Is it the theremin, an instrument played without physical contact by interrupting the radio frequencies between antennae? What about compact mirrors, hairspray, shuffling cards, or the various rings of doorbells, telephones, and alarm clocks? If the recording studio is Wayne Coyne's instrument of choice, then Matthew Herbert's is the world.

Matthew Herbert is the musician and producer who pioneered the art of applying "found" sounds to modern electronica. His work merges the inaccessible idealism of musique concrète with the sweet melody of popular music. His work as a solo artist includes albums constructed entirely from the sounds found in various environments, from the food chain (Plat Du Jour), to the household (Around the House). It makes for a fascinating dichotomy.

Enter Róisín Murphy (formerly of trip hop act Moloko), best described as the full potential of Lady Gaga realized. She is the sultry songwriter and husky voice without which Ruby Blue would have no soul. In the pair's first session together, Murphy was instructed to provide Herbert with an unspecified item to record being banged on a microphone; and thus the spirit of Ruby Blue was born, to present Murphy as an individual artist, enveloped in the sounds that accompany her everyday life.

Ruby Blue is an album of eclectic and sensual pop music, empowering Murphy in her post-Moloko independence. It embodies all the sensuality and quirkiness of its star; qualities sorely lacking, or poorly replicated in mainstream music (Lady Gaga has cited Murphy as an inspiration, and all but plagiarized her incomprehensible public image). It employs hundreds of unidentifiable samples, tied together with bursts of jazz instrumentation and Murphy's rich voice.

Songs range from the deprived Sow into You, describing sexual encounters through metaphors of rain and harvests atop brassy arrangements, to the shockingly simplistic and straight-forwards Closing of the Doors, a confessional cabaret ballad. The pinnacle of Ruby Blue however, is Ramalama (Bang Bang), which ingeniously juxtaposes the entire construction of the album with a chorus sung in onomatopoeia: the true spirit of Herbert and Murphy's work together exemplified.

This review is written for Matthew Herbert as much as it is for Róisín Murphy, and for all producers without whom the end products we've come to love would be unrecognizable. Ruby Blue is an album all mainstream pop should aspire to; diverse, creative, and broad in its vision while maintaining the paradigm of its genre.

In cognitive neuroscience, memory can be looked at like a rubik's cube of infinite faces. The theory of multiple-trace memory indicates that our brains have the potential to recall any experience, any face on the cube, if the right sequence of neurons (the individual squares) is prompted to fire at once. It is believed then, that we are prevented from remembering our entire lives not from a lack of space in our memory, but from a lack of neurological cues to retrieve it. Music is remarkable at arranging the squares on our mental rubik's cube to induce recollection, and thus, emotions associated with the moment.

Such is the reason that Trellis' (Johnathan Whitehead's moniker) soundtrack to Green Wing never fails to inspire a great mood. Green Wing the series was a short-lived, but ferociously followed amalgam of sketch comedy and drama situated in a hospital and featuring no medical plot. The politically incorrect, attention-depraved cast of absurd and realistic characters duck in and out of their duties and each others lives as a series of increasingly surreal and soap-operatic events unfold.

In the style of sketch comedy, Trellis' soundtrack never lingers on one concept too long, or tends to repeat itself. The songs play on the themes of lightheartedness and general confusion present in the lives and personalities of every character. The tempo matches the show's unique pacing. Curious instrumentation punctuates songs like Vibrobedhead and Moon Away with question marks and interrabangs. Quizzical guitars and sleuthy strings portray the spirit of unhinged characters. Even the poignant, thoughtful moments are captured and blended into general goofiness with ease, such as on Fibre Troll and Akoustica. From the first growl of the engine on the title sequence track Last Week, this soundtrack flawlessly defines the program it was written on behalf of, without succumbing to novelty.

The true brilliance of Trellis' work however, isn't in the unparalleled depiction of the program's world; it is a rare soundtrack that stands on its own as an album of cohesive instrumental work. It is typical of television soundtracks to be sparse musically, if not a lazy patchwork compilation of various artists. Green Wing clearly opens, and resolves, rather than meandering through shuffled scenes. It is instrumentally diverse and thoughtfully constructed, as few television OSTs even attempt. His upbeat work induces laughter, the downtempo, pleasant contentedness. It is an easy album to put on, detailed enough to stand on its own, worthy of attention, but simple enough to prevent distraction, be it from work, leisure, or plotline.

It's a shame Green Wing is Trellis' only complete release to date, as he stands neglected as an artist, when he can hold his own as a musician and producer. Green Wing is a fun and flippant gem in both comedy and music, hitting all of the right notes to leave a lasting impression.

It is a pet peeve of mine that the popularization of independent music in the last 5-7 years has led to a watering down of the "indie rock" genre. It's not a complaint about quality of course, the vast majority of my favourite records have been released by independent artists, but one of accuracy. The volume of independent artists now defined by the term "indie rock" is sheer and varied, and is used in application from the dirty rock of Archers of Loaf to Of Montreal's synthy psych pop. It is a useless term thrown carelessly about to describe anything with a guitar in it that isn't on television.

You could tame me by telling me that genre is largely irrelevant, especially to fans of music as you would find here, and the artists we enjoy who dabble in overlapping aesthetics and influences. I could complain that categorization is in human nature, and something we are all inclined to do so as to process the world, but for all intents and purposes, genre is a useful descriptive tool for referential and recommendation purposes, and remind me what a music blog is again?

Other Lives' Tamer Animals is one such album lumped into an ambiguous genre that does it no justice. Let it be known then, that the branch of "indie rock" to which I refer in this case is the post-2004 chamber pop style of Arcade Fire and Grizzly Bear. Tamer Animals is a modest album, but luscious in instrumentation and dreamlike melodies. It swells and sighs with booming drums and wind-swept strings. I would not boast that Tamer Animals is a ground-breaking album by any means, but it is a charming and thoughtful record released in a slow year, with much beauty to be observed in it.

It is too tempting to describe this album as a soundtrack to a piece of fantasy fiction, speaking of far away lands mysterious and sprawling. Songs depict areas of maps. It traverses deeply wooded forest paths in For 12, stirring dew and magic from the grasses, and gives way to scalding sands in Desert, exiles for hire chasing the shimmering heat waves on the lips of hot dunes for miles, all without succumbing to the novelty of videogames or film. Jesse Tabish's forlorn mutter allows the orchestration to take center stage, and what dynamic melodies it affords them, slight and bittersweet. It is nomadic, a wanderer's album. For lone wolves, and for drifters.

It's a pity that none of these qualities are conveyed by a term that may very well have put a listener off at the beginning of this review. Perhaps it was skimmed and disregarded into a pile of last-decade cast-offs, but that is a listener's loss, as this is a lovely, fantastical album that deserves a better label.

When you're traveling on a fixed budget, you tend to take advantage of simple pleasures and available opportunities to make it to the end of the day on track. Never underestimate the entertainment value of a museum, or the nourishing power of free toast. Typically my favourite cities are those burgeoning with so much character simply treading their streets is a cultural experience like no other. This is how I ended up in an art gallery in Manchester facing a rusty, dampened painting of a square, thinking about Elbow.

The original artwork of the Seldom Seen Kid was smaller than I'd imagined, no larger than a birthday card, off-center and runny around the edges, but the more I considered where I stood, the more sense it made. It had rained early that morning, turning the coarse brown brick rich and vibrant. The windows shone reluctantly in the morning sunlight, off-white abstractions of sky. Wet confetti littered the streets. Chewing gum and cigarette butts. The hallmarks of daily life. Gritty, but lively.

This is my first impression of Manchester, captured implicitly in The Seldom Seen Kid. There's a certain pleasure to be had in listening to music born out of the environment you're traveling, a certain connection to be made to where an artist was writing from, and Seldom Seen is the most representative of the Manchester I saw. Guy Carvey has a voice like steam, like ale. It rises, smoky and strong over the soaring string arrangements on The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver. The Bones of You evokes the texture of the city in a thick, buzzy bassline. Grounds for Divorce brings attitude through its snarky guitars.

Unfortunately, Carvey does come off as a bit of a sap, alternating between engaging storytelling and blind, hopeful romance, the latter of which is alienating in its sweetness. It's an admirable style, detailed and visual, even when saturated with romantic optimism. I relate to The Seldom Seen Kid best in the abstract; defining a world through texture and wonder, rather than literal interpretation. I can't consistently connect to this album, but at times I pause to consider its birthplace, and there is something to be said for setting foot on a bustling street, smoke and rain in the air, towered over by chimneys and wires, and feeling that it all makes sense.